Chapter 2
CHAPTER
Jocelyn stared out the window, watching as a bright yellow finch landed on a branch, bringing its nest full of babies their regurgitated meal.
It was supposed to be innate, wasn’t it?
The nurture of a parent—feeding, bathing .
. . physical affection. Yet this morning she’d been the one to wake her mother, make her breakfast, help her into the shower.
Then again, finches couldn’t stumble to the liquor store and pick up a plastic bottle of vodka that made them forget their role in life.
“Miss Burton . . .” Her teacher stopped at her desk. “Are you with us this afternoon?”
She blinked a few times and cleared her throat, feeling her cheeks turn pink. “Sorry. Yes.”
Mr. Sawyer placed a packet of stapled papers face down on her desk— her graded assignment —and waited until she looked up at him. “See me after class, please.”
Great. Just great.
Jocelyn glanced once more at the finch before forcing her attention to the front of the classroom.
Her eyes landed on Mr. Sawyer’s ass as he continued down the row, handing papers back.
It wasn’t her fault her gaze lingered. The man had a good body—way better than the boys her own age.
She chewed her lip, contemplating how many hours of exercise her English teacher must do to look like that.
Firm and fit, his ass complemented the rest of the man—broad shoulders, a narrow waist, and a smile that belied the sternness of his voice.
Her friend Ivy leaned over and whispered, “Close your mouth. You’re drooling.”
Jocelyn squinted. “I am not.”
Ivy chuckled and turned over her own paper. C?.
And Mr. Sawyer hadn’t asked her to stay after class . . .
Jocelyn had thought she’d nailed the assignment. She drew in a deep, steadying breath before flipping it over to check her grade. A+ was written at the top in red, a big fat circle around it.
Oh, wow.
Ivy leaned over again and snuck a peek, rolling her eyes.
After that, Jocelyn managed to pay attention for the rest of class. When the period was over, she approached Mr. Sawyer’s desk. Without looking up at her, he shuffled some papers and gestured to the first row. “Have a seat.”
Once the last students cleared out, he closed the classroom door and leaned a hip against the front of his desk.
Jocelyn sat up a little taller.
“Talk to me.” Mr. Sawyer folded his arms across his chest. “Do you have an interest in studying writing in college?”
She shrugged. “I’m not sure I’m even going to college.”
“Why not?”
Jocelyn’s eyes shifted to the window. She couldn’t see the finch now, but it was on her mind. She didn’t want to say her only goal in life was to find a job that paid enough money to get the hell away from her mother, so she said nothing .
“Jocelyn?”
Her eyes jumped to meet Mr. Sawyer’s.
“Look at me when I speak to you.”
She nodded. But instinct drew her eyes down again, so it wasn’t as simple as it sounded. Especially not when Mr. Sawyer—her secret crush—held her gaze in silence for a full minute.
Eventually, he smiled. “Thank you. I think you’re an excellent storyteller. Do you enjoy writing?”
Jocelyn nodded.
“Speak, Miss Burton. Use your voice. You’re not a bobblehead.”
She met his eyes once again. “Yes.”
“Yes what?”
“Yes, I enjoy writing.”
“Excellent. Tell me what you do in your free time. Do you write for fun? Do you keep a daily diary?”
“I don’t have a diary I write in every day, but I keep a notebook that I like to write random things in.”
“The yellow one with a butterfly on the front that sometimes you have out during class?”
Jocelyn looked down. “Sorry.”
“I’m not looking for an apology. Good writers write when it strikes them. Tell me, what kinds of things do you write about in your notebook?”
Jocelyn shrugged. “I don’t know. Stuff.”
“Do you write about boys?”
Her cheeks grew warm. “Not usually.”
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
“No.”
“Ever had one?”
“Not one that’s worth writing about.”
Mr. Sawyer’s lip twitched. “Do you write about your friends?”
“Not really.”
“So I’ll ask you again, Miss Burton. What is it you write about in your journal, if not boys and friends?”
“I don’t know. I guess I mostly write what I’m feeling.”
“And what is it that you feel?”
Jocelyn’s pink cheeks burned crimson. “Angry.”
“Good. Now we’re getting somewhere. Angry about what?”
“My mother. She’s a drunk.”
“What about your father?”
“I’ve never met him.”
Mr. Sawyer rubbed his bottom lip with his thumb as he stared at Jocelyn.
His eyes were a deep, intense green. They seemed to darken as the seconds ticked by.
It made Jocelyn want to squirm in her seat, but she knew he’d see it, probably call her out on it, too.
So she did her best to stay rooted in place.
“Williamsburg College isn’t too far and has a creative writing scholarship.
The top submission gets a full ride. Second and third place receive partial tuition funding.
I can help you improve your writing. It’s not something I do for many students.
But I think you might be special. However, you’ll need to work on becoming more disciplined. You’re easily distracted.”
“How do I do that? Study more?”
Mr. Sawyer’s eyes gleamed. “Discipline doesn’t have to be about studying. It can be learning self-restraint in general. For example, you fidget a lot and often stare out the window.”
“How do I fix that?”
“We’ll work on it. That is, if you’re interested in my help.”
Jocelyn couldn’t nod fast enough. “I’m interested.”
A ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips, and he pointed a few rows away. “Good. Meet me here Friday. Four o’clock.”