32. Thirty-Two
He went too far.
Inside, I lean against the door and inhale the eclectic bouquet. I can’t believe he bought me flowers. I also can’t believe that I’ve gone from angry to sad to… I don’t know anymore.
I almost wanted him to kiss me. Falling into Jack Graham’s arms would be so easy—he is the sexiest, smartest man I’ve ever met, let alone been close to. Seeing his bedroom eyes in their natural habitat and exploring his tattoos up close alone are incentives enough to give in and let him do whatever he wants. Why not take advantage of such a rare opportunity?
Oh, right—the devastating heartbreak it would cause. It’s clear in the way he touches me, the way he kisses, that it wouldn’t be anything less than the kind of mind-altering sex that drives a stake through time—before Jack and after. The after scares me when I am whole-heartedly his, and his interest dissolves like fog baked in sunlight.
I can’t handle being with him, knowing I’ll lose him. Or living next door to the consequences.
Through the peephole, I see that he lingers, brooding on the other side, his arms braced on the doorframe like he might sling himself inside if I open it again. Our talk has dulled my sharp edges, though. Maybe I’m holding on to the wrong impression of him, like it’s an out-of-date map leading me astray. I know he isn’t the selfish playboy man-baby I first thought he was. But guys like Jack Graham don’t settle… and certainly not with someone like me.
“You okay?” Mom calls from the living room amid groaning zombies.
I hold up my gifts with a short eye roll before heading to the kitchen. I arrange the flowers in a tall vase with water and bring them to the coffee table.
“Gorgeous! Jack gave you those?” Mom says as if it’s a mystery. I nod.
Sara chuckles. “He’s making an effort.”
“Anyone can buy flowers.” I plop beside her, grab my unfinished glass of wine, and whimper, “More zombies. More Darryl.”
Sara obliges, but she scoots over and puts an arm around me. “It’ll be okay.”
It’s late when I finally crawl into bed, but I bring Jack’s manuscript anyway.
Barebegins with two injured teenagers in neighboring beds in a hospital emergency room. They connect instantly, like old friends. Jack’s teenagers are waiting for the same on-call doctor, a specialist in serious burns. Caleb has burned his hands in a botched arson—Kate thinks he’s joking. Kate says she fell in the kitchen, hitting her cheek against a hot coil burner. Only one story is true.
Jack pulls me in and wraps me in his story like a warm blanket. Caleb conspired to burn his house down to end the abuse inflicted by his tyrannical father—without walls, he couldn’t lock Caleb in for days or beat his mother in secret. Kate didn’t fall in the kitchen—her stepfather pressed her face to the burner when she wouldn’t do what he wanted. These horrific scenes play out in segmented flashbacks as they talk to each other—nothing is said except for what they tell everyone else, their version of mac-n-cheese stories. But it’s like they know. By the night’s end, they scoot their beds together and make a risky promise—to do whatever it takes to make it back to each other again.
When I stop reading, it’s nearly three, and I’m crying over the story and my memories as they link together. Jack’s done it again.
I put the book away—I have to—and go to sleep thinking about love and risks.
The next day, Dean peeks into my classroom after the final bell, like a new student, unsure if he’s in the right place. I manage a weak smile to usher him inside. He carries two to-go coffees and a bag slung over his shoulder.
“Truce?” he asks timidly. “I can’t stand that you’re mad at me.”
A sigh flutters out. “I can’t stand it, either. And I’m not mad. Just… sad and disappointed.”
He nods, moving closer to my desk. “Me, too—in myself. We had it so good, and I wrecked it. I’ll never forgive myself for how badly I’ve treated you.”
Though never feels like a strong word, I accept his apology with a shrug.
He hands me a coffee. “Thought you might want your usual pick-me-up.”
“Thanks.” It’s like old times, and I realize how much I miss him.
He releases the tote bag, setting it on my desk. It’s one of mine—a reusable sack for library books or groceries. “I gathered what I could find from my place. It’s not much, but I thought…”
Peering inside, I find laundered and folded clothes, a toothbrush in a plastic baggie, hair ties, and my black cat mug because Dean’s stark white mugs felt too boring for me. “Thanks. I forgot about these things.”
He leans against the nearest desk, sipping his coffee. “Um, I’m going to turn down the part.”
“Dean! Why?”
He glances at his brown Oxfords, looking sheepish. “I’m an idiot, Rowan. I was so excited about the part that I ignored why I shouldn’t take it. Jack Graham played me like a puppet. It feels wrong, taking it.”
“This is your chance. Who cares how it happened? Take it and be the best damn inspiring guidance counselor the world has ever seen, and make Jack regret allowing you to steal the limelight.”
He chuckles. “You really think I should?”
“Absolutely. Don’t feel bad about it, either. Jack isn’t why we aren’t together.”
His eyes droop to his shoes again. “I know that, too. I’m sorry. How are you holding up?”
A laugh erupts, though nothing is funny. “Well, Mom, Sara, and Mira are treating me like I’m terminally ill, my neighbors keep showing up with reasons why I should stay—I’m selling the house, by the way—and my students suspect we’ve broken up, given their sympathetic looks and veiled condolences. Ironically, my Inspiration Project is the only good thing happening right now.”
“I’ve heard great things. The kids love it. Giving students educational free will is a dangerous precedent, though.”
I laugh. “You’d think it’d invite chaos, but it’s been amazing.”
“Tell me about it,” he prompts, sipping his coffee.
This is why I love Dean—we were always good at being friends. I share my classroom successes like he would his acting highlights. I’m practically giddy, telling him about it.
“What about you, Dean? How are you holding up?”
His genial smile dips into a frown. “Um, been better. School’s fine… I’m just…Thank you for not outing me to the students about Ryan.”
“I’d never hurt your reputation with your kids, and I-I feel like a hypocrite for getting so upset about it anyway.”
“Don’t. I lied. I never should’ve done that, especially not to you.” His eyes catch mine, holding me with a pained, quizzical look. “I, um, heard some of the kids talking about your scars. They said you were assaulted?”
The lead weight I’d carried holding all the things I should’ve said returns, hard and tight in my chest. I move out from around my desk and lean against it so there’s nothing between us. “Yes, I was. When I was fifteen.”
“I always assumed it was an accident. That’s what everyone said. That’s why I never asked. I wish you’d told me.” He’s breathless, concern and hurt etched on his face.
“I should have. I wanted to. But everything between us was always so… nice. I haven’t had a lot of nice, and I stupidly thought that telling you my real story might hurt us somehow.” Tears slip from my eyes, and I hang my head, ashamed for keeping him at a distance. “I was so worried about losing you that I never really had you.”
He stands, sets his coffee aside, and meets me where I am. “It’s okay. Trauma doesn’t have rules or etiquette. The only right answer is whatever you’re comfortable with, and I didn’t make it easy for you.”
My arms wrap around him, and he lets me bury my face in his neck while he holds me. Just like old times.
“Thank you, Dean,” I whisper into his neck. “I didn’t make things easy for you, either.”
“Any chance for us to start over?” With his question, he pulls away just enough to see my eyes. And in the warm space between us, for a moment, I consider it.
But when I don’t answer right away, Dean softens his disappointment with a smile. “Even if I go on to become a big-time actor in Hollywood, I will always regret leaving you for the summer.”
“I’ll always regret it if you don’t take that part. Tell me you will.”
His hands fall from me, and he takes a step back. “With your blessing. It’s the best revenge, right?” His smile fades into curiosity. “Is that why you’re moving? Some sort of passive-aggressive revenge? I thought you loved that house.”
“I’m… angry,” I admit, like Dean’s my priest suddenly. “What does love matter if I can’t be happy there?”
“Here’s something you’ve definitely taught me. Everything’s fixable. Have you talked to him?”
“Yes, but he’s…” I don’t know how to voice my opinion about Jack if I even should. “How will I ever feel safe with a guy who…”
“Can have anyone?”
“Right.”
“Rowan, the last thing I want to do is push you toward someone else, but… you are beautiful, intriguing, and everything any guy could ask for. Don’t let a few scars make you settle for anything less than what you want.”
“Damn it, Dean. You’re making me miss you so much.”
He breaks away from me, tossing his empty coffee cup into the trashcan. At the door, he turns around. “Rowan, take a lesson from me. Don’t let anything come between you and something you love.”
A light smile cuts through my tears. “Look at you, inspiring guidance counselor, already in character.”
We share a brief chuckle before Dean disappears into the hallway.