Chapter 10 Rhea
The sheets smell like Brighton.
The sheets smell like Brighton. Shit.
I pry one eye open and pray I’m not forgetting something, but I’m in bed, and it’s empty.
It takes a second to remember that I’d finally convinced Brighton to let me rent his spare room and that last night I insisted on staying despite only having my rugby duffel with me.
I just needed one good night of sleep, and considering I woke up forgetting what time zone I was in, I can say it’s a success.
I slip out of bed and double-check the living room before sneaking over to the bathroom and running the water.
It’s a good size for an apartment, but plain.
Bright, white and clean. I peer up at the shower head and grin.
It’s high on the wall; unlike at Sunday’s, where it’s made for short people and turns cold the second I step under it.
Living with Sunday is never an issue; the problem is that her house is not made for a six-foot-tall woman.
It’s like moving around in a doll's house.
Before getting in, I dig around and find a towel in the closet behind the door.
Everything in the closet is organized by bottle, labeled in clear boxes, and folded perfectly.
“God, he really is the Terminator," I whisper, grabbing the towel and hanging it up. The water is so warm, and before long, I’m standing beneath the stream, proud of myself for begging Brighton long enough that he cracked. Working at the Hollow, I’m privy to different sides of him I didn’t see before, ones I either ignored or was too drunk to care about.
But he’s really a sweet guy, softer than I was imagining him being. It’s obvious that he’s still pretty apprehensive about having me rent the apartment room, but I’d prove to him that I could be a good roommate this week, and then he’d have no choice but to let me stay until my condo is livable.
I realize instantly that I’m lacking just about everything I need to get ready for work and curse myself for being weak last night at the promise of a bed.
Every tiny upset is a further reminder that I just want to be home in my own space.
I step out of the shower, dig around until I find toothpaste, and use my finger to brush my teeth as best I can before slipping back into my pajamas and hanging the towel on the hook.
There’s a brush in my bag and a change of clothes, so I start to make a list in my head of what I need to do before work, but when I open the bathroom door, my thoughts are derailed. Brighton is in the kitchen, much like I found him the first night, but this time he’s properly clothed.
“Oh, so you do own shirts,” I say, turning off the bathroom light.
He shakes his head with a huff, but doesn’t turn to look at me as I pad across the cold apartment floor on bare feet.
I notice at the end of the island is a fresh mug of coffee, and before I can ask, he points to it without pausing what he’s doing at the counter.
I take it between my fingers and inhale the smell before lifting it to my lips for a sip.
My eyes follow him as he grabs a couple of containers from the fridge, and from my position at the counter, I can see just how organized he is.
Everything inside has a place and a label, just like the bathroom.
This may be a terrible idea after all. Confirmed, I’m bunking with the Terminator.
“What are you doing?” I ask finally, just trying to break the silence. It’s not that it’s awkward or tense; I just have a hard time sitting in silence, no matter the situation or the people involved.
“Making lunch for Daisy,” he says after a moment.
“Wow, Sunday never made me lunch.” I groan playfully and drink more of the coffee. Brighton looks over his shoulder at me as he shoves food into her little lunch bag.
“I’ll get you keys made today for the front door,” he clears his throat, “but I have to be out in twenty, so if you could…”
“Oh yeah,” I slide back from the counter, almost spilling my coffee, and straighten out. “I can take Daisy to school, if that makes it easier for you?” I offer.
Brighton stares at me for a second, considering this before setting the bag at the other end with a bottle of water. “Yeah…” he says. “You sure?”
“We’re going to the same place,” I remind him.
“That’s right, you… teach… gym?” It takes him a minute, and the muscle in his jawline flexes tightly as he guesses totally off base.
“Art,” I chuckle.
Please stop doing that thing with your jaw. It’s making it impossible to focus.
“Sorry, Day tells me all of this stuff about you guys, but she talks in circles.” He runs a hand through his messy hair, and all the muscles in his arm ripple in the most distracting way.
“It’s okay, I don’t really scream art teacher,” I point to myself and realize I’m wearing a sports bra and my rugby spanx, and suddenly feel very exposed. “...I’m going to go get dressed.”
Living with a man is going to take some adjustment.
“I’ll go get her up,” he says, his eyes trailing over me before snapping up with the turn of his head.
The morning students flood into the art room, and it’s clear from the moment they start huddling that something is going on they don’t want the teachers to know about.
This happens on occasion; they get restless over some gossip, and everything else in their lives takes a backseat, including school.
I clear my throat, “You guys gonna let me in on the intel or ignore me the rest of the morning?” I put my hands back on my desk and lean against it with my legs out in front of me. Garth, one of the hockey boys, turns with a smirk.
“Nothing to worry you with, Ms. D.” He smirks, but when Daisy wanders into the room with her friend Lori, the room goes silent.
“Mmm.” I narrow my eyes at him, and he shrugs, taking his place at the back table with his buddy.
I tap my fingers out over the table and stand up to do a circle as they pull out their projects they’ve been working on for the art exhibit at the end of the year.
I stop at the table of boys, and the whispers die.
“Can I see what you’re working on?” I ask.
“I left mine at home.” Henrik, one of the kids struggling through every subject, is quick to spit out an excuse.
“Yeah, Ms. D, unfortunately, we were all at Henny’s house last night working hard on our projects, and we just worked so hard into the night that we forgot them at his house.” Garth smiles at me like it’s supposed to make me believe him.
“Oh, Garth.” You stupid little fuck, I think and roll my eyes at him.
“Guess you all need to start new projects,” I say, leaning over the table while looking at the six of them.
“Or me and Coach Marchan are going to have a really nice conversation about your asses sitting on the bench this hockey season.”
Their smiles drop.
“You shouldn’t swear, Ms. D.” Henrik dares to say.
“And you shouldn’t lie. Guess we’re both breaking some moral codes,” I respond dryly. “Go get your extra books from the back, and they stay here. I want to see art by the time the bell rings, boys.” I pat the table before wandering away.
Daisy and Lori sit quietly across the room, with their sketchbooks and canvases strewn out on the table, working through scraps of magazines and massive boxes of junk.
Daisy tucks a chunk of blonde hair behind her ear, and for the first time, I can see her father in her.
Her focused face is similar to the look he gives me when I’m talking too fast, and it makes me smile as I pull a chair around and sit on it backwards to investigate what they’re doing.
“How’s it going?” I ask, leaning over to peek at what Lori’s sketching. “Is that a bullfrog?”
“I’m going to put him in a Halloween costume, but I can’t decide if he’s a devil ears and tail guy, or if I should dress him up like Shrek…” she trails off.
“Definitely Shrek.” I laugh. “He’d look pretty cute with a stay out of my swamp sign.
” I circle a blank space on her page, and she looks up at me with a smile.
“And you, Daisy?” I ask her, not realizing she has her headphones in and the volume turned up.
Lori taps her, and she removes one, “What are you doing for the dream project?”
“Uh.” Daisy chews her lip.
It’s a simple project that I set almost every year because it’s one that students usually run with in the funniest ways.
They’re meant to take something from their dreams and put it down on a piece of paper in any way they want to convey it.
Most just draw or paint something, but every once in a while, I get a student like Daisy who works a little harder.
Her brain works a little faster and a little more creatively than the rest of the kids.
She’s got a base of scrap paper, randomly glued to the page, and at first glance, it looks harmless, but then I realize most of the scrap paper is dark red, yellow, or a heavy blue color.
She’s sketching on top of the mixed media, and I can’t really tell what it is because of the different tones, but her fingers are covered in pencil, and she throws her arm over it when she sees me inspecting it.
“It’s stupid and not finished,” she says quickly.
“Alright,” I say, throwing my hands up. One of the older girls, Carly Stepson, parades into class ten minutes late, cutting off my train of thought, and Daisy’s expression goes from concentrated to terrified as the girl wanders over to throw her arms around Garth.
“One ruler apart, Carla, you know the rules.” I snap my fingers at her.
“It’s Carly,” she says, not letting go of her boyfriend.
“I know,” I smile at her sweetly, but the venom is clear. God, I hate teenage girls. “Back up.”
“Sorry, Ms. D. I didn’t realize it’s that time of the month for you,” she says with a smile.
Teenage girls are vicious. “Even if it were, it doesn’t change the rules of my room, and you’re already late, not working on your project, and fraternizing. So…” I narrow my eyes at her, still turned in my chair. “Sit down, and get to work, or you can do it in detention after school.”
“Why can’t you just send me in the hallway like a normal teacher?” she groans, letting go of Garth and finding a chair.
“Because it’s so much fun ruining your life.” I tsk and roll my eyes.
Turning back to the girls, Daisy’s eyes are down, pointedly away from Carly, but it’s clear she’s listening to the entire conversation because she presses play on her phone after a few seconds of silence. I chew the inside of my lip and look at the rowdy table with a bad feeling.