“This is lovely,” Lydia said, tucking her skirt beneath her.
Aarin took the seat at her side.
The hostess lowered two menus vertically in front of them. “I’ll give you a minute to look,” she said, disappearing the way she came.
Lydia glanced down at the menu, then up at him. “How’d you hear about this place?”
“You remember Nelson?” he asked.
Lydia nodded.
“His wife suggested it when we were with them at the rink, and I gave her a call. She has a friend who works here that was able to get us in at the last minute.”
“You’ll have to thank her for me. I’ve never been anywhere quite like it.”
He dipped his chin in acknowledgement. When the hostess returned, they placed their orders and settled back, eyes on each other’s faces.
A pair of candles in the center of the table made flickering reflections in her gaze, warming the height of her cheeks and shading her lips pink. Her shoulders, exposed beneath the straps of her dress, sloped gracefully to lithe arms and downward to a tasteful hint of cleavage.
But as delightful as she was to admire, he valued her thoughts and dreams even more. What’d drawn him to her at the start was her gentle soul, and that hadn’t changed, if anything his adoration of her mind had grown. What he’d wanted … what he needed in his life was the tenderness only she could give, and holding onto that justified giving up his job.
He started inwardly. Was his mind made up then? In that instant, he knew that it was, and summarily, the burden of the decision lifted. Nevertheless, he kept that to himself. Lydia would only feel guilty for his having to choose, and he wouldn’t do that to her.
Their food came, and they dined, chatting about books and hockey and even, the history of the house. Afterward, he asked if she’d like to take a walk. Darkness had fallen, but the lighting in the garden provided a gentle atmosphere. Following the curve of the pathway, they strolled between plum trees, dark green with the end of summer, past squares planted with early autumn vegetables and the orange and yellow of late season blossoms.
Nearing the lake, Lydia shivered, and Aarin wrapped her in his arms, folding her against his chest. A tiny bat swooped downward in the night sky. An owl called somewhere distant.
“You didn’t know your dad?” she asked. “You’ve never mentioned him.”
Grateful for a topic that didn’t involve them or the college, Aarin tried to picture his father, seeing mostly the photograph his mom kept by her bed, a distinguished man in a gray suit with a black tie. “I was young when he died,” he said, “but Mom always glowed about him … how smart he was, how proud of me he’d be.”
He felt Lydia’s smile rather than saw it.
“That was more than I had. Mine took off when I was four, and Mom never mentioned him.” Lydia revolved, her arms sliding around his waist, and he read on her face, pleading, but he wasn’t sure for what.
“That’s his loss,” he replied, his voice husky. “He’s missed out on an intelligent, marvelous daughter.”
Her mouth curved in a faltering smile, then as if on impulse, she raised onto her toes and kissed him. But not fleeting, not the peck of the childlike girl she’d been nor the rashness that had begun their last encounter. This was imploring instead, her hand on the line of his jaw, her tongue eagerly seeking his.
The sweetness of her cheek counterbalanced with the tang that he’d taken her here, not specifically to this location, though that was true, but deeper, that what her body asked, pressed against him, was what he’d taught it to say. And he hungered for a thousand more nights as fragrant as the others had been. But knew he would have to give up something big to acquire it, something big, which, with each glance of her fingertips, the nip of her nails, the soft whisper of her voice, didn’t matter anymore.
Her cries were as filled with inner pain as the apex of satisfaction. Her legs entangled with his, his lips sampling the base of her neck, each pulse of his hips served to remind Lydia tonight was the end. The crash, when it came, spiked explosive in her mind, scoring her heart, and she clung to him, willing their time together to last.
Yet, an hour later, she stumbled down the driveway, emptier than ever before.
Dinner had been sweet and very much like him. Though he’d seemed to have deeper things to say, he’d made every effort to lighten the atmosphere. Their walk had begun with the same feeling, but ended impetuous, both consumed with coming together again. This time though, where he’d given the first night to her, providing her complete enjoyment, where they’d shared the second, coming away equally contented, he claimed tonight as his own, not demanding or cruel, but definite. And his self-indulgence had sealed things in her mind.
Surprisingly, he’d not argued against her returning to the dorm. She’d said it’d be best to avert suspicion, but his lack of response worried her a great deal. Lydia shoved it aside. She had to speak with Student Counsel tomorrow and arrange to continue her classes at home, then pack and leave the dorm without drawing too much attention.
What she’d write to Aarin, she’d decided to mail from home on Monday. That’d prevent her driving back to his place and having to fight with going in, or the note falling into anyone else’s hands. She wasn’t sure of what she’d say though, except to ask for time to think before she heard from him again.
But what would that time do to what they had? Soften it, where they might rebuild into something stronger? Or destroy this ecstasy all together? The first she welcomed, hope on her breath, the second, she feared was more likely to come true.
A sob left her throat at the end of the street, and her hands trembling, she gave into it, collapsing against the wheel. Choked, gasping, her sinuses sealed, she pulled herself together enough to drive to the burger place. She dried her cheeks with the heel of her hands and went inside long enough to change back into her shorts and t-shirt.
At the dorm, minutes later, she couldn’t make herself enter, so she texted Karen instead. I’m back. Can you come down?
Her reply was almost instant. Yes.
Lydia waited, pensive, for the front doors to open, tears bubbling up when Karen approached.
“Oh, gee … you’re a mess,” Karen said. “Was it bad then?”
Lydia shook her head. “It was perfect, and he was wonderful. He … he knows nothing though. I couldn’t tell him.”
Karen’s gaze softened. “And the last thing you need tonight is Marianne. Switch sides. You and I will go somewhere and work all this emotion out.”
Lydia obeyed, grateful for her friend again.
“He’s not dead, you know,” Karen said, cranking.
A broken, nervous giggle escaped, unbidden. Lydia tried to silence it, clamping her lips shut, but it leaked out anyway, blending in with her weeping. He wasn’t dead, but alive and vibrant and … vital to her next breath. She’d proven that.
At the top of the page, Aarin typed the date, September, then he dropped down two lines, but paused to consider what to say. How did he provide a reason for leaving without actually giving everything away?
“I’m quitting over a girl,” he said aloud. A student, he reminded himself. Because she’d stolen his heart. “I have no idea what I’ll do next.”
She’ll want to keep studying, so he wouldn’t leave town. But he wasn’t qualified to do anything else. He could apply to be a substitute in the public school system. However, that tasted sour in his mouth.
His fingers hovering over the keys, Aarin blew out a breath and shut the computer lid, his mind shifting back an hour to Lydia’s frantic embrace. The hastiness of it had driven him to his own frenetic pace, a need to take from her every ounce of strength he could. He’d collapsed afterward, out of his mind, and unable to protest when she’d said she ought to go.
In his head, he’d known she was right. She couldn’t keep staying overnight. But for some reason, he didn’t understand, her leaving had felt final. Only, no, it wasn’t. He was ready to quit his job and do whatever he could
to see her. Wasn’t he?
Aarin opened the computer again, clearing his throat, and pressed his fingers to the keys. To Whom It May Concern, he began. I would like to offer my resignation.
CHAPTER 10
The college campus had a weird sheen in his view, like when you close your eyes in bright sunshine and open them again. In your head, you know things are the same, but the sudden change of light makes you feel like they aren’t.
Nothing, this morning, was the same. His letter of resignation, folded and sealed in an envelope, burned in his grasp. His lack of contact with Lydia Saturday and Sunday made the feeling worse. He couldn’t shake the idea that Friday had been some sort of … goodbye.
Ridiculous. He was willing to quit for her. No, he hadn’t said so, but after today, it’d be done. There wouldn’t be any need to end anything after that.
Just the same, the weirdness followed him down the walkways and into the building. Unlocking his classroom, he crossed the front to his office, dropping into his chair.
The letter stared back at him from the desk.
It’d kept him from texting her. He’d told himself he would as soon as he delivered it, but wondered now what to say. He couldn’t see past her getting upset, which made him mourn his own stupidity. They should have talked about this more. He should have made things clear. By avoiding it, he’d created unnecessary doubts. He doubted himself; he doubted her reaction. He was sure she had a lot of doubts as well.
He had to push ahead. One thing he’d learned, the hard way, was that staying in a place of inaction would slowly eat away at your sanity. This letter, today, was the first step out.
“Mr. Kai, I’m glad to see you’re here.”
Augustus Bloom’s voice raised Aarin’s gaze, and his thoughts immediately turned in a new direction. He reached for the large manila envelope containing the new curriculum presentation. “I was going to come to your office,” Aarin said. He stood and extended the packet. “I was able to finish my recommendations for the class. I think you’ll find everything in order, though if the board has any questions, they are more than welcome to ask.”
The dean stared at the envelope, his expression uncertain, then taking it, made no effort to examine anything, but grasped the back of the seat facing the desk. “If I might?” he asked, inclining his head.
Aarin nodded and returned to his chair.
Seated, Augustus pressed his lips tight, then drew in a breath. “We have such good comments about you from students. They love your unique way of looking at things. Which makes what I’m about to say, a tremendous disappointment, but please know, it has nothing to do with any personal feelings on my part. You’ve worked very hard to fit in here ….”
Aarin wrinkled his brow.
Absentminded, Augustus ran his palm over the envelope, curling his fingers over one end. “The college is going to be restructuring in the next few months. To be frank, funds are low, and we’re spread too thin. The solution the board has come up with means that certain subjects will suffer, and they’ve decided to shorten the classes that are … over-populated.”
“Over-populated?”
Augustus nodded once. “Unfortunately, yours is at the top of the list. With so many students clamoring to take it, classes like Professor Reed’s are overlooked, except by students in need of that particular credit. For every five students you have, she has only one.”
Aarin rubbed his thumb down the bridge of his nose. “I don’t see how …”
The dean held up one hand, silencing him, and continued. “Shortening your class means, in essence, that we have to let you go.”
Stunned, Aarin couldn’t speak. Let him go? He … he was fired? For doing a good job?
“I am so very sorry. You are a very capable teacher.” He raised the curriculum packet. “I will hang onto this, should we need it in the future. We are planning to offer a one semester class in the subject so those needing to complete the credit can do so. But we’ll hire someone … inexpensive.”
In other words, someone who didn’t need his salary. The letter leapt back into Aarin’s view, and he reached for it, curling it in his palm. All the torment it’d taken to write, and it was worth nothing.
Augustus cleared his throat. “I have one other thing to say, which I hope will be received in a good light … and please know, this is strictly between you and me.”
Aarin glanced up again.
“Professor Reed brought an article to my attention a while back …” the dean said.
Aarin’s grip on the letter tightened, the paper crinkling in his palm.
“I kept what I saw to myself because … well, I couldn’t be sure of anything. But I’ve found that two plus two always equals four.” The dean halted. “Mr. Kai,” he said. “I could ask you about your private life, could demand you tell me the truth. I could search your classes and probably figure out who the girl is.” His voice became stern. “This is a very serious problem, which could destroy your career, so take this dismissal as an opportunity to seek your happiness. I am unwilling to mar the good name of someone based solely on unfounded speculation and other people’s greed.”
Stunned, Aarin soaked in the import of the dean’s words. Greed? He’d long suspected Angela had it out for him. This proved it. Yet, Augustus had chosen to use the college’s restructuring to save his self-respect. He could have had him fired, as he’d said, could have created a huge scene. He could have ruined him forever.
“I’m happy to write a recommendation if you need one,” Augustus continued. “There will be no mention of any misconduct on your record, but please take this seriously.”
He stood, and Aarin followed suit. Aarin offered his hand.
Augustus stared at it, then clasped it firmly. “Your students will be informed as they show up to class today. A Student Counsel representative will tell them how they can save their credit hours. Meanwhile, you can pack up whatever belongs to you and leave your keys at the office.”
The dean remained in place only a second longer.
Aarin, however, couldn’t move. Long after Augustus had left, he stood there, the walls of his office closing in. The choice he’d made had been made for him. He was out of a job, but because of the dean’s maneuvering, had a good possibility of getting another with no negative impact on his teaching. No scandal to overcome. No accusations to answer. That wasn’t ever done and shouldn’t have happened to him.
Lydia. Thought of her tumbled him back into his seat. He needed to tell her, had to see her, wanted to kiss her sweet lips. But first … he tore his resignation into small pieces and tossed it in the trash can. He then spent an hour gathering his things. He was another hour toting it to his truck and packing it all in. He lost track of time even more, finding a place to put things in his garage. Therefore, it was mid-afternoon before he took out his phone and texted her.
Need to see you, he said.
He waited for a response, but none came. Maybe she was in class or had an assignment to work on. He occupied himself doing long-neglected housework. Later, he tried again. Can you come by?
Come ten p.m., there was still nothing. Worry spiked in his brain and the fear he’d felt Friday clawed at his throat.
“Lydia?” He called her name, the sound flat in his ears. Where was she? And why did it feel like this was too little too late?
Her grandmother laid an aged hand atop her head, smoothing her hair in the manner she’d done since she was a child. But unlike when she was little and the gesture had been reassuring, now it made her want to cry. She stifled it, determined to hold her chin up.
“You sure you don’t want to tell me what this is about?” her grandmother asked, her voice creased with concern.
“I can’t,” Lydia said. “Please don’t ask me.”
She hated hurting her grandmother like that, after all she’d been through with the death of her mom, but thinking of Aarin left her gasping for air. She had no will to do her schoolwork either, though, in truth, she wa
s less distracted here at home.
She’d mailed the letter yesterday as planned, figuring three days for it to arrive, and after Aarin texted her Monday night, shut her cell phone off. She couldn’t … wouldn’t turn it on until she was confident he’d read what she had to say, but that made Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday stretch out long. Meanwhile, she’d moped around, her head hung, causing her grandmother to worry.
Had he found it yet? Was he surprised? Upset? Undecided?
“I’ll be in the kitchen if you change your mind.” With a sigh, her grandmother opened the screen door, the hinges squeaking, and stepped inside.
Lydia listened to her footsteps fade across the old house, her chin falling into her palm.
The mail would be delivered by now, but since he was working, he wouldn’t check it until later. She’d do best to wait to turn her phone on until after dark. But what did she hope would happen then? She’d told him not to contact her, so he wouldn’t. Why then did she hope he would?
Might as well never use her phone again if she was going to let the situation rule her like that. Or she could get over it and face the blank screen she’d asked for.
Her mind made up, she rose and went inside. Crossing through the foyer and going down the hall, she made a left into her tiny bedroom space. She slid her phone from where it’d sat on the bedside table, her fingers growing damp. Wiping them on the bedspread, she mashed the “on” button and waited.
The screen flashed, the phone maker’s symbol loading. Then the home screen arose, icons lined up in even rows. Thirty seconds in, a half dozen text messages clicked on the screen. She scrolled down the names. There were two from Aarin dated Monday.
Need to see you. Then later that evening, Can you come by?
Her mood dived. She reread the brief texts then opened Karen’s.
Big news, she’d said. Wish you were here. Text back.
Then, timed a half hour later, You’ve probably got your phone off. I’ll try again.
Sunshine In The Morning (Spring-Summer Romance Book 1) Page 11