See Me After Class

by Quinn, Meghan

  “Lovely, thank you, Keeks.”

  “Yes, of course,” she says so seriously it makes me giggle.

  “Anyway.” Stella faces me again. “I was talking with Gunner and Brock—”

  “The physical education teachers, right?”

  Stella nods. “They used to be professional baseball players. Both went to Brentwood, both had short careers in the majors. Gunner suffered from Pitcher’s Elbow—”

  “A commonality among professional pitchers,” Keiko interjects. “Formally known as valgus extension overload, it’s where the valgus force from snapping your hand and elbow to the lateral side of your trajectory wears out the cartilage in your olecranon bone. Such trauma to your appendage results in swelling and immense pain. The solution would be to change the motion of your pitching arm, though in Gunner’s case—one of not being able to ‘teach an old dog new tricks’—he failed at expanding his athletic prowess, thereby resulting in early retirement.”

  “Annnnd Brock snapped his Achilles tendon sliding into home,” Stella finishes.

  I turn to Keiko, who says, “That’s self-explanatory.”

  Chuckling, I nod. “Okay, so what did they say?”

  “They were two of three lucky ones to be chosen to go to the teachers’ conference in Denver last week, the third being Arlo. Apparently, he was annoyed that you were hired.”

  “What? Why?” Was he the mystery voice in the back?

  “No one really knows what Arlo is thinking at any given time.” Stella downs the rest of her champagne.

  “Very elusive man,” Keiko says. “Brilliant educator, vastly recognized amongst peers, and has a scintillating way of throwing parties that lure the minds of those who are effortlessly commandeered by sumptuous chattel.” Keiko looks Stella up and down. “Like Stella.”

  “Hey, I appreciate his artistic flair to a nighttime soiree. Nothing wrong with that.” Turning toward me, Stella continues, “Anyway, you’re standing in his lavish backyard, and he doesn’t like you.”

  Just then, with a grand amount of flair, the French doors to the beautiful Tudor house open. It feels like a gust of wind blows by us as a man of stature steps onto the patio. Lifting the sleeves of his light brown cardigan, he pushes them to his elbows, revealing tan, muscular forearms. Beneath the cardigan is a pristine white T-shirt with just the very front tucked in, showing off a brown belt that’s securing a pair of dark-washed jeans to his trim waist. Brown boots tap the edge of his cuffed jeans and . . .

  Oh.

  Dear.

  God.

  His sharp jawline is covered in a perfect five o’clock shadow, producing a dark and mysterious look, while his hair is styled short on the sides with that sexy kind of messy on top. I’m too far away to tell the color of his eyes, either a blue or a green based on how light they are, but from the overshadow of his narrowing eyebrows, I know they’d be devastating up close.

  There’s an unlearned swagger in the way he moves around the patio, shaking hands, handing out distant nods of hello with his expertly carved jaw. A smooth quirk to his brow when he spots Gunner and Brock by the buffet of food. And when he finally walks up to us, there’s the smallest lift of the corners of his lips as he says in a deep, masculine voice, a voice I’d recognize anywhere, “Hello, ladies.”

  Oh God . . . it’s him.

  “Hey, Arlo. Great party, once again. Thanks for having us,” Stella says.

  “I hope you’re enjoying yourselves.” His eyes—a combination of blue green, Lord help me—slay me as he gives me a quick once-over. His assessment isn’t positive as his face remains neutral.

  “We are most satisfied,” Keiko says. “We were just conversing about your distaste for Greer Gibson. From her baffled facial expression and lack of response, I’ve come to the logical conclusion that she was unaware of the foul feelings you harbor for our newest faculty member.”

  “Jesus, Keeks,” Stella grumbles.

  Arlo’s eyes snap to mine and I quickly look away, downing the rest of my drink.

  “Did I say something wrong?” Keiko asks. “I don’t quite understand. I stated the facts within relevancy of the conversation. He clearly stated he hoped we were enjoying ourselves, and I perceived that we were enjoying ourselves up until the moment you notified Greer about Arlo not expressing fond feelings for her. Although, we haven’t explored the core reasoning as to why. I’m still very much inclined to find out.”

  Arlo nods, and says, “Excuse me. I’m going to say hi to the rest of the staff.” He pats Keiko on the shoulder. “Always a pleasure, Miss Seymour.”

  “Pleasure is all ours,” Keiko replies with a brief curtsy.

  When he’s out of hearing range, Stella says, “What the hell was that?”

  Truly confused, Keiko looks behind her and then back to us. “Well . . . I perceived it as a host greeting his guests, but if I read that situation incorrectly, please help me understand what that was.”

  “No, why did you tell him I told Greer he didn’t like her?”

  “Because you did,” she says with confusion.

  Groaning, Stella drags her hand down her face. “That was humiliating.”

  Staring at his retreating back, I ask, “But why doesn’t he like me?” Was it because I called him an elitist? That surely can’t be the case.

  “The million-dollar question.” Keiko shakes her head as if nothing happened and stares at Arlo as well. “If I were to hypothesize—”

  “Please don’t,” Stella says. “Let’s just get more drinks.”

  Taking me by the arm, Stella drags me to the bar, where we fill up on champagne . . . five more times.

  * * *

  “I believe you two are intoxicated,” Keiko says, standing above us as Stella and I share a lounge chair and giggle. “May I remind you about the lack of inhibition you possess at this moment?”

  “Well aware of the no inhibi—hiccup—tions.” Stella laughs. “Don’t worry, Keeks, I’ll keep my underwear on. This bra though . . .” Stella starts fishing around in her shirt. “It’s like a torture device. Keeks, help me take it off.”

  “I will not,” she answers, head held high. “Disrobing at a work event is strictly prohibited by standard social etiquette.”

  “It’s just a bra,” she whines.

  “Still clothes,” Keiko replies.

  Standing, I wobble on my feet for a few seconds, and then say, “I need to go to the bathroom.”

  “I believe they’re directing all faculty to use the bathroom to the right of the kitchen when you walk into the house.”

  I pat Keiko on the shoulder. “Thanks, Keeks.”

  Steadying myself, I take a deep breath and head toward the house, grateful I wore sandals to the event or else I’d be having quite the time traipsing across this lawn in heels. Trying not to look drunk, even though I am—thank you, Stella—I smile at a few people I haven’t met, nod toward Romeo and Gunner, who both have huge smiles on their faces, and head into the house where I stumble to a stop from the sight of the kitchen.

  Lord Jesus, look at that island.

  It’s the size of a swimming pool.

  A marble-coated swimming pool.

  Temptation knocks at my door; the urge to lie across the cool surface and get in a few backstrokes crosses my mind.

  Imagine the calories I’d burn swimming on that island.

  Maybe sober up a little.

  Then backstroke heaven.

  Moving toward the island, I consider the best way to hop up on it just as I feel a strong, tall presence walk up next to me.

  “Can I help you with something?”

  That devastating voice has just the right amount of posh attitude combined with mystery.

  Turning around, I come face to face with Arlo Turner. I sway backward only for him to quickly grab my shoulders and right me.

  I loll my head to the side and glance at his hands that are gripping my shoulders and then back to him. “You have a strong grip.” Oh boy . . . Keeks was right
, the inhibitions are gone.

  He slowly releases my arms, eyes trained on mine as he takes a step back. Chin high, jaw firmly clenched, he lowers his hands to his side and says, “Do you need something?”

  “Yes.” I fold my arms over my chest and try not to get lost in the deceiving color of this eyes. What is that? Blue or green? Make up your mind, man!

  “Well?” he asks with a snobbish lilt.

  He’s impatient. Is he like this in the classroom?

  “Why don’t you like me? Is it because of the interview?”

  Face unwavering, he says, “I don’t partake in childish games.” He turns to walk away when I grab him by the arm. His eyes shoot to my hand, eyebrows narrowing, and I quickly let go. Sheesh.

  “I’m not playing childish games,” I say, trying not to slur my words. “I’m trying to make sense of why you have a distaste for me when you’ve never officially met me. Oh.” I hiccup and hold out my hand. “Maybe that’s why you hate me, because you’ve never been introduced. Hi, I’m Greer Gibson and you have delightful champagne.”

  He stares at my hand but doesn’t take it.

  “Struggles with socialization, I see.” I reach over, pluck his hand from his side and slip it into mine. “My God, your hand is large. Look at it eclipse mine like it’s claiming dominance.” I give it a good shake and then let go, but not before one more quick examination. “See, was that so hard?” He doesn’t say anything, so I continue in a deep voice. “Hi, Greer. I’m Arlo Turner. Nice to meet you. I own this mansion of a house, and, from time to time, I conduct the very satisfying backstroke on my kitchen island.”

  I press a shocked hand to my chest, enjoying this one-on-one conversation.

  “Do you?” I say, answering myself. “I love the backstroke as well. When you perform it, would that be in a bathing suit or a birthday suit? You know what?” I wave my hand about. “Never mind, what’s between a man and his island, stays between a man and his island. Am I right?”

  Turning to the side, really getting into character, I puff my chest, and in my best Arlo Turner voice, I answer, “Naked, I swim on my island naked. I enjoy the feel of the cold marble against my most heated of areas—”

  “Are you done?” he snaps at me, his jaw clenched even tighter, and I truly feel nervous that he might crack a tooth.

  “Uh, do you want me to be done?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, then I’m done.” I smile and rock on my heels, which is an incredibly bad idea. Equilibrium completely off—thank you, champagne—I tumble backward into the island. “Oye.” I clutch my back and then pat the top of the island. “Sturdy, very sturdy.” I run my hand over the smooth surface. “Fine craftmanship. Not that I’d know what a good kitchen island is made out of, but, boy, this one sure is nice. Did it come with the house?”

  He mutters something under his breath while looking away. Finally, he says, “If you don’t need anything, I prefer all guests to linger in the backyard, not inside my private dwellings.”

  “Oh, dwellings, nice word. Very Mr. Darcy-like.” I wink at him. “Don’t worry, I wasn’t lingering. Just trying to find the bathroom. Bladder is full,” I say, pointing to where I hope my bladder is. “Needs relief.”

  “I see.” He steps aside. “First door on the left.”

  Tapping my chin, I ask, “And do tell, how many doors do you have in this grand household?”

  “Enough.”

  “Vague answer. What’s that about? Is it because you don’t like me?”

  His tongue runs over the front of his teeth as I notice him exhale sharply. Oh . . . someone is getting annoyed. I guess it’s okay since he already doesn’t like me.

  “I’d prefer it if you don’t relieve yourself on my hardwood floors.” He gestures to the bathroom. “Take care of yourself.”

  “As if I’d pee on your floor. Do you really think that low of me?”

  “You’ve been crossing your legs and bouncing this entire conversation. I don’t know much about you, but I do understand that’s the universal signal that you’re about to wet your pants.”

  I glance down at my legs and . . . well, would you look at that? My legs are crossed and bouncing.

  What’s going to happen when I uncross them?

  Will I . . . wet myself, like he said?

  I glance up at him. There’s a knowing look in his eyes as he stares back at me.

  Peeing my pants in front of him would be positively humiliating.

  We can’t have that.

  With a shaky laugh, I say, “You know, I believe I do have to go to the bathroom, but I can’t quite tell where I’m at in the whole ‘bladder is about to explode’ process. Do you by any chance provide motorized trips to the bathroom?”

  “Jesus,” he mutters, walking toward the door. “If you pee on my floor, clean it up.” And then he takes off into the backyard.

  Calling after him, I say, “I’m going to take that as a no.”

  The door shuts behind him.

  “Yup, that’s a no.” I sigh and look up at the door. Twenty feet, you can do this.

  Keeping my legs twisted tightly together, I bunny-hop my way to the bathroom, grateful he left, because, if anything, I need to save a little bit of dignity, and watching someone bunny-hop to the bathroom doesn’t necessarily scream “put together.”

  Although, drinking five glasses of champagne doesn’t either.

  * * *

  “I think we’re drunk,” Stella says, resting her head on my shoulder as we share a lounger and stare at the dark abyss that is Lake Michigan.

  Keiko left a while ago, stating she needed to get home to ensure she “acquired an adequate amount of sleep.” Once Keiko left, Kelvin Thimble left, too. Stella was right, he does have a thing for her, and even though Keiko is completely oblivious, in my drunken state, I noticed. You know . . . since he stared at her from afar for the entire party.

  “That was established an hour ago,” I say, crossing my legs at my ankles.

  “What time is it?”

  “Dark,” I answer. “It’s dark time.”

  “Is it quiet or is it just me?”

  My eyes are drifting shut as I answer, “No, seems quiet. I think it’s because everyone saw how much we need a little shut-eye.”

  “What considerate co-workers.”

  “With that kind of consideration, I think it very well might be a great school year.”

  A throat clears above us just as I get comfortable, ready for a brief nappity-nap.

  “I think there’s someone standing next to us,” I say, eyes closed.

  “I think that was the ocean lapping against the rocks.”

  “It’s a lake, you dumbass.” I laugh.

  “That’s what I meant.” Stella giggles.

  “It was neither,” a male voice says above us.

  Uh-oh . . .

  I open one eye and slowly look up to find Arlo standing over us, a displeased look on his face.

  Whispering to Stella, I say, “It’s the guy who doesn’t like me.”

  She jackknifes off the lounger and sits up, her hair sticking out on the right side. Scrambling to right herself, she says, “Turner, lovely party. Send my praise to the grill master. That brisket was phenomenal.”

  “The party was over twenty minutes ago.”

  I lift up as well and look behind us, noticing the empty backyard. “Huh, I guess it is.” Smiling, I lie back down. “That champagne was top notch.” I snuggle into the lounger. “Thanks for the invite . . . even though you don’t like me.” I pull on Stella, who sinks back into the lounger, as well. I snuggle to her back and shut my eyes.

  “You can’t sleep here.”

  “Why? Is this your bed?” I ask, eyes still closed. “We could make room for you.” I pat the small space behind my rear end. “See, right here. Take a seat.”

  “Did you drive here?”

  “Aren’t you chatty now?” I sigh and turn to look up at him. “No, I took an Uber. So no need to worry ab
out my car taking up curb space. All good.” I wave my hand at him. “We’re good, really. You’re relieved of your hostess duties.”

  “Host,” he says.

  “Huh?” Stella’s face twists in confusion.

  “Hostess is the female noun for someone presenting an event. Host would be proper in this context since I’m a man. I would expect you to know something as simple as that, Miss Gibson. But alas, you’ve made the mistake all night.”

  “Who called the dictionary police?” Stella asks, thumbing toward Arlo.

  Even more irritated, Arlo says in a deep, threatening voice, “Miss Gibson, Miss Garcia, you have ten seconds to get up and start vacating my property.”

  “Ten seconds?” I ask. “Or what?”

  “Or I tell Principal Dewitt how extremely unprofessional both of you are.”

  “Pfft.” I jerk my thumb toward him while speaking to Stella. “Look at this guy. Mr. Tattletale.” Sitting up, I add, “Snitches get stitches, man.” I nudge Stella, but we don’t stand; instead, we both sit up on the lounger, trying to steady ourselves.

  “One. Two.”

  My blurry eyes connect with his. “Are you really counting?”

  “Four. Five.”

  “Stella, he’s counting at us.”

  “Seven. Eight. Trust me, you don’t want me to get to ten.”

  “Did you hear that—”

  “Nine . . .”

  “Okay, okay. We’re moving.” I grab Stella and stand, my legs wobbly, my brain too tired to even try to calculate the distance to make it out of this mansion. “Man alive, what kind of champagne was that?” I grip my head and stumble forward, landing right against Arlo’s torso. My hands planted against his thick chest, I quickly notice how muscular he is under his pristine white T-shirt and cardigan. “Good grief, Stella. This man has muscles.” I lift my finger to his jaw where I poke the carved bone. “His angles are spectacular.”

  “Miss Gibson, I suggest you pull yourself together.”

  “Ugh, enough of that ‘Miss Gibson’ crap. We’re not at school. It’s Greer.” I lift off him, but keep one hand on his chest to steady myself as Stella finally meets me at my side, a goofy grin on her face. “Now, if you don’t mind helping me lug my body to the front of your abode, it’d be most appreciated.”