See Me After Class

by Quinn, Meghan

Arlo went to help Nyema make sure kids were getting into their rides safely, while I stayed back and helped the others cleaning up. We didn’t have to do much since the custodial staff will be coming in, but we wanted to try to help.

  “What did you say? Arlo was nice?” Gunner blinks a few times. “Are we talking about the same guy?”

  “Yes.” I chuckle. “Trust me, I’m as shocked as you, but he was nice.”

  “Well, color me surprised. He was bitching to me all week about chaperoning, and when Nyema wanted me to pair you two up, I felt my ass clench in horror.”

  I laugh out loud. “Well, nothing to worry about. We got along and there was no fighting.”

  “Fascinating. Maybe you two are growing up.”

  “One can only hope.” I glance around the gym. Gunner and I the only ones left. “Are we able to leave?”

  “Oh, yeah.” He chuckles. “Sorry. Take off. I have to meet up with Nyema real quick and then I’m going to head home, but not before stopping at Dairy Queen and grabbing a Blizzard.”

  “A Blizzard, really?”

  “Hey, I earned it.” He chuckles. “After every dance I get one. It’s congratulating myself on a job well done.”

  “Smart. I might have to consider something similar. Have a good night, Gunner.”

  “You too, and, hey, Greer?”

  “Yeah?” I look over my shoulder.

  “Arlo isn’t as sneaky as he thinks he is. We know about Chuckie.”

  My eyes widen and panic ensues. “Gunner, he—”

  “I know. We know.” He gives me a curt nod. “Nyema assumes Arlo took care of it?”

  “Twenty extra hours of community service.”

  “Twenty, damn. Nyema will be pleased.” He waves. “Have a good night, Greer.”

  “You too.”

  Walking out of the gym and toward the teachers’ parking lot, I take in the quiet school hallway. The lined-up lockers painted teal, the odd teal tiles that are scattered through the weaving of the tiled floors. The bulletin boards, the bullet-resistant doors that lead to classrooms, no longer with windows but with heavy-duty locks to prevent anyone from getting in if, God forbid, that ever happened.

  It’s peaceful, beautiful almost, knowing that minds are shaped within these walls and I have a part in it.

  Arlo’s gesture to Chuckie tonight touched me.

  There’s teaching a lesson.

  And there’s knowing how to teach a lesson.

  Arlo could have taken the easy route and taken Chuckie to Principal Dewitt, who then would have escorted him to her office, where they would have called his parents. Given the situation, Chuckie’s dad could have been drinking, and he could have driven drunk to come to the school, which offers up a million different possible outcomes. Chuckie could have gone home and been abused.

  Instead, Arlo quietly dealt with the situation. After Chuckie left, he pulled Louis and Brennan to the side as well and offered them the same penance, which they gladly took.

  Some might disagree with how Arlo handled the situation. They might say they need to learn real consequences, but I also think we all make dumb mistakes. The grace we find in each other will go a long way. And that’s not really something you learn in high school. It’s something you learn through living life. Not simply following scripts from a textbook. And Arlo’s right. That gives a student an advantage in how he or she approaches future mistakes. Invaluable life lessons.

  I push through the doors and allow myself to take in a deep breath of the chilly night air. Clear sky, stars bright up above, the humid static air of the gym quickly wilting off me.

  “Hey.” I look to the right, spotting Arlo as he approaches. “Wait up.”

  I slow down, and when he catches up, he gives me a cute smile. “You made it through your first chaperoning.”

  “That’s what Gunner just said. You both make it seem like these are more traumatic than what I experienced tonight.”

  “Trust me, they used to be a shitshow, but Gunner and Nyema have put a lot of rules and regulations into place. It shows, because tonight was easier than before. I’ll make a note to have them sweep the bleachers before the students filter in next time.”

  “Smart.”

  “You spoke to Gunner?”

  “Yeah . . . he knows.”

  “Figured.” We start walking toward the cars again. “Does Nyema know?”

  “Of course, but he said she trusts you took care of it.”

  “Good.”

  “So, does everyone know about Chuckie? And how do you find out about that stuff?”

  “Over time. You get to know the students. We found out about Chuckie when I happened to teach one junior-level class last year. He was in it, and he was always falling asleep. I finally got him to confide in me that his dad was an alcoholic. His dad would spend countless hours in the middle of the night raging and throwing furniture around the house. Chuckie wasn’t getting any sleep.”

  “Oh, that’s awful.”

  “Yeah, I spent extra time with him, made sure he was getting the food he needed, and then we worked on his college applications. When he got early acceptance into Stanford, the boys and I took him out to get some ice cream.”

  “Seriously?” I ask, turning toward him.

  “Yeah, nothing wrong with that. Gunner loves Blizzards.”

  Something I just learned.

  “I know, but . . . God, I guess I—”

  “Judged me before you got to know me?”

  “Hey.” I point my finger at him as we reach my car. “You judged me, too. Probably even worse.”

  He shakes his head. “No, it’s my job to make sure you have what it takes to work in our department. At our school. We might live in the suburbs of Chicago, but we still have a lot of struggling families who choose the school because of the advanced placement classes we offer. Nyema has been monumental in making sure we’re able to offer seats in our school for everyone. It’s why I love working here so much and why it’s highly sought after for teachers.”

  “When I got an interview, I was intimidated. Happy, but intimidated. I still can’t believe Nyema hired me.”

  “She’s a good judge of character. Sometimes I don’t see it at first, but usually she proves me wrong.”

  I lean against the passenger side of my car and ask, “Did she prove you wrong with me?”

  “Jury is still out.” He smirks and says, “I have some cookies in my car and some drinks, if you want to sit for a second.”

  My brow lifts. “You just happen to have cookies and drinks in your car?”

  He shrugs and goes to his car, which is parked next to mine. He opens the trunk and offers me a seat on the edge.

  From behind me, he pulls forward a cooler and a box. Freshly made cookies from Crumbl. I very well might die and go to heaven in the back of Arlo’s SUV.

  “You’re trying to kill me with these Crumbl cookies, aren’t you?”

  “I don’t think I’ve met a person who doesn’t like them. I got two chilled sugar cookies and two chocolate chips. Kept it simple.” He opens the box, and I pick up a giant chilled sugar cookie. Just having it in my hands is making my mouth water.

  “I have some water and seltzer water, too.”

  “Oh, what flavor?”

  He holds up a can. “Uh . . . coconut pineapple. Cora bought them.”

  I chuckle. “I’ll take one of those, please.”

  He cracks it open and hands me one.

  Joking, I say, “Between the donuts and cookies, you might be in for some trouble.”

  “My running shoes have been lighting up the streets lately. It’s helped, though. Helps me think.”

  “Yeah? What are you thinking about?” I ask, taking a bite of my cookie. Dear God, these are good.

  Turning toward me, chocolate chip cookie in hand, Arlo says, “You.”

  I chew the cookie, swallow, and then say, “Me?”

  He nods. “Yeah. I’ve been thinking about you a lot.”

 
; “Oh.” I set my cookie on a napkin, and then on my lap, and try to act as calm as possible. “What, uh, have you been thinking about?”

  He sighs and looks toward the parking lot. I can practically hear his mind hunting for the right words.

  “I didn’t handle things right with you and I regret that. I regret not treating you with more respect.”

  “Arlo, it’s not like you were a horrible tyrant.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” His eyes connect with mine. “I wasn’t fair and I let my body speak for my mind.”

  “So, you regret . . . the kitchen counter . . .”

  His eyes turn dark as the corner of his lip turns up. “No. I don’t regret that. But I regret how I handled things after. If I could do it over again, I would.”

  “Yeah? And what would you do differently?” I ask.

  His head tilts ever so slightly to the left when he answers, her eyes trained on mine. “Ask you out on a date. Hold your hand . . . kiss you on the mouth. Treat you the way you deserve to be treated.”

  “I see.” I take a big bite of my cookie. Honestly, what do I even say to that? Everything I said I wanted from him, he’s saying he wished he had given me.

  This entire night has put me into a perplexed state of emotions. Arlo is not entirely the man I built him up to be in my head. He is arrogant, self-absorbed, and self-righteous. But in reality, he’s more than that. He’s loyal, he cares; he doesn’t just see black and white, he sees all the gray in between. And he has the capacity to look at the long-term with the goal of making decisions now that make that long-term better. In other words, he can be empathetic. Judgmental, but somehow thoughtful, too.

  And right now, sitting with him in the back of his SUV, sharing cookies and drinks—something he clearly planned ahead of time—it feels sweet, and caring, and thrilling. It lowers my defenses. It causes me to want more.

  To yearn for more.

  “But I guess I lost my shot, huh?” he says, glancing at his lap.

  Oh God.

  What do I say?

  No, you didn’t. Please ask me out. Please, please, please, ask me out?

  That doesn’t read too desperate.

  But that’s how I feel.

  I want him. I never stopped wanting him. And now there’s a chance where something with him might not be a standstill, but might be something more.

  I glance at him, and his eyes flash to mine. So much vulnerability in the depths of them. Worry and hope colliding together. It’s my undoing.

  “There might still be hope.”

  His brows shoot up to his hairline in surprise. “Really?”

  “Yeah, really,” I say.

  He nods and takes a bite of his cookie. We both turn away from each other and instead stare at the empty parking lot. From the cool night, a chill runs up the base of my spine, causing me to visibly shiver. Arlo catches it and says, “Jesus, are you cold?”

  “I’m okay, just caught a chill for a second.”

  “Here,” he says, taking off his cardigan and draping it over my shoulders.

  And, oh my God. Someone hand me a tissue, because I’m about to weep from how good it smells.

  Like someone bottled up a man and sprayed it all over this cardigan. All I can really say at this point is the pheromones are on fire.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  We both pick at our cookies, when I finally say, “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “Why the change of heart?”

  “Because, for once, I listened to a different voice than my own.” He pauses and moves a few stray strands of my hair away from my forehead gently. “I felt the absence of you in my everyday routine, and I had no idea that you’d already encroached upon that. I noticed your avoidance, the awkward air between us, and . . . I didn’t like any of it. Frankly . . . I missed you. Every smartass, prank-loving, beautiful part of you.”

  I smile shyly. “I missed the teasing.”

  “Anything else?” he asks, his voice growing deeper.

  “And other things.” I don’t have to say it for him to know what I’m talking about.

  “Good to know.”

  He smirks, and I melt right there on the spot. There’s no denying it, I’m developing strong feelings for this man, and they’re charging at me, ready to cling on and hold on tight.

  * * *

  “Thank you for the cookie.”

  “Glad you enjoyed it,” he says, walking me to my car, which is only a few feet away.

  “You didn’t have to walk me to my car.”

  “I know.”

  “So why did you?”

  He reaches out and picks up my hand, linking our fingers together. My heart flutters from the feel of his palm pressing against me, then how he closes the space between us.

  “I wanted to ask you something.”

  “Yeah? What’s that?”

  He brings our linked hands up to his mouth and presses a sweet kiss across my knuckles. “Will you go on a date with me this Wednesday?”

  “Wednesday?” I ask, sounding breathless.

  “Yes. I don’t want to wait a week, but figured I’d give you some time to change your mind if you say yes and then realize what a horrible mistake it was once the cookie wears off.”

  I laugh and smile up at him. “I’d love to go on a date with you.”

  “Good,” he says as his other hand reaches up and cups my cheek. “So Wednesday it is.”

  “Yeah,” I answer dreamily.

  His thumb drags over my cheek, and he whispers, “I need to kiss you, Greer.”

  “I need you to kiss me too,” I whisper.

  He steps in closer and tilts my jaw up with his thumb, keeping his eyes trained on mine. “I’ve wanted these lips for a long fucking time.”

  “Then take them.”

  He wets his lips and lowers his mouth, leaving an inch between us. I breathe him in, let the moment swirl around us like a tornado of lust as he holds out, taking me to a level of anticipation I’ve never felt before.

  And when I think he won’t close the distance, his soft lips press against mine. The lightest of presses, right before he brings me closer, power propelling me against him as his mouth takes charge.

  It isn’t sloppy.

  It isn’t awkward.

  It’s . . . perfect.

  Slow, but the perfect amount of pressure that tells me how much he’s wanted this. That his yearning matches mine.

  I move my hand up his chest, to the back of his neck, where I cling tightly, keeping me in place as his mouth feels out mine.

  Dizzying lust consumes me, filling me up from the tips of my toes to the top of my head. Building and building until it almost feels difficult to breathe. Because I know what it’s like to have this man’s tongue on me, inside me, torturing me.

  Divine.

  And his hands . . . strong hands that caress with urgency.

  Fervor.

  His tongue runs along mine, and I have no choice but to succumb to the passion rolling over me in waves, drowning me in his masculinity. I open my mouth and his tongue clashes against mine. And with every swipe, I mirror him with reckless abandon.

  He growls against my mouth and presses me against the car.

  My hand gravitates to the short strands of his hair.

  He unlinks our hands and presses his hand against my hip, pinning me in place.

  “Fuck,” he whispers, pulling away for a second. “You taste so good.”

  And then his mouth is back on mine.

  Dancing.

  Tangling.

  Fusing.

  His hips press against my leg and I feel his length, hard and long.

  I move my free hand to the spot between his legs and grip him through his chinos.

  A loud groan falls past his lips as his forehead presses against mine and our mouths part.

  He swallows hard. “Okay . . . I need to go.”

  “Are you sure?” I a
sk, squeezing him.

  “Yes,” he says, his voice growing stern. He tilts my head up so I’m forced to look him in the eyes. “You know I want you. I know you want me. But I want more between us. I want to try . . . hell”—he takes a deep breath—“I want to be intimate with you.”

  Understanding what he’s trying to say, I nod and remove my hand. “Sorry, I—”

  “Don’t apologize.” He sears me with his gaze. “Do you understand? Don’t ever apologize for how much you want me. But let’s try to take this slow, to give it a chance.”

  “Okay.”

  “And I might need help, because I’m not good at this shit. But I want to try. Shit, I’m desperate to try, because I can’t stop thinking about you, Greer. And I want to get to know more of you.” He smooths his thumb over my temple. “I want to know more about what’s up here.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “Good.” Exhaling heavily, he presses one more soft kiss across my lips and pulls away. He then says, “I’ll text you.”

  “You will?”

  He smiles. “I will.”

  “About the date?”

  “You’ll see.” He winks and steps away, and as he walks back to his car, I wonder where the hell this man came from and why it’s taken this long to see him.

  Was I blinded?

  Or was he shielding himself from me?

  I think it might have been a little of both.

  * * *

  Arlo: Are you ready for some text messages?

  Greer: You do realize that you don’t have to announce you’re going to text me with a text. I know you’re older than me, but really, Grandpa?

  Arlo: Is that how it’s going to be?

  Greer: Maybe. Can you handle it?

  Arlo: If I can handle your sweet, bare ass in my face while you’re on all fours on my kitchen island, I’m pretty sure this *grandpa* can handle your ageist jokes.

  Greer: Had to bring up the kitchen island, didn’t you?

  Arlo: Weren’t you the one who marveled over the kitchen island during the teacher BBQ?

  Greer: First of all, that wasn’t a BBQ. Second of all . . . yes.

  Arlo: LOL.

  Greer: Dear heavens . . . did Grandpa just say *LOL*? Look at you down with the lingo.

  Arlo: Pushing your luck, Gibson.