by S. Ann Cole
His slip-up doesn’t go unnoticed. He almost called me babe—or baby. I bite my lip and dip my head to hide the giddy smile that wants to burst free.
“I’m sorry,” I say again.
“Stop apologizing.” He lifts his messenger bag over his head. “I’m just glad you got some rest. You hungry?”
“Starved, actually.”
“Get dressed then,” he orders. “I got you lunch.”
“I’d like to, but I have nothing here,” I say. “I’ll have to borrow your clothes again.”
“No need.” He tugs his shirt out of his pants. “Your stuff’s in the two bottom drawers. Jeans in the closet.”
Confounded, I stand there watching him as he unbuttons his shirt and shrugs out of it. Left in a gray wife-beater, he tosses the shirt on the bed and lifts a quizzical brow at me.
I seek clarification. “What do you mean?”
“What?”
“I have stuff in your drawers?”
He unbuckles his belt. “Yeah.”
I jerk my head in confusion. “How?”
“Your father sent some stuff.”
I’m even more confused. “He knows I’m here?”
His pants hit the floor and he steps out of the khaki pool at his ankles. “Yeah. He called. He wants you to stay here a few days.”
That is insane and virtually impossible to believe. My father, who trusts no one, trusts him enough to want me to “stay here a few days?” He doesn’t even like Kholton all that much. The heck? “Are you serious? Why?”
He walks over to the chest-of-drawers and takes out red cut-off sweatpants. “He’s worried about you.”
“And he believes me staying here will do what, exactly?” I snap, more than a little irritated. “Make our shit go away?”
How dare they make arrangements behind my back as if I’m some helpless, inept child. I’m a grown ass woman. I might be a little messed up right now, but that doesn’t mean I’m helpless.
I don’t need his pity. That’s not why I came. My subconscious took me to his door and he gave me exactly what I’ve needed since the revelation. It was perfect. Healing, even.
But this? I don’t want this shit. I don’t want his pity, his need to babysit me. He was perfect last night. Why did he have to go and ruin it? I would have liked to have made this decision myself.
“Look,” he snaps back as he dons his cut-offs, “instead of giving me shit, pick up the phone and call him. Last I checked, you showed up on my doorstep.”
“And I said I was sorry,” I grit out. “I’ll pack my ‘stuff’, which I didn’t unpack to begin with, and leave.”
“Fine by me,” he says with a shrug and stride out of the room.
I walk over to the closet and yank open the doors. I spot both my Michael Kors and LV duffel bags and drag them out.
I’m irritated to the point where even I think it’s ridiculous. Why am I so exasperated?
With frenetic movements, I transfer my things from his drawers into my bags. I march into the bathroom and grab my toothbrush and—
Wait, my toothbrush?
I stare at it. My toothbrush.
So deep in my thoughts earlier, movements so mechanical, it didn’t even register that the toothbrush I used was a hot-pink Issa Mini 2.
Which means, the Warm Vanilla Sugar shower gel is also mine. Not another woman’s.
At once, all the anger evaporates from my blood. In that moment, I know the real reason why I was so mad. Not because he and my father made plans for me behind my back, but because of the shower gel I didn’t know was mine.
Once again, I find myself staring at my reflection in the vanity mirror, but feeling like an asshole this time.
I overreacted and was a complete bitch when he’s been nothing but nice even though we’re “broken up.” He cleared out his drawers to make space for me and unpacked my things. Let me stain his shoulder with tears and snot. And in return, I lashed out like the privileged princess he thinks I am.
Chastened, I sheepishly unpack my things again and stow my bags in the closet. After getting dressed in shorts and a tank top, I unwrap my damp hair and head downstairs to apologize.
I stop short on the stairs when I meet him coming up two at a time. We’re four steps apart when he notices me and halts.
I part my lips to give him the apology he deserves, but I don’t get a chance, because he has me against the wall before I know what’s happening. My face is in his hands, and suddenly our mouths are fused. He steals the breath from my lungs, kissing me like he’s been starved, dehydrated.
Taken aback, it’s a full thirty seconds before I’m able to reciprocate. I lock my arms around his neck and dive in. Feeding my own starvation, my own dehydration.
He breaks the kiss abruptly, breathing heavily.
His liquid steel eyes pierce mine. Breach my walls. Determined to get behind them, to my very soul.
Touching his forehead to mine, he breathes out, “You’re an absolute headfuck, Serena.”
I glide my fingers up the nape of his neck and into his hair. I tip up on my toes, pushing for more, desperate to start something that will end with me screaming his name, but he draws back, all the way back until he’s leaning against the banister, hands gripping the polished wood behind him.
We gaze across the space at each other. One craving, one denying.
Breath short and dry, I speak first. “I’m a fraud.”
He folds his arms over his chest. Either to brace himself or protect himself from me. “How so?”
“I—I’m not….” I close my eyes and shudder. “I’m not a B-Bentley.”
“What does that mean, Serena?” His voice is patient, gentle, quiet.
“He’s not my real father. Aaron.” My stomach feels hollow all of a sudden. I wrap both arms around my middle and slide down the wall until my ass hits the stair. “I’m the product of a long, cruel con.”
Kholton is crouched in front of me in the next breath, hand cupping the back of my neck, eyes locked on mine. “Hey, let’s get some food inside you first and then we can talk about this, alright?”
“But I—”
“Shh. Not yet.”
“Daddy is—”
“Serena?”
“Yes.”
“Food first. Talk later. Okay?”
Inhaling a trembling breath, I rock forward and butt my forehead to his chest. His arms circle around me as he kisses the top of my head.
I take it. Inhale him. My pores greedily gobbling up all his warmth.
A few minutes tick by before he pulls back and tucks my damp hair behind my ears. “Okay?”
Although I’m loath to leave his embrace, I nod.
He stands, taking me with him down the stairs.
There are takeout boxes of Chinese food on the breakfast bar, along with a bottle of aloe vera water and a bottle of coconut water.
He seats me on a stool before grabbing forks and dishes from the cupboards.
“I got your favorite. Shrimp & Broccoli Lo Mein and Wonton Soup,” he tells me as he’s opening the boxes. “But you can have some of my stuff, too, if you want.”
His ‘stuff’ is Egg Fried Rice, Chicken Chow Mein, and some type of soup I don’t recognize.
It’s a lot of food, yet I end up eating from all the boxes because everything looks, smells, and tastes delicious. My stomach growls even as I am stuffing food into my mouth.
“Where’s Brian?” I ask him.
“Gone for a few days.”
Genuinely curious, I ask, “What does that guy do, though?”
“Freelancer.”
“In what?”
He shrugs, not looking at me. “Odd shit.”
Whatever it is that Brian does, he clearly doesn’t want me to know, so I drop it. Brian’s no matter of mine. I was merely curious.
When I’m unable to fit any more food inside my gut, I drop my fork and glance over at Kholton. He’s been engaged on his phone for the past fifteen minutes and hasn�
��t eaten much. Guess whatever is on his phone is more important than food.
When what looks like a troubled frown starts tugging his brows together, I ask, “Is everything okay, Khol?”
As if he’d forgotten I’m there, he jerks his head up and studies me for several heartbeats before replying, “Yeah. Yeah, everything’s fine.”
He sets the phone face-down on the bar. “Feel better?”
“More like uncomfortable.” I laugh. “I’m so full.”
“Good.” He picks up his coconut water and sucks down two gulps. “Now tell me.”
Now that I’ve had some rest and nourishment, I don’t feel as queasy and petrified at the thought of talking about it. I feel comfortable with Kholton. For some reason, I feel like I can trust him. I want to tell him. I want to confide. I want more with him. More than I was willing to give before. And it is all so…complicated.
“A little after we returned from traveling,” I begin, “I came home to them at my house.”
“Your biological parents?”
I’m nodding a little too long, as if I’m stuck. “Yeah.”
I grab my water and take a long gulp. Then I tell him, and I do it all without shedding a single tear. Progress. I tell him how I thought it was fine and it was no big deal to me. Until I wasn’t fine. Something broke inside of me and suddenly, it’s a big deal. How I felt hateful and irate, resentful and aggrieved.
“It was nothing in the beginning. Then it became everything all at once,” I say. “At some point, I snapped. I have no idea. I just found myself on your doorstep.”
By the time I’m finished, Kholton has my hand in his, one long finger drawing lazy circles on my palm, eyes soft and kind. “What hurts you more? That you were lied to, or the nature of your conception?”
I’m already shaking my head because I don’t even need to think about it. “Neither.”
He frowns. “Why are you hurting, then?”
“My father.” I swallow past the thickness in my throat. “I’m hurt for him and I’m hurt for me. Our bond, it’s everything. And to find out—” I suck in a wobbly breath and bite back my own pity. “To find out we don’t share the same blood, that’s what hurts. Finding out there’s a gap between us, a DNA gap. That kills me. We’re supposed to be one. A solid line. A single flow. Pure and unadulterated. But this, this is a disruption. A comma, a hyphen, a space in-between. That’s what hurts.”
“I’m so sorry, Serena.” He lifts my palm to his lips and kisses it over and over again. “I’m so, so sorry.” He flips my hand over and kisses my knuckles, then up the length of my arm.
“Khol…” I breathe.
He drops kisses right back down to my wrist, then laces our fingers together and stands, pulling me up with him.
He picks his phone up from the counter and offers it to me. “You should call him,” he tells me. “He’s worried about you.
“Okay.” I take the phone and gaze up at him, wanting so badly for him to kiss me again, this time on the lips. To give me more of this soft side. But he doesn’t. He unlaces our fingers and spins me around.
“Go on, babe.”
I don’t want to leave him, but I know he’s right. I need to call my father.
Thirty - Three - Serena
“I’m not sorry.”
The rap of knuckles against wood jolts me awake. As awareness settles, I find I’m on my back in Kholton’s bed, his phone on my chest. I must have dozed off while talking with my father. Darn somniferous Chinese food.
The knocking comes again.
Crap. I locked him out of his room.
Scrambling off the bed, I skip to answer the door.
Kholton looks at me with a raised brow from the other side. “You were sleeping?”
Sheepish, I shrug. “Overeating and Chinese food, a deadly combination.”
He laughs. “It’s cool. You can go back to sleep. I just need to get dressed.”
I back up and he enters, heading straight for the closet. “Dressed for what?”
“It’s almost five o’ clock, Serena,” he informs me. “I’ve an after-school class.”
Sheesh, I’ve been out that long? “Oh, you mean those free classes you give for finals?”
He’s donning his customary teacher attire again—khaki slacks and a muscle-clinging button-down. “Yeah.”
A yawn pries my mouth wide as I ask, “Can I tag along?”
He glances over his shoulder and scans me, as if contemplating. “Sure. But you’ll need to hurry.”
His answer doesn’t even register because I’m not expecting him to agree. It’s when he snaps, “Serena. Move faster,” as I’m dragging my feet back to the bed that I realize he’s agreed.
Eek!
With quick movements, I grab jeans and a Coca Cola tee and steal one of his baseball caps since there’s not enough time to sort out my hair.
I rush out the front door behind him with one shoe on while tugging on the other as I hop down the steps, because he’s dead set on leaving whether I’m ready or not.
In the back of the cab, he tells my chest, “You really need to invest in some bras. Those pasties don’t do shit.”
“I don’t like bras,” I whine. “They’re cagey and uncomfortable.”
“You do realize we’re headed to a high school, right?” he asks with raised eyebrows. “You know, pimply, horny teenagers? They won’t learn shit with your nipples distracting them.”
“I’ll sit at the back of the class,” I suggest.
“Damn right you will.”
I bust out laughing.
At the school, he clasps my hand and pulls me along behind him, glancing from side to side as if searching for something.
“Hey, Mr. Sharpe!” a boy calls as he shots past us.
“Omari, hold up,” Kholton calls back.
The boy stops and groan as he turns. He’s African American, with shorn hair, light eyes and a sly smile. “Before you lay into me about being late again, Mr. Sharpe, let me explain. Okay, so there was this blind woman with three spray-tanned chickens on the subway—”
“I’m not interested in another one of your fables, Omari, so save it.”
“Aight. But you aren’t in class yet,” he argues, making his case. “So, if I get there before you, that doesn’t count as late.”
Kholton rolls his eyes. “That’s not why I stopped you, Mr. I Can Talk My Way Out Of Anything.” There’s amusement in his voice. “Your football jacket.”
“My jacket?”
“Yes. Let me rent it for a Benjamin. You’ll get it back next class.”
“A Benjamin and a Grant,” the kid barters. “Next class is in three days, so that means I’m gonna be cold for three days.”
Kholton sighs and takes out his wallet. “Yeah, whatever.”
Money is exchanged for the blue and white football jacket and the kid takes off with, “I’m not late if I’m there before you, Mr. Sharpe!”
With a shake of his head, Kholton turns to me and holds up the jacket for me to stuff my arms in.
“I’m pissed at you, you know,” I tell him as I let him dress me in the kid’s jacket.
“He’s a good kid from a good, clean home, Serena. You won’t get Ebola from wearing his jacket for a few hours.”
“Who’s talking about the jacket?” I say. “I’m mad you didn’t let me hear the story about the blind woman and the three spray-tanned chickens.”
Kholton bursts out laughing. “I swear, that kid’s got the craziest stories.”
It’s almost six in the evening, so I’m not expecting the class to be so full when we get there. In fact, the sliding partition wall that is pulled to the side tells me it’s not one classroom of kids, but two. Space had to be made to fit everyone.
When he said “after-school lessons”, I pictured a handful of kids who stayed behind for the free lessons he offered in preparation for exams. But this is an overwhelming amount of students.
The room falls to a hush when we enter, al
l eyeballs trained forward.
“Good evening, everyone.”
“Good evening, Mr. Sharpe!” the class sings in unison.
“This is Serena, and she will be sitting in with us today,” he tells the class. “Say hi.”
“Hiiiii, Serena!”
I give a small wave.
“Is Serena your bae, Mr. Sharpe?” one guy asks.
“Nope,” Kholton replies, eying me. “Unfortunately, Serena doesn’t want a bae.”
Way to throw me under the bus.
“Aren’t you Serena Bentley?” another person asks.
“Yep. That’s me.”
Another girl, “So that means you’re, like, super rich, right?”
Before I can answer, Kholton interjects, “Enough with the questions. Would one of you be a gentleman and get the lovely woman a seat?”
A few mutters…. “There aren’t any left.” It’s true, too. Some kids are sharing seats.
“I’ll give her mine for a Benjamin!”
I search the crowd and find Omari, the owner of the jacket I’m wearing, grinning from ear-to-ear with his hand up.
“Come up here, big head,” Kholton says with another roll of his eyes. “You’ll be my assistant today.”
As I’m making my way to take Omari’s seat, I hear whispers of, “Oh my gosh, he’s so hot!” and “She’s got to be an idiot to not make Mr. Sharpe her bae” and “God, I wish I was older. He’s so absolutely freakin’ bae goals.”
O-kay then.
Sliding into the seat, I slouch down and tug the baseball cap lower over my eyes, because, whoa.
Kholton takes a stack of papers from his messenger bag and hands them to Omari, who immediately begins placing small stacks on each front desk. The kids at the front take one off the top before passing the stack to the person behind them and so on and so on.
“What you’re holding is the exact exam sheet from last year’s finals,” Kholton says. “Today, we will be going through these equations together. I will teach you a few tips and tricks and alternative routes to getting it right each and every time. Remember, it doesn’t matter what route you take to get there. As long as the final number is correct, you’re golden. This is about finding a strategy that works for you.”