Where You Are

by J. H. Trumble

  “Okay.”

  “And no more lingering gazes in the classroom. You want to look at me . . .” He pauses a moment and looks away, shaking his head like he can’t believe he’s saying this. When he turns back, his face is more serious, but soft. “You look at me in your dreams. As far as everyone else is concerned, you are my student. And that is all you are. Four months, baby. Okay?”

  He called me baby. I nod, and a tremendous relief floods through me.

  “And I want you to keep seeing Nic, at least for a while, okay?”

  I let out a groan and drop my head back against the headrest. That is asking too much.

  “I mean it, Robert. You’re going to go on being that little twerp’s boyfriend until graduation. Got it?”

  I let out a huff. “Okay.”

  “And I’m going to spend more time with Ms. Went.”

  “What? Mr. Redmon already knows—”

  “Mr. Redmon doesn’t really know anything. And neither do those kids. And if they think they do, then I’m going to give them a reason to doubt.”

  “Anything else?”

  “We play it cool, okay? No taking risks. I can’t bring you to my apartment again, not yet, and you can’t just drop by. I don’t want Maya asking a lot of questions if you make a surprise visit when she’s there. She already knows there’s a guy. But I haven’t told her everything.”

  Everything, as in the fact that I’m still a high school student? He doesn’t have to spell it out for me. But then I fix on the other bit of information. She already knows there’s a guy. I smile at that thought.

  “And besides,” he adds, gripping my hand more tightly, “I cannot guarantee that I will continue to behave honorably if I spend time alone with you.”

  He glances up and down the street, then leans across the console and kisses me. Behind him, his hand finds the door handle. He pops it, and he’s gone.

  Four months. Glaze on a donut.

  Chapter 21

  Andrew

  Yes, I know I’ve crossed a line. But . . .

  1. Robert is eighteen, a fully consenting adult by law.

  2. He initiated the relationship; he pursued me. I am not complaining; merely making an observation.

  3. In four more months, our teacher-student status won’t even exist anymore.

  4. I’m crazy about him. I can’t help that he came into my life four months too soon; he stole my heart when I wasn’t looking. That I don’t want it back even if he’s willing to hand it over.

  5. If I had a chance for a do-over, or an opportunity to make corrections like I give my students when they screw up a test, I’d take a pass.

  I even think that Maya would approve of the person I’ve chosen, though she might not be too keen about the circumstances. I think I can trust her, and I consider taking a left at the next traffic light and heading over to her house.

  Maybe I just want someone to share the burden of my secret with. Maybe I want to be told that the heart trumps the law. But I don’t make the left turn.

  Being careful means that no one, no one, can know. In June I will shout it from the rooftops—I love Robert Westfall!—but for now, I have to think of ways to sweep a branch across my tracks.

  I call Jennifer Went. Let them gossip about that for a while.

  “Hey, partner!” she answers, brightly.

  “Hey,” I respond. “You up for a movie tomorrow night?”

  Robert

  It’s dusky out, but finding Dad’s grave is easy. I follow the crushed grass to the mound of fresh dirt that marks his resting place. The plants have been removed—probably softening all the stark places in Aunt Whitney’s house—but the cut flowers and sprays remain, arranged around the grave and over it. I want to know who they are from, but all the cards have been removed.

  I know my aunts and my grandmother will miss my dad. He’s their baby brother, their pet, her son. His absence will leave a huge hole in their lives.

  I loosen a calla lily from a spray and run my fingers over the waxy petals.

  I think about the way my heart thudded in my chest when Andrew held me to him as I cried, and the way my eyes stung at how good it felt to know he wanted me as much as I wanted him. The way his skin felt, the way his lips felt, the way his hand felt gripped in mine.

  I’m more concerned about you at the moment than I am about me.

  I swipe at a fresh tear that rolls down my cheek.

  Sprinklers switch on in the section across the narrow road from me, and crickets begin to chirp as the dark gives way to the sodium vapor lamps warming up and buzzing at the edges of the cemetery.

  I drop the lily in the dirt, then I pull the notebook from my pocket where I’d stuck it as I left Andrew’s apartment. I toss that in the dirt, too, and take a deep breath to steady myself.

  I’ll keep you my dirty little secret.

  Ha, ha. I believe I’ve seen that one before. Delete, okay? Xoxo

  Chapter 22

  Andrew

  I don’t have Kiki this weekend, but Jennifer doesn’t need to know that. We take in an early movie—some romantic comedy she picked out—share a bucket of popcorn, then I drop her off so I can purportedly pick up my daughter by nine.

  If Jen notices that I’m distracted, she doesn’t let on. I doubt she notices.

  Robert returned to school today even though he was expected to be out the entire week. I’d had to pinch myself a couple of times during class to keep everything nice and loose. He’d done good, almost too good, to the point that I’d found myself willing him to look at me. And here I was worried about him giving us away.

  I was the one I had to watch.

  But damn, he looked good. Not any different than he looked any other day, but any other day I hadn’t known what it felt like to have him so close to me, to put my mouth on his, to shiver under his touch.

  He didn’t linger after class, he didn’t stop by after school, and I found myself thinking I had imagined everything.

  “You sure you can’t come in for a minute?” Jen asks, looking up at me with unabashed hope in her eyes.

  We’re standing outside her apartment door, which is, thankfully, on the other side of town. I resist checking the messages on my phone.

  “Sorry,” I say, shrugging my apology for emphasis. “I’m afraid I’m Daddy first.” Which isn’t exactly a lie.

  She slips her arms around my waist, and I know I’m supposed to kiss her good night. “Did you like the movie?” I ask.

  “Yeah. It was good. But, I don’t know. I think Jennifer Aniston is a little overexposed. Don’t you?” She says all this in a husky voice, like she’d like to be a little more exposed herself.

  “Well, next time, no Jennifer Aniston.”

  I can see the next time register in her eyes, a promise that she files away, perhaps only to take out and examine for hidden meaning when she curls up in bed tonight.

  I don’t particularly like the deception. But I consider it a necessary evil. She’s young and pretty. She’ll get over it. In fact one day, she’ll soothe her raw emotions with words like prick and douche and that’s okay with me. I’ll spot her a couple of pricks.

  “Gotta go,” I say, unlocking her wrists behind me.

  “When do I get to meet your daughter?”

  “Um, soon.”

  “Okay,” she says, and sighs heavily, a long note of resignation.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”

  With that I let go of her hands and return to my car.

  I miss you.

  I smile and delete his text.

  A lot of singles live in my apartment complex, so it’s not surprising that the parking lot is fairly empty this early on a Friday night. Without any real conscious thought, I find myself scanning the spaces for Robert’s car. I’m both relieved and disappointed when I don’t find it. Maybe he went out with Nic tonight. Maybe he’s hanging out with some band kids. Maybe he’s just sitting at home waiting to exchange some sexy texts with me. As I pull
into a parking space opposite my apartment and get out, I realize I’m okay with the last two thoughts, but I don’t like the first one at all.

  The light is out on my front porch, and as I fumble for my apartment key in the dark, I make a mental note to buy a new lightbulb tomorrow. The first key I try turns out to be for my classroom door. Before I can identify the right key, my cell phone signals a text. I snatch it from my pocket so quickly I almost fumble it to the ground.

  Make me your radio.

  I lean back against the door and read the text again in the dark.

  “How was your date?”

  His voice startles me, and I almost fumble my phone for the second time. I look around and find his silhouette sitting against the wall on the far side of my concrete porch, not four feet from me. “You scared me half to death,” I say, trying to calm my skittering heartbeat. “What are you doing here? Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah,” he says, getting to his feet. “I just wanted to—I thought—” He doesn’t finish, and even though I can’t make out the features of his face in the dark, I know him well enough now to know he’s chewing on his lip again. It’s that hesitation, that uncertain quality in his voice that I’m becoming increasingly familiar with. So when he asks, “Can I come in?” I can’t say no. “Are you going to behave yourself?” I ask playfully.

  “I don’t think so.”

  I laugh quietly. “Come on.”

  I shut the door behind us and lock it just as he proves he can’t, in fact, be trusted to behave himself. He presses me up against the door with his own body, and for a few moments, I forget what a bad idea this is. I’ve checked my hands at the door, literally, but one of his grips the back of my head. And it strays . . . down the length of my arm, up the back of my shirt, down again over my ass. I feel my nerve endings spring to life. The sense of déjà vu makes me grin, breaking the lip lock he has on me.

  “What’s so funny?” he asks.

  “Nothing.” And then it clicks. “Did you unscrew my lightbulb?”

  “I might have.”

  “A life of crime always starts with the little things.”

  “Then lock me up before I can cause more harm.”

  I might just do that. In his right hand, he’s clutching a small bouquet of what I think are carnations. I smelled them somewhere between getting pressed against the door and getting felt up, but I’ve been a little too busy fighting the urge to throw him to the ground to comment on them. Now seems like a good time.

  “You brought me flowers?”

  “Isn’t that what a guy does when he’s courting his paramour?”

  “Paramour?” I take the flowers from him and run the petals through my fingers in the dark. “Is that one of your SAT words?”

  I expect him to laugh; I expect him to make some witty comment; I expect him to reengage my mouth. He does none of those things. Instead, he grows quiet for a moment, and then using both hands this time, addresses the buttons on my shirt.

  The primal part of my brain allows him two buttons before the scared-shitless part engages. “Hey, hey, hey,” I whisper, capturing his hands in mine and smacking him in the nose with the carnations in the process. “PG-thirteen, remember?”

  “I don’t want PG-thirteen. I’m eighteen, and I want you.”

  “And you’ll have me . . . when you graduate. Glaze on a donut, right? In the meantime”—I flip the light on to dampen the obvious sexual tension growing between us—“we keep it above the waist . . . and fully clothed.”

  He groans in frustration. I feel his pain to the tip of my toes.

  “Come on. You can watch a rerun of Tosh. O with me.”

  “Are we going to watch from your bed?”

  I try to give him a scowl, but I don’t think I quite pull it off. “You are trouble,” I say.

  “No, I’m not,” he replies, grinning.

  I leave him to turn on the TV and rummage around in the pantry for some popcorn. Frankly, I had my fill of popcorn at the theater, but Robert needs something to keep his hands and mouth busy, so more popcorn it is. I find a couple of boxes behind the nutritious whole-grain Lucky Charms that Kiki and I keep secret from Maya. “Butter or caramel?” I call out. When he doesn’t respond, I look around the wall to the living room. He’s got the remote in his hand, and he’s scrolling through the onscreen guide, in his boxer briefs. They’re a soft gray flannel, nicely filled out all around. I help myself to a good look before I ahem.

  “What channel?” he asks innocently.

  “Why are you in your underwear?”

  A mock seriousness overtakes his face. “Because I know how much it bothers you when I take off my shirt. So I didn’t. Kudos for me, right?”

  I shake my head slowly. “Right.” I turn away, smiling at his brazenness. “Sixty-one,” I call back. “And put your pants on.”

  As the popcorn heats up in the microwave, I futilely attempt to cool off, but he’s so damn cute and so sexy. And that’s when the light goes out in the living room. “Too much glare,” he calls out before I can react. God help me. I leave the kitchen light on when I bring the bowl of popcorn in a few minutes later. He picks up the remote again, points it at the TV, and presses the Power button.

  “Did I miss something?” I ask, setting the bowl on the sofa table.

  “Can we just talk?”

  “Not in the dark with you still in your underwear.”

  He holds my eyes for a long moment, then gets up and pulls his pants back on. I instantly regret saying anything, but I’d never admit that. He settles back on the futon, and warily, I join him.

  I think I know where this is going, but I ask anyway: “What do you want to talk about?”

  “I’m eighteen,” he says simply.

  “No.”

  “You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”

  “Yeah, I think I do. Four months, Robert. We can wait four months.”

  “Last night I stopped by the cemetery on my way home.”

  I take a deep breath and mentally kick myself for forgetting that his dad has been in the ground barely twenty-four hours. I feel like an ass.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  He shrugs and his eyebrows draw together. “I don’t know why I went. I just keep trying to feel something for him. Not anger or hurt or anything like that, you know. But loss, I guess. I mean, I wish I could say that I’m going to miss him, but . . .” He shakes his head. “I feel like I’ve been cheated all my life of something that should have been mine. That’s what gets me. I’ve been trying to remember the last time my dad touched me—the last time anyone touched me like they really meant it. I know Mom used to. And then I went all adolescent on her in junior high, and, well, let’s just say she overcompensated. I think she’s afraid to even hug me now. It’s my fault, but I miss it, Andrew. I miss it so much it aches sometimes, you know?”

  I do know. I do know, I want to tell him, but I let him talk. And he does, with a gut-wrenching honesty that tears at my heart.

  “I want to be held. Is that so wrong? I want to be held, and stroked. I want to know that someone loves me. I want to feel it on my skin.” He looks at the ceiling and exhales, then meets my eyes again. “But nobody touches me anymore. Not even when I have a fever. Mom just hands me a thermometer now.” He drops his eyes and his ears redden. “Even when you kiss me, you don’t touch me. It’s like I’m a leper or something. I can hardly keep my hands off of you, but it’s not the same for you, is it?”

  He has no idea what he does to me, what he’s doing to me right now. I want to make him feel better, make him smile again, lighten the mood. So I smile when I ask, “Why do I feel like I’m being subtly manipulated?” I mean it as a joke. But it’s stupid and ill-timed, and I instantly regret the words.

  His face goes slack. “Is that what you think?” he says.

  No. Yes. I don’t know. Manipulation suggests there’s something dark behind his intentions, but I see only light in Robert. And God knows I’ve more than
met him halfway already.

  Abruptly he gets up, and he’s at the door before I realize he’s leaving. He turns the deadbolt and has his hand on the doorknob by the time I reach him. I brace my hand against the door to stop him from opening it.

  “Robert . . .”

  He presses his forehead to the door. “Just let me go.”

  “I can’t.” With my free hand I reach up and tentatively stroke the back of his neck. “I didn’t mean that. I thought you knew me better. You want to know what I really think? I think you’ve opened your heart to me, and you make me want to open mine to you. I think that if I start touching you, I won’t be able to stop. I think that I don’t want you to go, but I’m terrified of what will happen if you stay.”

  He turns to face me, but his eyes are on the floor. “It’s okay, Mr. Mac. I’m just gonna go.”

  Mr. Mac. Ouch. “It’s not okay,” I say, lifting his chin and forcing him to look at me. I reach past him again and reengage the deadbolt. I’m going to touch him. And I’m going to keep touching him until he knows.

  Robert

  Tears sting my eyes as I hold him to me. He didn’t have to do this, but damn it feels so good. He’s breathing heavily into my neck and shivers as my fingers trail up and down his spine. After a long quiet moment he turns his head to the side and grapples around on the floor until he comes up with my T-shirt. “Sorry,” he says as he dries me off, and I think he’s actually embarrassed that he ejaculated on my stomach.

  He sits up and finds his boxers on the back of the couch and slips them on. Then he hands my boxer briefs to me and turns away to gather up the rest of our clothes and to give me some privacy, which is kind of sweet considering there isn’t any part of my body that he is not intimately acquainted with now. I smile, and over his shoulder he smiles back at me, then stretches out on the couch again and settles his head in my lap and gazes up at me. The hair on his chest is slightly matted with sweat. I run my fingers through it.