No one else talks to me, but I’m used to that.
Lit class isn’t good, though.
We’re talking about “Young Goodman Brown” and all this deep reading of the symbolism of the ribbons and the staff and whatnot. And how all the guilt of the townsfolk has been hidden all this time, until the meeting in the woods.
Then, in an attempt to make the story relevant, I guess, she asks about what kind of things people might hide.
So someone says bulimia. And someone else says plagiarizing a paper. And someone else says having an affair with a married man.
I should know where this is going, but I’m an idiot sometimes. I’m copying down the notes she scrawled on the board earlier and am completely clueless.
Then someone else—I know who it is, I hung out with her some in Freshman year but then she got all snooty when Kent asked me out instead of her—seriously, she’s one of those girls. Anyway, she says, “Screwing your college professor.”
There’s a ripple of a giggle but it dies quickly into a speaking silence. I know people are looking at me out of the corners of their eyes, some gloating, some judgmental, none sympathetic.
Jack is behind me, and I can almost feel him bristling—but he’s obviously no help at all.
It takes all the control I have, but I don’t convey any response on my face. I just keep writing notes in my notebook. I’ve already copied down everything, but I’ve started over with the top of the board.
I’ve got to do something.
Professor Bitch, of course, isn’t any help at all. She says, “Yes, I suppose that is something one would want to hush up. So let’s talk about this guilt we see in the story. What does it mean when someone acts sweet and perfect and good but secretly does wrong things in the dark.”
Okay, even the dumbest member of the class knows she’s talking about me. It’s getting harder and harder to keep writing. I’m so angry and mortified that my vision is blurring.
But there’s nothing to say. I’m not going to make a scene and give them the satisfaction of having hurt me.
Plus, I’m not going to risk my grade in this class.
So there’s some more discussion—all of it about what would prompt someone to be naughty while putting on an innocent act.
Evidently, I’m insecure, and inauthentic, and have an unhealthy sense of my own importance.
Somehow all at once, if you can imagine.
Jack is shifting position behind me. I can hear his shirt brush against the wall. I know he’s mad, but he can hardly lay into my professor.
Not only would it get him fired, but it will also be the absolute worst thing for me.
There’s only ten minutes of class left now. Ten minutes and I can escape.
“Hold on,” Kent says. “I think the story is really saying that Brown is just as much of a hypocrite as everyone else.”
The professor blinks in surprise, evidently surprised that someone is ruining their fun at my expense. “Explain yourself.”
“Well, he’s sitting there judging all of them at the end, but he was in the woods meeting with the devil too. He’s just as guilty. The people who judge are just as guilty as the people they’re judging, if not more so.”
It’s like a miracle. Seriously, like a miracle. The whole feeling in the class shifts, and all the animosity is broken by Kent’s words.
I turn to stare at him in surprise, and he gives me a not-so-surreptitious wink.
He did it for me—to help me, to stand up for me. It didn’t change everyone else’s attitudes, but it kept them from all pounding me into the dirt.
I feel gratitude and relief and something like awe as I look at him.
He’s cute, in a preppy sort of way, and he’s nice.
And he must like me if he’s standing up for me.
It’s not like Jack is the only guy in the world, right?
So what if he doesn’t want me. Other guys might. Kent might.
So there.
Interlude
Jack
When you’ve surrendered to what you shouldn’t, it’s fucking hard to drag yourself back to reality.
It hurts like hell. Worse than hell. And there’s no hope for it to get better later on, since everything you want, everything that might make you happy, is what you’re never allowed.
If I could just up and leave, maybe it would be better. If I could take off and go halfway across the world—do a different job, save a different life—maybe the edge of the pain would grow a little more blunt. But I’m not even sure if escape is possible for me anymore. Even if I leave, I don’t think this can get better.
Every face I see will be Chloe’s. Every body I touch will be Chloe’s. Every voice I hear will be Chloe’s. Every breathe I breathe will be her.
Now that I’ve had her, now that I’ve felt her in every way, now that I’ve experienced who she really is, I’m in too deep to ever drag myself out. I knew it last night. I knew I should have gotten away while I could.
But I guess I’m weaker than I thought, or else the pull she has on me is too unstoppable.
Either way, I’m even more trapped than I was before. Never allowed to have her but never able to get away.
It’s a recipe for misery if there ever was one.
So I drunk myself into a stupor last night, after I left her. And I’ve been walking through the day in a daze, forcing myself to focus on my job, since that’s the one thing I can’t let slide. The stakes are too high. The stakes are Chloe’s life.
I’m so furious during the literature class about how both students and teacher are baiting Chloe that I can barely stand still. But then even worse happens, and some fucking kid decides to step up as Chloe’s defender.
If I were a genuinely selfless person, I’d be happy to have the animosity against Chloe deflated, no matter who’s doing it. But I’m not selfless. I’m just not. And it makes me want to break something to have some fucking kid do what I can’t.
And I know exactly why he did it too. The kid has a thing for Chloe. My Chloe.
And, because I’m trapped by this fucking job and my fucking attempts to do the right thing, I’m going to have to stand here and watch the kid make moves on Chloe. My Chloe.
And she’s going to be all grateful that the fucking kid stepped up to help her, so she’s not going to see him clearly. She’s upset with me, and she’s going to want to prove something. So she’s going to be vulnerable to this fucking kid who wants to swoop in and take Chloe. My Chloe.
In about thirty seconds, I’m just going to scoop her up and carry her off somewhere private, where I can give her everything she needs, wants, deserves, where I can bring her more pleasure than she’s ever dreamed possible, where I can keep her safe and protected from everything and everyone who wants to hurt her, where I can show her exactly how much she means to me.
I’m going to say to hell with everything else, with all of my guilt and knowledge and conscience, to hell with everything keeping us apart, and I’m going to do exactly what I want.
In ten seconds now. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six.
She turns to glance up at me over her shoulder as she gets up from her chair, and she looks vulnerable and confused and sad.
And I’m not going to do anything of the kind. Not at all. Because I might not be a good guy—I’m never going to be a good guy—but there are some things I simply won’t do.
Seven
Chloe
Jack has a strange expression as we leave the classroom building and head for the car. Despite Kent’s intervention in class, I want to get off campus as quickly as possible.
I can’t figure out if Jack is simmering about what happened in the class—he’s obviously not a fan of Professor Bitch—or if he’s annoyed with me for some reason.
That’s the problem with a sexy, brooding guy. You don’t always know what he’s brooding about.
I decide it’s best if I just ignore his existence, since he does nothing but get me hot and bothered (not a
lways in a good way). I can treat him like an accessory, just hanging around in a trivial way, not making any sort of real impact on how I live my life.
With this wise, mature resolution firmly in mind, I walk across campus. The sidewalks are crowded with the between-class rush.
Last year, people would have nodded, smiled, or said hello as I walked, but nobody does it now.
I can say it doesn’t bother me anymore, but that would be a lie.
It seems like eventually you should grow callused, numb—toughen up, as Jack said I should. But I haven’t yet. I don’t know if I ever will.
“Chloe! Hey, Chloe! Wait up!”
It’s such a strange sound—someone calling out, wanting to talk to me—that it takes a minute to register.
Eventually, I stop and turn to see Kent jogging over, his blond hair flopping with his motion.
He’s very cute in a clean-cut way. I’ve always liked the clean-cut look on a guy.
Very different than Jack, who looks particularly scruffy today with his unshaven jaw and glowering looks.
“Why do you run out all the time?” Kent asks, slightly breathless, as he catches up and falls in step with me.
“I don’t run out. That’s my last class for the day, so when it’s over I just go home.”
“You could hang around after class for a few minutes.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because it would be easier for me to talk to you.” He gives me an adorably sheepish look.
“Oh.” I feel a little like squirming, since it’s nice for a decent, normal guy to pay attention to me—someone other than Jack, I mean.
Jack is walking directly behind us, and I try not to think about him at all.
“She’s a real bitch,” Kent says. “Her name should be Dr. Bitch.”
I giggle. “In my mind, she’s Professor Bitch.”
“Don’t pay any attention to her.”
“I try not to. It’s just hard when she’s giving you a grade.”
“You’re so smart, I don’t know how she could grade you down.”
Students are looking at us in curiosity as we walk. Everyone knows Kent, and I’m sure they’re all wondering why he’s slumming it with me. But he seems completely oblivious to it as he smiles at me.
That’s the kind of attention a girl really wants—not Jack’s hot, confusing stares.
“I’m not that smart.”
“Sure, you are.”
Oh, this is going really well. Maybe he’s going to ask me out. We’ve reached my car now, but I pause in front of it, trying to position myself so Jack is behind me and out of the way.
“Do you want to maybe go out sometime?” Kent asks, shifting from foot to foot and looking adorably uncertain.
“Yeah. That would be nice.” I give him my best smile, although what I really want to do is turn and gloat to Jack.
“Great. What about Friday?”
“Yeah, I think I’m free—” I haven’t yet finished the sentence when Jack moves from behind me to stand in front of me, somehow maneuvering me closer to the car before I can figure out what’s going on.
Instinctively, I reach out to grab his shirt, since his back is right in front of me and I feel off-balance. It’s just an automatic reflex. Not because I feel suddenly nervous and he’s big and strong and solid.
“What’s going on?” I demand.
“I guess it’s nothing.” From the side of his face I can see, it looks like he’s peering into the distance past Kent’s shoulder. “I thought I saw suspicious activity, but I guess it was nothing.”
When my surge of adrenalin fades, it’s replaced by a surge of anger.
The fucking bastard did that on purpose. Because he didn’t like that Kent asked me out.
I raise myself up to my full height (of five-two) and shoot Jack an icy glare as I move out from around his body so I can see Kent again.
“Sorry about that. Give me a call about Friday, why don’t you?”
“I will. Talk to you then.” Kent looked a little disoriented by the sudden interruption to our conversation, but he doesn’t look like he’s going to run away or anything.
That’s something.
When Jack and I get in the car, I start the ignition but turn to look at Jack, who is sitting in the front seat.
He’s not my chauffeur, he told me on the first day, and he needs to be ready to act if necessary.
As if I ever wanted the asshole to be my chauffeur.
“What?” he asks, raising his eyebrows.
“Don’t you dare get the way of this for me.”
“Get in the way of what?”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
“That kid is not the man for you.”
“Whether he is or not isn’t your business. You stay out of it.”
“I didn’t do a thing.”
“You did that whole suspicious activity thing on purpose.”
“There was suspicious activity.”
“There was not!”
Jack looks angry now—that restrained anger I’ve seen before, like he’s stewing with something intense and is barely able to rein it in. “You don’t even really like that guy.”
I’m angry too, and I’m not even trying to rein it in. “How dare you tell me who I like or not? Just because you fuck me and dump me doesn’t give you the right to interfere with my life.”
He reaches out toward me but then pulls back his hand. Instead, he clenches it on his lap. “I did not fuck you and dump you.”
I’m practically choking with outrage. “I don’t know what else you would call it, but, you know, I really don’t care.”
“You do care.” His anger seems to have transformed to something else, and his eyes have that hot intensity that is so mesmerizing, so terrifying.
“You can’t tell me whether I care or not. I’m the only one can say that.”
“You know perfectly well there’s something between us, princess. You found that out last night.”
I really don’t need to be reminded of last night—how deep and tender and thrilling it was, how much pleasure he gave me, how much more I felt than just pleasure.
How much it hurt that it isn’t enough to lead to something deeper.
“Well, you’re the one who said nothing can come of it, so you have no right to keep me from going out with someone else.”
“I’m not going to keep you from going out with anyone else. I just think it’s ridiculous for you to pretend you feel something for that guy, when we both know you don’t.”
“I don’t even know him very well. How do you know feelings won’t develop?”
He narrows his eyes at me, obviously not liking that idea at all. He doesn’t say anything though.
After a long stretch of awkward silence, I say, “If you don’t think you can be my bodyguard now without interfering with my life, I’m going to have to tell my dad it’s not working out and I need a different one.”
“I can be your bodyguard.”
“Okay, then.”
I have no idea what else to say, so I shift the car into gear and start home.
***
On Friday evening, I take a long shower and put on a cute little dress for my date with Kent. We’re just going to dinner, but I figure looking nice will help me get excited about the date.
It’s not that I’m not excited. It’s just that I’m not as excited as I should be.
Nothing in the world is wrong with Kent, but I don’t have all the normal flutters that should happen for a first date.
The fact that Jack is going to be trailing us on this particular date might have something to do with it.
I tried to convince him not to. And then I tried to convince him to let Bill handle the date, but he wouldn’t be swayed. I guess I can understand. My safety is his responsibility, and he’s not going to leave it in someone else’s hands.
But, still, it’s a little awkward.
If you’re ever in a
similar situation, I’d advise you to not fuck your bodyguard, since it makes things rather difficult afterwards.
My hair is perfectly straight—no trace of even the slightest curl—but I spray it with an expensive hair product that’s supposed to bring out the shine, and I’m very pleased with the result.
I look as pretty as I’m going to look, and I put on my favorite high boots for a little extra dose of confidence.
Maybe it’s sheer determination rather than genuine excitement, but I work up some emotional momentum as I zip up my boots.
I’m going to have a good time on this date. I’m going to enjoy it. I’m going to forget about everything that’s wrong with my life and try to be a normal girl on a normal date.
And it absolutely, positively doesn’t matter that, when I emerge from my bedroom, Jack is there, leaning against the wall in my entry hall, wearing all black and an unrevealing expression.
“He’s late,” is all he says.
I glance at the time. “He’s two minutes late. Don’t be stupid.”
My phone chirps with a text message. It’s in Jack’s pocket, but I recognize the sound.
As he pulls it out, I say, “If it’s Kent, don’t read it.”
“It’s not Kent.” His expression transforms as he looks at the little screen, and I know whatever the text says isn’t good.
My heart drops. “Is it another threat?”
“No.”
There’s only one other real option. “They put the page back up?”
“Looks like it.”
How fitting that I would get the news of that horrible page about me being posted again right when I’m trying to be normal. I’m not sure why I would expect anything else.
“Let me see,” I say, reaching out for my phone.
“No.” He looks angry and defensive and possessive all at once.
“It’s my phone. Give it to me.”
“You don’t need to see it.”
“I don’t care what you think I need to see. You have no right to keep anything from me. If you don’t hand me the phone right now, I’m not going to let you hold onto it. Whatever you say, I’m not in danger from my phone.”
“You are in danger from it,” he murmurs thickly as he hands me the phone.
Knowing Jack Page 11