by A. M. Wilson
“Why are you asking about Miss Krause? Is she giving you more problems?”
“Oh, no. We resolved our issues yesterday. She made an apology to me privately, and we discussed moving forward.”
“She was supposed to apologize in front of your sixth period class. I had planned on being there, but I had an unexpected meeting. What happened?” he asks, looking at me like he thinks Tatum pulled a fast one.
“I was unaware, I’m sorry. We ran into each other before sixth period yesterday, and she apologized to me, very sincerely might I add. That’s sort of why I’m here.” I shift slightly in the hard plastic blue chair, feeling slightly uncomfortable with where I’m turning this conversation.
“What is it?”
“Does she have some history I should be aware of? Most students don’t have an outburst in the middle of class, and I was given the impression yesterday that something was amiss. I'd like to help her, if at all possible. I thought if there was a situation she was dealing with that you know about, it might make it easier for me to reach out.”
He stares at me, studying me with one hand clasped beneath his chin. Jesus, this guy is supposed to be my colleague and superior, but I feel like I’m the one in trouble in the principal’s office. He leans forward, laying his forearms on the desk as he addresses me.
“Miss Krause went through some home trouble last year and wound up missing a lot of class. She has been working very hard to catch up, even going as far as to enroll in our post-secondary program. Let me assure you, her behavior is very uncharacteristic. I, too, have wondered if she has been struggling with some outside stressors lately. However, I do not want to feel like I am gossiping about her behind her back, as she has used me as a confidant in the past.” He settles himself back in his chair once again, and I know this conversation is coming to a close. “My suggestion?” he offers. “Now that you have identified she is having some issues, use that to get her to open up to you. Maybe you can get her to open up a bit more, because lately, she hasn’t had much to say to me.”
I spend the rest of first period correcting pretests for my Algebra II class. When the students begin filtering in for second period, I’m surprised to find Tatum is not among them.
Promptly at 9:20, I begin my prepared lesson on expressions. At 9:28 I find myself glancing up from the projector to check the door every thirty seconds, and by 9:34, I find my mood souring now that she’s failed to show. After her blatant display of intolerance for tardiness, I’m almost sure she isn’t running late. She’s just not coming. Maybe her apology yesterday wasn’t as sincere as I thought, and her display of tears was no more than a show for sympathy.
By 9:45, I’m as frustrated as ever, feeling duped by this teenaged girl.
“Okay, class, for the remainder of the hour, you will begin your homework assignment on page 13. I want you to complete problems 1-80, only the even numbered problems. Please use this time wisely, as you’ll have less work to complete tonight if you do. Feel free to ask questions.”
Once I’m satisfied everyone is working quietly, I turn on my desktop and log into the school’s website. From here, I can search the attendance of any student, and I can’t stop myself from looking up Tatum’s status for first period. I search by name, and sit back in my seat when I see she was marked absent for French V, another college level class. I wonder if something is wrong with her. Knock it off, Ryan. Scolding myself, I log off the computer and finish correcting papers. Stop being so interested in what mischief one teenaged girl is up to.
On my lunch break, I decide to check my phone that I stashed in my briefcase. I was amazed this morning when the damn thing still worked, blaring the alarm bright and early. Turning it back on, I shouldn’t be surprised to see a voicemail waiting for me again. I can’t avoid this forever, so I listen to the message, jotting down the phone number he left for me.
I type the number into my phone, then delete it. I type it again, checking and rechecking the digits with the sheet of paper to make sure it’s correct, then I delete it again. Curling the phone in my fist, I bring my hand to my mouth, biting my knuckle to relieve some of the frustration and nervousness I’m feeling. Just call. I can always back away if it’s too much to handle.
Unwanted and unbidden, the very last image I ever had of Harper flashes in my mind. Her body, pale and cold, bruised and scratched, covered by a typical stark white hospital sheet. Unmoving. I blink back the tears and swallow against the pain in my chest as I find my resolve.
Call for Harper. Do it for Harper.
“Hello, this is Nurse Greta, how can I help you?” A kind woman’s voice sounds from the other end of the line, low toned with a slight southern drawl. I swallow thickly, trying to clear my throat from the lump blocking my airway. I open my mouth several times but nothing comes out.
I hear her breathe heavily into the line. “Hello?”
“Who is it?” someone croaks in the background. God, she sounds so weak and frail, the sound makes my heart constrict.
“Must be a wrong number, Carol, there’s nobody there,” she replies, before the line goes dead.
Everything I once thought was neatly tucked away is beginning to explode around me. That was a bad fucking idea to call. I’m useless. I was useless in saving Harper and I’m useless in putting her to rest. I just know whatever Carol needs to say to me is going to make my life a hundred times worse.
Checking the time before tucking my phone back into my briefcase, I realize my lunch hour is almost over. Pulling myself back together and banishing the unwanted images of that night so long ago, I make my way back to my classroom for the final classes of the day.
As I suspected, Tatum fails to show for my sixth hour class as well. She must be out sick, because my gut tells me she isn’t the type to skip school for no apparent reason. It’s too bad that little blonde friend of hers isn’t in my class. She looked like a talker, and I may have been able to prod some information out of her about Tatum’s whereabouts.
I’m being ridiculous for caring, but I can’t help feeling a little protective of her after the display of vulnerability she showed me yesterday. Clearly this girl is sorting through some shit, and it’d probably be wise of me to leave it alone. I have enough on my plate without getting sucked into whatever mess she’s in. But I never claimed to be a smart man.
Tomorrow, I’ll try out Mr. Stephenson’s advice and not be such a prick when she pushes my buttons. Maybe then I can talk her into opening up to me. Maybe then I can learn a little bit more about the girl with the haunted look in her eyes.
CHAPTER NINE
Tatum
After Mrs. Marsden passed, I called the nurse down while Finn called David. Kelsey had already headed home since she was venturing into a 24 hours shift, promising to return after a little sleep. Finn and I prepared Monica for family and the funeral home, while the staff nurse made arrangements to have her body picked up and transported.
I thought I would be filled with much more sorrow than I am, but after witnessing her death, I can’t help but feel peaceful. Whatever Monica saw in those final moments was enough to erase her fear and put a smile on her face. I think I just might believe in angels after all.
“You okay?” Finn asks, grabbing my hand as we leave the Marsden family alone to grieve. He gives it one gentle squeeze, before releasing it.
“Yeah, I think I am,” I reply quietly, still lost in my swirling thoughts about death and the afterlife.
“I know you were close to her. She really enjoyed you, you know.”
I smile over at Finn as we stand quietly in the kitchen. His shaggy blond hair is messy from working an overnight shift, and his light green eyes are sporting tired rings around the bottom. His looks and his build, at least six feet of lean, hard muscle, make it hard to believe he works as a CNA. Don’t get me wrong, I love having his strength around here when we do transfers, but he looks like he just stepped off an Abercrombie shopping bag.
“I know. I enjoyed her too. I�
��m going to miss her.”
“Was she your first?”
I nod my head slightly. Death is much harder when you have a relationship with the person. She wasn’t even my family, and yet, I feel an immense sense of loss.
“You’ll be alright.” He pats me on the shoulder, before walking into the office to clock out. “See you soon?”
“Yeah, Finn. Thanks for staying with me. See you.”
It’s after 8 a.m. when I finally leave the home and drive back to my apartment. School is out of the question today, as I just want to curl up in bed and unwind. My body is drained, both physically and emotionally, and I need a hard reset. After a quick shower, I slide into some sweats and a t-shirt before crawling into bed, intending to rest as long as possible. It doesn’t take long before I’m drifting off into a solid sleep.
When I roll over from my dreamless slumber, the clock on my dresser reads half past two. I extract myself from the mass of blankets and pad into the bathroom to pee before heading to the kitchen for a snack. With a PB&J in hand, I plop down on my bed to see what’s on MTV at this time of day.
I don’t have to work today, and I’m grateful. The head nurse gave me pay for sticking around last night and found someone to cover my shift. She said she was impressed with my dedication to Mrs. Marsden and wanted to reward me with a good day of sleep after I stayed there all night. It’s nice to feel appreciated for once; although, I was more than glad to stay without the pay.
As I eat my snack, I’m having trouble focusing on the mindless reality TV in front of me. My mind is replaying those final moments: the scared look in her eye, the squeeze of her hand, the deep, rattling breath. And the peaceful look that overcame her right before her final exhale. As settling as it is, I’m also terrified. My thoughts are overcome with death. I wonder if my mom saw anything as she had lain there, the drugs overwhelming her system, waiting for her own demise. Fuck! I need a distraction.
I call the one person I know will be here, no questions asked. Wyatt.
Not even twenty minutes pass before he knocks on my door, surprised I called him in the middle of the afternoon. He also had the day off today, and sounded eager to come by. I had told myself yesterday I wasn’t going to call him this week, but I need this. I need to find some way to unwind, or I’m going to drive myself crazy. This is the only way I know how.
He sits down beside me on the couch, but I can’t wait any longer. I need this now.
“Come here, Wyatt.” Crooking my finger at him, I reach forward to take his shoulders in my hands, pulling him towards me. He comes easily, like I knew he would, pressing me down until I’m lying on my back, and he’s propped up above me. “No talking this time,” I tell him, before pulling his mouth down to mine.
He smirks at me before claiming my mouth with his. Wyatt knows how to kiss, his smooth lips moving gently against mine, his tongue slipping out to trace my full lower lip. I open my mouth readily, greedily, and slide my tongue out to meet his. He tastes of peppermint and tobacco, but I don’t mind. The combination is overwhelming, but I’m used to it.
We don’t waste any time removing each other’s clothing. His hands come up to slide my tee over my head, his eyes roaming my now bare chest. He brings both of his hands to my breasts, kneading and massaging my flesh before dipping his head to pull one hardened nipple into his mouth. I can’t contain the moan that rides out on my exhale. Wyatt brings his hand down my stomach, slipping it beneath the waistband of my sweats. He rubs his fingers in slow circles on my core through my lace underwear, my clit throbbing beneath his skilled touch.
“Fuck, you’re wet,” he groans, before slipping my underwear to the side and gliding two fingers effortlessly inside me.
“Wyatt, ah God,” I cry out, the intense rush of pleasure taking me off guard. He uses his other hand to work my pants and underwear off my hips, shimmying them down my legs where I use my feet to wiggle them off. I spread my legs wider, giving him unquestionable access, my hips working into his hand, trying to reach the core of my desire.
His mouth comes back down on my breasts, one and then the other. He alternates licking and softly pinching my rosy nipples with his mouth, each touch sending a zing of pleasure down to where his fingers are working rhythmically. Wyatt lifts his mouth from my breast, taking my lips with his, giving my upper lip a sharp nip.
“Oh baby, you like that? Should I make you come like this?” His words send a hot rush through me. My body is buzzing, but it’s not enough. The pleasure is good, but I need more. On the cusp of my mind are the thoughts of the past couple of days, and I try to will them away. I need more. I need Wyatt to rob me of the ability to think and leave behind only the ability to feel. To erase the anxiety and fear and thoughtful questions swirling within the dark depths.
But he’s not enough. He’s never enough. He’s like lidocaine when I need a shot of morphine.
“No, wait. I need you to fuck me.”
He groans, his fingers not missing a beat. Taking that as a yes, I reach down and unzip his fly, sliding his pants down just enough to free his hard cock.
“Condom?” I ask on my next breath. Wyatt circles my clit with his thumb and I close my eyes, moaning his name. I’m awash with sensation, pleasure. From his hands, his mouth, his body pressing into mine.
“Front pocket,” he grunts around his own breathy moan. I reach into his jeans, finding the condom and sliding it down the length of him. He doesn’t miss a beat as he removes his fingers and thrusts himself inside of me.
“Oh God,” I cry out, the pleasure branching out from that sweet spot deep inside of me, reaching to the tips of my toes. He stills, holding himself completely inside me, giving me a moment to adjust. But I don’t want him to wait, I don’t want him to stop. I need to feel this, to forget everything else so I rock my hips forcefully against his, trying to take him deeper inside me. Trying to make him move. Trying to help me forget.
“Again.” I demand, and he does, pulling out the entire length before slamming himself back inside of me, hitting that sweet spot again. “Fuck Wyatt, again. Harder.”
“Oh yeah,” he grinds out between thrusts, pushing my body further and further towards the edge. I can feel my orgasm building, my toes tingling as my legs begin to flex and tighten around his hips. I start trembling from head to toe as he pushes on, pounding into me harder and faster.
“Keep going, please,” I beg, my orgasm so close I’m panting with each word. I clench the tight muscles in his back, his shoulders rippling with the effort to hold himself up and drive into me relentlessly. I can feel him trembling, a light sheen of sweat coating his body as he slides against me over and over again. He dips his head to pull my nipple into his mouth, scraping his teeth lightly against my sensitive flesh.
“I need you to let go. I can’t hold on much longer,” he fires at me, and his words spur me on. My body bows, rising off the couch as I tip over the precipice, my eyes slamming closed from the intense pleasure. My body rides the waves of its own accord, my hips bucking beneath his as Wyatt finds his own release, pumping rhythmically into me. And for a moment, I am lost.
Although, it is fleeting.
We lie together on my couch, slick with sweat as our breathing begins to return to normal. Wyatt pulls himself out of me, and crosses the room into my bathroom without a word. I sit up and pull my clothing back on before he gets back, curious about his quiet demeanor, yet at the same time receding within my own walls.
When he returns, he dresses and sits down beside me, tossing his arm around my shoulders and begins drawing light circles against my arm. We sit silently together.
“Is something wrong?” I ask, after he’s been quiet much longer than usual. He’s usually one to get done and leave a few minutes later. I can’t remember a time he’s lingered around like this.
He keeps drawing circles on my arm, and I give him a moment, knowing he heard my question.
“Do you ever think about turning this into something more?”
&
nbsp; Damn. I so don’t need this right now. A bitchy reply tries to claw out of my throat but I swallow it down. I don’t need to hurt his feelings but he deserves the truth. We always said if the lines started to blur, everything would stop. And this is seriously crossing the line of casual sex. “Honestly? No. I don’t think we could ever be more.”
“Why not?” he demands, turning his body to face me. “We get along, we’re great together, and the sex is amazing. What more is there?”
“There’s a lot more, actually. You and I, we’re different people. We want different things out of life. In the whole time I’ve known you, I’ve never seen you as more than what we are now.”
“And what’s that?” he questions, “A convenient fuck?”
I can’t ignore the look of hurt on his face. ‘Well yeah,’ I want to say, but I don’t. It’s not my intention to hurt him, but I thought we were clear on what we are.
“You and I both know this has just been a distraction—for both of us. You have your shit going on, and I have mine. This life isn’t it for me. I have plans to leave here, and I know you don’t.” He looks at me with frustration and hurt written all over his attractive features.
“So what? If you leave, then we’d be done. It’s that easy. Why won’t you try?”
“What’s the point?” My own frustration is fueling my emotions, and I’m exhausted; I want him gone. “If we only plan to stay together until I leave, what’s the point of being together at all? I’m sorry, Wyatt. You’re a great guy, but I just can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t?” He asks, leaning forward to brush his fingers across my cheek. I pull back from the contact.
“Won’t,” I respond coldly, frustrated with his game. His ice blue eyes take on a new fire I’ve never seen in them before.