“I’m still leaving.”
“That’s fine. I’m going to stay.” There’s a one-man-band playing in my chest and I want to get it out but at least I haven’t cried. I don’t want to give him any more of my tears, though it’s tempting. Will never knows what to do with me when I cry. “I’m going to take a shower.”
I walk out the door and start counting in my head. One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi—that’s when I hear it. The shattering of something against the wall. My guess would be the glass of orange juice. That’ll be fun to clean up. I shut the door, pull the shower curtain closed before I turn on the spray and sit down on the nubby bathmat, letting the hot stream of water drown out my tears.
• • •
Will goes to his parents’ house in Cherry Hill whenever he can, trading duties with other faculty and staff. That means the weekends he’s around, he’s not, and that’s ducky. He’s been sleeping on the couch and we live around each other, not with each other.
He’s been looking for other jobs, closer to his family. He’s got interviews with several schools this weekend. I offer him good luck as we pass each other on the threshold, and his nose wrinkles. “You’re in such a hurry to get rid of me, aren’t you?”
“I meant it when I said you could stay here, Will.” I did, too, though I’m relieved he’s leaving.
He slings his leather bag, heavy with his laptop and papers to be graded, over his shoulder and without another word, heads down the hall.
The breath I’ve been holding leaves my body in a rush. It’s always a question: Which Will will I get today? No yelling and no breaking things is a good day. He’s gone until Sunday night, so even better. I set my own books down on the kitchen table and flop onto the couch. Spring break will be here soon, and I can’t wait for two weeks of uninterrupted Will-free time. But for now, I’m going to make the best of what I have.
I’ve been keyed-up and anxious all day. Even though Will’s gone, I can’t get my head to stop being on guard. Relax, relax. I close my eyes and breathe, but the low-level anxiety that’s been my more or less constant companion since I don’t remember when won’t let me go. I drink a cup of tea, turn on a movie I’ve been wanting to watch, but I’m still in its grip. His grip.
There’s one last thing to do. I get ready for bed, changing into soft cotton pajama pants, a well-worn Hawthorn T-shirt I’ve had since I was in high school, and a pair of fuzzy socks. When I’ve brushed my teeth and washed my face, I climb under my sheets, turn on my bedside lamp and hang over the edge of the mattress to take up a book. It’s not the one I’m reading. That’s on my bedside table.
This one is for special purposes. I turn to a well-thumbed page and start to read, substituting certain words with the personal fantasy already playing in my head. When I’ve reached a particular point, I slide fingers under the blanket and up my shirt to toy with a nipple while my other hand turns pages.
The hero’s about to punish the heroine for not following his instructions, and there’s so much about this that makes me hot. Being given instructions. Having someone pay attention enough to know when I’ve disobeyed, and caring enough to discipline me, make me better. The punishment itself . . . I don’t relish the idea of being actually hurt. I don’t think pain is my thing, but if he—
He. Even when I hadn’t given up on Will yet, when I let my mind go during fantasizing or even sometimes during the rote sex, I’d think of Shep. Not when he was my student, no, though it hadn’t been easy to shut that down. But the wrongness would eventually win out. He wasn’t a minor, but it was the power imbalance; knowing I was technically an authority figure, though that never felt a hundred percent true even though he was always respectful. But after he was gone . . .
I’d fumble to make him not look like my student, picture him in street clothes instead of dress code or one of his Hawthorn uniforms, but sometimes I’d slip. Today I toe the line, thinking of him in a suit. He’d look drop-dead handsome in a suit, his broad shoulders filling out the jacket. When he’d shove his hands in the pockets of the trousers, it would pull the vent of the coat open in the back and I’d be able to see the curve of his butt.
I’d kneel at his feet, naked, while he lectured me, my eyes brimming with tears because I’d disappointed him. He’d grasp my elbow, hard enough to help me up but not hard enough to leave a bruise, and steer me to a desk, instructing me to bend over, lay my palms parallel on the fine-grained surface.
When I was in position, very conscious of being at his mercy and completely willing to take whatever punishment he’d deemed fit, he’d stroke my back. He’d also toy with the various implements in a canister on the table, their business ends sticking out above the rim.
A crop, a loopy john, a wooden spoon, a leather-covered paddle, a small cane. This time he’d opt for the worn old-school wooden ruler.
I set my book down, able to carry out the fantasy without any more help, and slip my freed hand under the waistband of my pants and into my underwear. I’m, predictably, wet. I always am when I indulge in this daydream.
He’d remind me what I was being punished for, make me repeat it back to him and then tell me my punishment. Twenty strokes, I’m to count. I picture the red welts being laid across my cheeks, my fingers curling into fists while I struggle not to reach back, trying to accept the punishment he’s deemed appropriate while my tears drip onto the desk. I’d choke out the words: One, two, three. I’d pay the price and when it’s over . . .
He’d stroke my heated, red behind and then tell me to spread my legs, slipping a finger through my wetness when I had. He’d make a contented, appreciative grunt as he pressed inside of me.
“You like it when I discipline you, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You like being told what to do and having consequences when you don’t follow instructions. Why is that?”
“Because . . .” The fingers that are sliding in and out of me are making coherent thought difficult but I don’t want him to stop. “Because it makes me feel loved.”
He’d rest a hand over mine, sprawled, clutching on the desk, nest his fingers between mine and lean down to kiss the sensitive spot where jaw meets ear.
“You are, Erin. I love you. I’m going to look after you.”
Then he’d push me forward until my hips were flush against the desk and withdraw his fingers, a smack landing hard on my flank when I cried out in disappointment. Soon my arms would be pinned behind my back, wrist to elbow, secured with his belt. I’d hear him unzip his pants. He’d press against me, making me wriggle to get closer to him.
“You’re a good girl, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m going to make you better.”
With that promise, he’d slam into me and the pressure from the smooth wood surface on my mound would be enough contact to get me off.
My fingers are moving faster, rubbing my clit in what used to be circles. It’s not until he comes inside me in my fantasy, gripping my shoulders hard for the last brutal thrusts, that I come in reality. My muscles clench tight around nothing and a low-level tone hums in my ear while I press my fingers against my clit a few more times, wringing every last bit out of this orgasm.
I slump, letting go of all the tension. It’s with images of Shep unbinding my arms, carrying me to bed and holding me tight, telling me over and over he loves me, that I finally fall asleep.
Chapter Eleven
Shep
I knew I’d see her.
If not now, then when I hope I’ll be arriving on campus in the summer. It’s inevitable. A small campus, a small community—everyone will know I’m here within a matter of minutes. If she wanted to find me, it wouldn’t be hard. But I was hoping, really hoping, it wouldn’t be yet. I made the arrangements last minute in a move that fought every impulse I have so there’d be the possibility I wouldn�
��t have to see her yet. And if I don’t get the job, I don’t want to disappoint her. Would she be disappointed?
But here she is, stutter stepping down the wooden stairs that lead out of Leonard. She’s not holding the railing because her arms are full of books and notes. I have that same urge; it doesn’t even take a second. Be careful, you’re going to fall. But she doesn’t. She shifts the pile into one arm and grabs the peeling-paint-clad railing and stares, mouth open, eyes blinking as if she’s trying to figure out . . .
Yes, Erin, it’s me.
I understand how jarring this is for her. It is for me, and I’ve had time to prepare. I knew she was still here. Despite not having seen her or talked to her since our ill-fated graduation-day good-bye, she looks exactly how I’d expect. Except thinner. She didn’t need to be thinner. The thought makes my eyes tighten around the corners. She doesn’t look like she’s taking care of herself, or being taken care of, and my eyes dart to her hands. The arm clutching the papers draws them tight to her chest so she doesn’t fumble them and I see it. That goddamn diamond glinting in the sun.
Bile surges in my stomach and I realize how badly I’d been hoping she’d have quit him. I read the bulletin faithfully, trying to decipher clues about her life from the faculty notes. I wonder if she’s done the same. I’ve written in more than I would have. Truth be told, I wouldn’t have at all. But the thought that she might flip to the back where the most recent classes have their own columns of accomplishments and announcements, looking for any scrap of news from me, made me dutifully write in four times a year so if she were looking, she’d find something. The only love note I’ve ever been allowed to write her.
Hoping that she’d be able to read between the lines:
“Zach (Shep) Shepherd will be graduating a year early with a major in mathematics and a minor in art from Northwestern.”
You inspired me, Erin, and made me want to be true to myself.
“He is currently applying to teaching positions at private schools in the Boston area.”
I’m coming home to you.
She stands there, frozen on the stairs. Should I have written her? It wouldn’t have been hard. I know where she lives; her address and her email are the same. But though I’ve pined for her, thought about her every day, it strikes me that maybe she hasn’t given me a second thought since I walked out of her classroom almost three years ago.
Erin
I’d hoped, dreamed, prayed this was what he meant, that this is the code he was hoping I’d crack with his notes to the alumni magazine. I’d been selfish and stupid enough to fantasize that his updates—like clockwork, unlike any of his classmates—weren’t for anyone else, but love letters hidden in plain sight. A particularly subtle epistolary romance. With every issue arriving in my faculty mailbox, I’d secret the thick colorful pages into my bathroom. I’d fill up my too-small tub and climb in, torturing myself before I sunk into the hot water and let myself crack it open, hoping against hope there’d be yet another few sentences, the only window I’ve had into his life.
There they would be, innocuous enough I suppose, but I’d picture him, brows pinched, fingers hovering over the keyboard: I want to tell you everything but I’m allowed to say nothing. So dribs and drabs were all I’d gotten:
“Zach (Shep) Shepherd made the varsity lacrosse team as a true freshman and has declared an early mathematics major. What time he can find outside of classes and practice, he spends in the art studio.”
It had been enough, those sad missives. I’d tried to keep my end of the bargain, but when all you have to report is Yes, I’m still in my forced marriage to my borderline abusive husband who still cheats on me and drinks too much, but good news! My classes are going well and only one student in the past three years has gotten below a four on an AP exam I’ve prepped them for, it starts to be a little silly.
I could have written him; he wouldn’t have been difficult to find. But at first, I’d wanted to commit to my life with Will. By the time it became clear I had no life with Will, it was too late. What would I say anyway? Nothing good.
But he’s standing here, on campus, in a blazer, khakis and tie. It’s almost like he never left except he looks just old enough you can tell he’s not a student. His hair’s longer, brushing the back of his collar, and he’s walking alongside Uncle Rett. Oh, Headmaster Wilson, you have some explaining to do. But why would he mention to me that Shep was going to be here?
Shep’s stopped in his tracks. He looks at me, his brows creasing the way they do—did—when he thinks I’m putting myself at risk. I realize it’s because my hands are full and I’m about to fall down the stairs. So I heft my books into one arm and when I clutch them to my chest, his eyes go dark.
My ring. He’s looking at my ring. I want to drop the books and run to him, pull him behind a bush, kiss his mouth, run my hands down his button-downed chest. It’s for show. ’Til the end of the year and then we’re going our separate ways. We started the paperwork. It’s over, I promise, please.
But I can’t because the whole campus is milling about between classes, Uncle Rett’s standing right there and I don’t even know if Shep wants me anymore. If he ever did. He’s probably got a girlfriend. Of course he does. He’s crazy good-looking, smart, and a good man. Why would he wait for me?
So when I raise my hand when I get to the bottom of the steps, it’s in a cautious hello I hope conveys everything I wish I could say. His mouth opens like he might try to say something to me across the quad, but instead he shuts it, raises a hand as awkward as mine before shoving it in his pocket and turning back to Uncle Rett, who’s no doubt asking him a question. I’ve got one, too.
What are you doing here, Shep?
Shep
It’s official. I will be starting as a mathematics fellow at Hawthorn Hill in the fall. My interview had felt like a thrown-together formality, which it had been. My grades at Northwestern are tops, and I can fill some coaching holes left open by retiring teachers. Not to mention they love to hire alums, do it all the time. We must make up a third of the faculty and staff. What better way to show how priceless a Hawthorn Hill education is than to have graduates clamor for ill-paying teaching positions?
And ill-paying they are. I don’t have a ton of loans because I’d gotten both merit- and need-based scholarships, not to mention one of those named athletic scholarships where I’d had to kowtow to the overly enthusiastic donor at a fancy lunch once a year. When I’d said at the last one I’d be graduating in the spring, the look on my benefactor’s face . . . I thought I might get a call the next day telling me they were taking it back and I’d need to write a check for ten grand before they’d hand over my diploma. But I hadn’t. It had been fine.
It’ll be tight, not a lot of cash to throw around, but more than I’ve ever had. Of course, my father will be livid. I can hear it, word for word: “I spend all this fucking money on your goddamn education and you’re going to be a fucking teacher? You could’ve been a goddamn teacher if you’d stuck around here and gone to community college. This is what you’re going to do with your life? You’re such a fucking waste.”
I’ll stand there, take the abuse he heaps on me. He’ll yell for a good twenty minutes. When he’s finished, I’ll heft my duffel onto my shoulder one last time and walk out the door, ruffling Caleb’s floppy hair on my way out, telling him, “If the old man fucks with you, you call me.”
Dad’s never hit any of us, but he’s gotten close. With every passing year of more stress, less work, balancing ever closer on a dangerous edge, it wouldn’t surprise me if he snapped. My mom will kiss my cheek on the way out and whisper, “He loves you, Zach, and he’s so proud.”
Sure.
Or maybe I’ll call. Yeah, a phone call would be better. I hope it’ll be my mom or my brother who answers when I call to tell them I’ll be back on the Hill come fall, but that’s a fucking selfish attitude. Make th
e people I’ve been trying my whole life to protect break this news to the person I’ve been trying to shield them from? No. I’ll call in the afternoon when my brother will be at school, my mom should be at work if they haven’t laid her off yet, and when my dad’s home from his shift at the feed mill but hasn’t drunk himself into a stupor or fallen asleep from exhaustion.
“I got a job, Dad. I’m going to teach math on the Hill.”
He’ll be so fucking proud of me he’ll hang up.
Chapter Twelve
Erin
He’s here.
I knew he was coming today, had to be coming today. It’s the last day he could possibly come. I’m surprised he didn’t come sooner. I don’t think he went home. Home’s never seemed like a place he liked very much. From the little I know, I don’t blame him. So why did he wait until the last minute to show up?
It doesn’t matter. He’s here and I can’t wait to see him, talk to him, hear his voice, and I hope, watch the way his face will light up when he sees the ring on my finger is gone. As is Will. Not only did we divorce, but he’s moved on to another school, this one in Connecticut. I hope he’s happy there, I do. He’s not a great guy, Will, but he’s not evil incarnate or anything. He’s not malicious. He should come with a warning label, that’s all: Single-Use Only.
But Shep. It’s dumb of me to think he won’t be attached. He’s not engaged or married; it would’ve been in the bulletin. He’s young for that, but it’s not out of the question. He’s so serious and steady it wouldn’t surprise me if he decided what he wanted and locked it down as soon as possible. Mine. So a serious girlfriend? Definite possibility.
I’ve been squirming in my apartment, not able to keep still, counting down the minutes until the first faculty meeting of the school year starts. I’m not usually anxious about these things, but then there’s not usually the promise of Zach Shepherd. I did not, absolutely did not, change my clothes three times. I thought about jeans and a T-shirt. That’s what most of the faculty will be wearing before the kids get to school and we have to cram ourselves back into dress code the same way they do. But it didn’t look right. So a swishy skirt, camisole and cardigan it is.
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