“Yeah, okay.”
“Good man. Hey, I gotta go, but I’ll talk to you on Sunday.”
• • •
I turn my conversation with Caleb over and over in my head on my way down to Turner. What am I going to do if he fails? What if he gets held back? What if he gets frustrated and angry, says fuck it and drops out as soon as he can? He’ll never leave Shamokin. It’ll be Doug Shepherd Redux. I can’t let that happen. Maybe he could come live with me? Even if I can’t get him into the Hill, Hawthorn public schools are good. At least I’d know he’d have enough to eat and he wouldn’t have to listen to my parents go at each other all the time.
But my place here isn’t certain. Fellowships are for a year. While some people get to stay, most of them move on. John Phelps might be leaving. If he does, he’d leave a few holes in the math department and on the coaching staff I’d fill like Spackle, but it’s no guarantee. What if they don’t think I’m a good teacher? What if I’m not?
In the meantime, I’ll try to call more often. It’s rough because of my dad, but I should be able to sneak in a few more times a week. If I thought Caleb could keep it a secret, I’d get him a cell myself. But he’s not so great at subterfuge, my brother. Maybe I could offer to get him a tutor since I can’t be there to help?
These are the thoughts that churn in my brain as I lope toward Turner, but I shove them aside when I walk in the door because the guys deserve my undivided attention. I know how hard they’ve worked. All those nights spending study hall down here, cramming in my other homework whenever, wherever I could so I could walk Erin home at the end of the night. My favorite time of day: the ten minutes I could be alone with her. Shards of uncertainty and longing stab me in the chest, and I pluck them out with dogged determination. Leave Erin Brewster alone.
Erin
The show is great, as usual. There’s a ceramics student who’s particularly impressive this year and everyone is ooh-ing and ah-ing over bowls so wide and thin and vases so tall and soaring they look like they’re defying gravity. I make sure to compliment the other kids in his class because their work is very fine as well, but when your work is great and someone else’s is earth-shattering, it’s easy to feel overshadowed.
I’m finishing up a conversation with Takeo Ninomiya about his own solid technique when I see Shep. My hope he wouldn’t be here has been for naught. Maybe he hoped I’d have come and gone already. To be fair, that had been my plan, but I always end up staying at this stuff for longer than I expect. The way his face darkens when he sees me makes me wish we’d set up a time-share system already. He’d tell me, You get the art show from eight thirty to nine thirty, I’ll take it from nine thirty to ten thirty. You can have cross-country meets because I’m coaching soccer. You chaperone the dance and I’ll drive the van to the movies. How have I ended up making custody arrangements with a man I never got to speak with, never mind sleep with? So unfair.
But I haven’t seen everything yet. There’s still a whole floor to look at and I won’t be driven out by Zach Shepherd and his grouchy, stormy, dreamy blue eyes. I head to the refreshments table and am about to ladle myself some punch but the memory of spilling it on Shep’s crisp white shirt and touching him makes my stomach roil. Water it is.
I take my sorry excuse for a beverage and tour the rest of the studio before ducking into the underused women’s bathroom. When the door falls shut behind me, the sound of retching erupts from the far stall. There’s a long flowy skirt pooled on the floor with Birkenstocks peeking out of the hem. I thought I saw Ellie Fishburne, the new art teacher, wearing something like that earlier.
“Ellie?”
I wince when I’m answered with more puking. When it stops, a meek voice follows. “Yeah?”
“Oh, Ellie.” I ease the stall door open since she hasn’t locked it. She’s slumped against the far wall, her usually polished chestnut skin dusky and her hand resting limply over her midsection. “How can I help?”
“Water?”
I take my half-full cup and dump it out, wiping off a lipstick smudge before refilling it. I’d get her a new one, but I don’t want to leave her alone. She sips at it gratefully when I give it over.
“Was it something you ate?”
She regards me warily. “Can you keep a secret?”
“Of course.”
“I’m pregnant. It’s early so we haven’t told anyone yet, but I have been sick as a dog. Morning sickness, my ass.”
As if to prove her point, another wave of nausea hits her, and I crouch beside her and rub her back while she heaves. Poor Ellie. I hadn’t been sick during my pregnancy. What little of it there was. “You should go home. Can I walk you?”
“Cole’s here. Could you find him? He’ll take me. But could you do me a favor?”
“Of course, whatever you need.”
“I’m supposed to stay and supervise cleanup. Would you mind—”
Yeah, she needs to go home, poor thing.
“No problem. I’ll get Cole. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
I refill the cup of water before I run out the door, on the lookout for Ellie’s husband. I’ve met him several times before and I recognize his spiky blond head and rocker-meets-prep-school aesthetic standing by a wall of angry black and red oils, talking to the artist.
“Excuse me, Mr. Luciani, would you mind if I stole Mr. Fishburne for a minute?”
I stand on tiptoes to tell Cole about Ellie, then lead him to the downstairs bathroom in time to hear Ellie get sick again. He bangs the door open and rushes the stall, dropping to his knees at her side.
“Again? I’m sorry you’re so sick, babe.”
The soles of his boots line up with the soles of her sandals, and his sweetness and concern make me ache, his murmured words drifting soft to where I shouldn’t be listening in.
“Sorry to interrupt, but unless you need me . . .”
“No. Thanks for your help, Erin. I appreciate it. Cole should be able to take it from here. He’s used to it.”
They have wan smiles for each other and Cole holds her tight around her shoulders before he plants a kiss on her forehead.
“Okay. Don’t worry about cleanup. I’ve got it covered and my lips are sealed.” I toss a quick wave in their direction and as the heavy door swings shut behind me, I hear Cole say, “We are going to have the best damn baby in the whole world, El. I promise.”
Envy twists in my stomach. It’s not Ellie’s fault, nor is the universe plotting against me, throwing a reminder of everything I don’t have in my face, but it still hurts. And on tonight of all nights. This sucks. I don’t mind doing a favor—Ellie would do the same for me—but now I’m stuck here for the duration. No escaping Shep tonight, another reminder of things I can’t have.
Shep
The show’s winding down and most everyone’s gone back to the dorms. It’s coming up on curfew, so I start nudging the lingering guys toward the door. When I’ve cleared out the first floor and the basement, I head up to the second floor. It’s empty, except for Erin, who’s picking up stray cups and napkins left on benches and pedestals, party detritus.
She looks up, startled at my approach before turning back to her chore. “I thought everyone had gone.”
“They have.”
This is so painful. Every time I see her, it hurts. This is especially hard, remembering four years ago. Those drawings are hanging up in my bedroom because I’m an emotional masochist. The dress she’s got on isn’t helping. The dark purple fabric clings in a way tweed has no right to. It shows off her shape, and a hint of cleavage. And she’s wearing those shoes. Those same stupid shoes with the tiny fucking bows on them. Universe, you blow.
“I thought Ellie was on cleanup duty for this?”
“She was. She wasn’t feeling well so I said I’d do it.”
Erin’s not looking at me. Her eyes are se
arching for every last scrap to pick up and throw away so she doesn’t have to.
“I’ll help.”
A bitter expression flits across her face but it may as well fly across the room and stab me in the chest. Ouch.
“That’s not necessary. There’s not much to do; it won’t take me long.”
But because I’m a stubborn fuck and as noted earlier, a specific type of masochist, I can’t help it. “Then it’ll take even less time with the both of us.”
“Suit yourself.”
I may not be able to have her, but I also don’t want her to hate me. Especially if I end up getting to stay. She’s right, there isn’t much to do, and we’re finished up here in a few minutes, silently dragging furniture back to its place before heading downstairs for a repeat performance. The truth is I don’t want her walking across campus alone at this time of night, though I’m sure she’d be fine. But I’m going to allow myself to walk her up to Sullivan because it’s one desire where Erin is concerned I can indulge in safely.
When we’ve picked up every stray gum wrapper and moved back all the benches that had been moved to accommodate the crowds, we stand awkwardly in the entryway.
“Let me walk you home.”
The words are out of my mouth before I can shove them back down and I curse myself. I should’ve done it like I used to, not spelling out the obvious and give her a chance to say no, but it’s too late.
“You want to walk me home?” Her tone and her expression are cloudy with doubt. A hint of defiance makes me want to drag her by the hair over to the nearest bench, take her over my knee and spank her until her face is wet with tears and she says she’s sorry, she’ll never doubt me again. But that’s not an option. So though my dick is getting ideas, my brain squashes it and what comes out of my mouth is a tight, “It’s late.”
“You know I managed to walk from here to my apartment for three years escortless with nary a kidnapping, right?”
The sass, the hard sarcasm, that’s not Erin. I want to wash it out of her mouth and replace it with my cock. How she’d look on her knees with her hands tied behind her back so she wouldn’t fight me—a bell clutched in her fingers she could ring if she was actually scared, the gagging noises and the way her eyes would water as I taught her how to take me deep in her throat . . . For fuck’s sake.
This is not a banner night for me. First my brother, now Erin. Can I not do anything right?
“Let’s just go.”
She locks up while I wait in the glow of a streetlamp that lights the path back to the main campus. She walks down the steps with her arms crossed over her chest and doesn’t wait for me as she starts up the narrow paved ribbon. I take a few quick steps to catch up with her. It’s not hard because she’s tiny, and I notice that with her arms crossed, her breasts swell farther out of the modest neckline of her dress. I know what I’ll be doing when I get back to my apartment.
“You told me to stay away from you.”
Her words slice at me. I remember saying them. They cut then and they cut now. “Yes.”
“So why aren’t you staying away from me?”
If only I could answer honestly: I don’t want to stay away from you. I want to own you, possess every inch of you, mark you as mine, and show you what all that means. But you’re as vanilla as a milkshake and just as sweet, so I can’t. But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t step in front of a tank for you. It doesn’t mean I can stop the want, the urges. I should go to the club Mordecai gave me an introduction to. Maybe I could find some nice, kinky, submissive girl who could make me forget about Erin Brewster and what I’d like to do to her. I doubt it.
“I can’t.”
“Then don’t.”
Erin’s stopped short in the middle of the path and grabbed the sleeve of my regulation navy blazer.
“Erin, I . . .”
“Please, Shep, don’t.”
She winds my tie around her hand and I think she’s going to yank my head down to kiss me, but she doesn’t. She looks up into my face, and I get hard as hell when she whispers, “Please,” her eyes round as the full moon that’s out tonight. I want to. I’d strip off my tie and bind her wrists around the top of the lamppost, rip off her dress, yank down my fly and fuck her right here. But no. No.
I untangle her fingers as gently as I can and smooth out the wrinkles her tiny hand made in the fabric, wishing it were her palm gliding down my chest instead of mine. “We can’t be together. I told you.”
“Why? Why not?”
She stamps her foot in a tantrum and my brain goes blank, every rational reason this would be a terrible idea buried under a fevered desire to discipline her and make her stop behaving like this spoiled brat she isn’t. I miss the adoring way she used to look at me, how pleased and flushed her face would get when we had a few minutes alone. Now look at us. This is a fucking disaster. I’m letting everybody down.
“It’s complicated.”
“I’m too stupid to understand?”
“No, Erin. Jesus, why are you making this so hard? We can’t be together, end of story. It’s not you, it’s me. I’m not the right guy for you. So please, give it up and move on. Kurt seems like a nice guy.”
She stiffens. Kurt is a nice guy, a good teacher from what the guys say, but there’s something about him that reminds me of Will. By the way Erin flinches, I’m guessing she feels that way, too. If she were anyone else, she’d slap me across the face. I would have, because I am being the world’s most giant douche bag. But instead, her face crumples like she’s going to cry and she turns up the path without another word. I don’t catch up this time but trail a few yards behind, careful to slow my pace because though she’s hurrying as fast as her little legs will take her, it’s nothing compared to my long strides. I follow her all the way back to Sullivan and watch her fling open the door and run up the stairs before I shove my hands in my pockets and head back to my apartment to indulge in Erin the only way I’ll ever be allowed.
Chapter Fourteen
Shep
“Where’s Erin?”
It’s a few days before the end of our month-long winter break. The department meeting has started and she’s not here. It’s weird for her not to be here. She’s punctual, and has an almost slavish devotion to her teaching duties, even inane meetings like this one.
Skip Connelly pipes up. “She sent me an email a few hours ago, said she wasn’t feeling well.”
Erin’s taught class and come to meetings when she’s been bleary-eyed and barely breathing with allergies, and when she was having the worst miscarriage you can imagine. “Not feeling well” is not accurate.
I tap my pencil against the side of the seminar table until Dan gives me a censorious look and goes back to giving an update on department matters, starting to schedule things for the fall. It’s been dicey whether I’d be here next year, but John Phelps finally announced his official retirement and odds are on me getting to stay.
I barely pay attention for the next half hour, my mind focused on Erin. She’s sick. She’s really sick, and she’s alone. I’d like to pretend I go back and forth on whether I should go over there when this is over. Erin is an adult. She’s perfectly capable of taking care of herself, and I shouldn’t muddy the waters. I’ve told her we can’t be together, warned her off me, and it killed me to do it. Her quavery chin, the look of betrayal in her eyes. We finally get the chance to be together and you’re saying NO? I’d done my best to make her believe it wasn’t about her, but she didn’t believe it.
But she’s sick and there’s no way I’m going to leave it up to Skip motherfucking Connelly to take care of her. The minute the meeting is over, I slam my folder shut, realizing I didn’t take a single note. I’m glad for the first time that Dan is so god-awful anal-retentive he’ll be sending out minutes in half an hour. I don’t bother with pleasantries, don’t even see anyone except as shap
es to avoid as I head out the door and haul across campus, bounding up the stairs two at a time to Erin’s apartment.
I wish she’d move. I hate that she still lives in the space she shared with Will. I dread going into the place where they shared meals, a bed, even the air they breathed. But that’s where she is, so that’s where I’ll be.
I knock on the door, rapping my knuckles against the wood, trying my best not to pound. There’s no answer. I lean my forehead up against the corkboard and splay my hand against the door as I close my eyes and take a couple of deep breaths.
“Erin?”
No answer. No sounds.
I knock again. I’m not sure whether to hope she’ll open the door or not. But nothing, no indication anyone’s even there.
“Erin?” I try one more time before I reach for the knob. She never locks her door. Something I’d irrationally like her to do. Nothing’s going to happen to her in the locked dorm and she’s got twenty built-in guard dogs should anyone make it in.
The brass twists in my hand, unlatching, and I push into her small living room. It’s dark and quiet; the shades haven’t been lifted. Is she so sick she didn’t make it out of bed today?
“Erin?”
I make my way down the narrow hallway and stop outside a closed door, no light shining from underneath.
I knock, loud enough for her to hear if she’s awake, but hopefully not so loud I’ll wake her if she’s not. When there’s no answer, I go in. It’s warm and stuffy in the dim room, the curtains drawn and no lights on. There’s a little mound on the bed buried under blankets and I take a few steps farther, hoping I’ll be able to see her face.
Her brown hair is strung out across the pillow, sweat-darkened strands clinging to her face and her ears. Most of her face is pale, except for two bright red patches blooming on her cheeks. She’s tucked in up to her chin and her lashes flutter over her cheeks. How sick do you have to be to look like this? Like one of those pretty tubercular women who wasted away in the sanitariums of old. I roll my eyes. Because of course I’d fall in love with some doomed consumptive—of course I would.
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