by Rachael Wade
Somehow, I stumbled through my teens and made it out alive, escaping with a few cuts and bruises from the typical teenage experience, along with a few wounds no teenager should ever have to face. My drug-dealing boyfriend took my virginity and I had no idea at the time what was so wrong with an older twenty-something having sex with me, a sixteen year old. Age was just a number. And sexual experience was important. It was the right of passage for grown-ups, after all. Besides, he did me a favor, drugging my drinks half the time, effectively saving me from having to remember all the lovely details.
I never crossed paths with the high-school-graduation and prom-dress-shopping milestones, but I did eventually hitch my way north to Washington State when I was eighteen, immediately falling in love with Seattle upon realizing their gloomy days weren’t just a myth. A break from the relentless California sunshine was a relief, and Northwesterners were different. Good different. A lot of them didn’t like Californians. Some of them were still living in the Kurt Cobain era and believed everyone else should be, too. Most of them loved good music. We were instant soul mates.
So, here I am, still living in Seattle, embarking on a collegiate career for the first time; a late bloomer and yet older than anyone else my age. My mom moved here a few years back after she sobered up, but her health took a turn for the worst and I’ve been taking care of her ever since. It wasn’t until just recently I’d been able to swing some tuition money for classes. Life is good now; promising, albeit a few financial road blocks here and there.
But this isn’t a story about my coming of age or all the shit I went through growing up. It’s a love story about how I met Ryan. How he stole my running shoes and put reality in perspective for me. In the most infuriating, blindingly beautiful way possible, a way that only he could. And how I wrestled with his influence until the inevitable instilled me with a brand new kind of fear—regret.
1. DETENTION
“Is there a problem, Ms. Parker?” My new professor glared at me from the front of the classroom, no doubt waiting for me to explain myself. His hazel eyes burned into mine, his perfect, lean body resting on the edge of his desk. His arms folded, he twirled a pencil between his fingers, cocking an eyebrow when I met his question with nothing but flushed cheeks and a sigh. With my back to the classroom door, I stood gripping my books to my chest, ready to dart right back out of the room. Shit. This was only the third class and I’d managed to make a fool out of myself, again, late and out of breath. The sea of faces followed Mr. Campbell’s gaze and I quickly sank into my chair.
“No, sorry. Again,” I muttered, pulling my laptop from my bag. Being late wasn’t the problem. Well, it was. But what was worse was the fact that I was soaking wet. The past three classes, I’d managed to parade through the door like a wet mouse, my boots sloshing across the floor and my trench coat buckle rustling obnoxiously against the cotton fabric beneath it as I made my way to my seat. And let’s not forget the gear I lugged into the classroom. I practically carried my life in my book bag, not to mention my massive, ratty duffle bag that could take out an entire army if I swung it just right.
Each time, my entrance sounded like a bad high school marching band trudging through a concrete jungle. It was the price I paid for walking through the Seattle rain without the right rain gear. I didn’t have the cash for it. Lately, the usual leaky-faucet style rain was replaced with a more relentless kind, with cold, hard drops that drenched you quickly and thoroughly. I took all four of my classes on campus in one day, and at night took a creative writing workshop in Whidbey Hall. After that, I tried to sneak in a nightly swim before I headed home. It was a long day, I needed a lot of my stuff with me, and the ride on the Light Rail was only the beginning of my journey home. It was the only way I could go to school and be available for my other obligations, though, so I made it work as best I could.
“See me after class, Ms. Parker,” Mr. Campbell replied, his irritated expression turning bored, returning his attention to the other students. He let out a deep breath and shifted off the front of his desk, tucking the pencil in his top pocket. I exhaled a breath of my own, peeling off my coat to settle in.
Something about calling him ‘Mr. Campbell’ bugged the crap out of me. He was my age, or at least he looked it. I was twenty-five, and judging by his demeanor, I guessed he couldn’t be any older than twenty-seven. He had a youthfulness about him that made his boyish good looks far too distracting for such a serious class, but his adolescent charm was weighed down by a heavy, brooding countenance that seized every inch of humor from him—if he had any humor, anyway.
The guy never smiled. Wouldn’t crack a grin for anything. It only took two classes with him for me to figure out that he was no-nonsense. His earnest features had a hint of arrogance to them; the way his eyebrows slightly lifted as he spoke seemed to imply he was merely gracing us all with his presence but was tired to death of talking to such amateurs.
Class flew by quickly and I reluctantly made my way down to the front of the room to meet him as everyone filed out the doors.
“Is this going to be a habit, Ms. Parker?” He propped himself against his desk and folded his arms again, glancing at me curiously as I stood at his side. “Because I’m very fond of punctuality, in case you haven’t noticed. It’s high on my list of priorities.”
Good-looking, condescending bastard. “Yes, I’m very aware of that, Mr. Campbell.” I clenched my teeth and brushed wet strands of black hair behind my ear, deadpanning him. “Mondays are really tough for me. I don’t mean to cause a distraction.”
“Well you do,” his eyes rolled over my shoulders, assessing the heavy bags draped over them. “You’re very distracting. Are you carrying your kitchen sink in those bags? If you’re living on campus and just trying to look like an overachiever, you should know that your charade is not endearing, nor is it going to drum up sympathy.” He ran his fingers through his golden brown hair and then straightened his tweed jacket out, brushing off the coat’s arms as he spoke.
I gawked at him, equally mesmerized by his bright hazel eyes and boorish remark. “Excuse me?” My brow furrowed in confusion, bringing me back to planet Earth. “I’m sorry, how is what I carry in my bags any of your business?”
“It’s called dry sarcasm, Ms. Parker. Perhaps you should acquaint yourself with it if you’re going to be taking my class.” He straightened up and pulled the pencil from his pocket again, twirling it between his thumb and forefinger. “You didn’t answer my question. Is this going to be a habit?”
“Wait—wait a minute.” I shook my head and closed my eyes to muster some composure. His smug stance was revolting and I wasn’t in the mood for anyone’s shit, especially not some pretentious professor’s, who couldn’t be any further from preschooler days than I was. “For the record, I’m not living on campus—your sarcasm is dually noted. And as for your implication that I’m trying to look like an overachiever, I don’t appreciate you making assumptions about my character.”
“So you’re telling me you’re not an overachiever.”
“Excuse me?”
“And you are accusing me of assuming when I’m actually deducing.”
“What...”
“Don’t be late to my class again, Ms. Parker. That’s all, thank you.” He turned away and unbuttoned his jacket, reaching for his briefcase next to the desk chair.
I stood still, glaring at him in disbelief. What the hell? “Did you ask me to stay after class to chastise me for being late or to arrogantly insult me after you’ve already made a spectacle of me in front of the entire class?”
He stopped cold when he leaned to lift the briefcase, flashing a small smile as he pursed his lips. Holy shit, alert the media. He knows how to smile, and it’s a gorgeous, take-your-breath-away, heart-stopping one.
“I was simply acknowledging your inability to make a graceful, punctual entrance with all that nonsense on your shoulders, that’s all Ms. Parker.” He turned to face me again, slipping a hand in his pants pocke
t. “No insult was intended. And if you say you are not an overachiever, well...you’re correct,” he cocked his head, “that’s none of my business.” He tossed the pencil on his desk and strolled toward the door, loosening his tie as he did. “Oh. And yes, I believe ‘arrogant’ is a suitable adjective for me. If you have a problem with that, how about you take it up with the dean?” He winked and exited and I remained at his desk, staring at the damn pencil. It took everything in me not to snatch it up and flick it at the back of his head. Oh, yeah. This semester is going to be just peachy.
***
The day zipped by and I stepped outside with Carter to have a quick smoke break before we headed over to Whidbey Hall for our writing workshop. It was 8:00 p.m. and my afternoon classes had been especially excruciating. I thought it a miracle that I’d made it through on such little sleep. At least I’d been able to change out of my soggy clothes earlier in the day after Campbell’s class. That was a nice advantage of carrying my...what did he call it? Oh, yeah. Carrying my ‘kitchen sink’ in my bag. My, my. For a writing teacher, he sure was nifty with the tongue-in-cheek clichés, wasn’t he? Weren’t writers supposed to be all fresh and original?
“I hear Campbell’s tough,” Carter peered up at me through his square, black-rimmed glasses, as if reading my mind. Campbell’s name jogged me from my reverie and I immediately rolled my eyes.
“That bad, huh?” Carter chuckled, bumming me a cigarette and his lighter . His square jaw and scholarly expression gave him an earnest look, but it didn’t fool me. He was a trip and a half. Carter was the one guy I’d met last semester who was my age, just starting college, too. We usually joked about how we both felt like old people encroaching on the younger twenty-something’s college ways. His witty humor often had me in stitches, and it didn’t help matters when we both walked through the halls doing our best elderly impressions; Carter with his imaginary cane and old pipe, and me with my granny glasses and ‘young whippersnapper’ speech. There were days I keeled over laughing so hard that I was sure I’d be unable to pull myself up straight enough to walk to class.
“The guy’s an ass,” I lit up, shaking my head. “It’s a creative writing course and he acts like he’s teaching us how to be neurosurgeons. This was my third class with him and I’ve been late each time. Today he slapped my wrist after class and accused me of trying to drum up sympathy and look like an overachiever.”
“That’s quite the presumptuous thing to say to a student he doesn’t know.”
“My sentiment exactly. He said something about all the crap I carry around and then joked about me living on campus. Like I’d walk around looking like a bag lady by choice.”
“Who the hell does he think he is?”
“God’s gift, apparently.”
We chatted about our day and stubbed out our smokes before we made our way to Whidbey Hall together, bumping into our friend Dean, Carter’s band mate, on the way.
“Hey Kate, you coming to our show Friday night?” He leaned in close and touched my shoulder. “The guys would love to see you there.”
“Yes. Yes, the guys would indeed.” Carter rolled his eyes and smirked. I held back my grin, well aware that he was laughing inwardly at the same thing I was. When Dean spoke of ‘the guys,’ he mostly meant himself. With a body like a Ken doll and hair like Meredith’s McDreamy, I couldn’t figure out for the life of me what he wanted with me. Girls were always pawing all over him, the leggy groupie types that loved unruly, sexy musicians such as him.
But he liked me, with my long, poker-straight black hair, pale skin, and plain-Jane brown eyes. My wardrobe almost always consisted of a t-shirt and jeans, with the exception of the black leather heels I tried to wear from time to time to dress up my wardrobe.
I thought for a moment of what to say, knowing I was broke and couldn’t afford to spend a dime on a night out of all things. “I’ll definitely try to make it. I love coming to your shows,” I sent him a small smile, readjusting my book bag.
“Good, because we’re opening up for that favorite folk rock chick of yours...what’s her name?” Dean turned to Carter, questioning him.
“Uh...Melissa something, I think.”
“Melissa Porter? Okay, you sold me. I’m there,” I hopped up and down like a school girl. I could let him pay for my drink if it meant seeing her play live. “She just put a new album out. I have it at home and would love to ask her to sign it for me.”
“Ah, I see how it is. So you’ll come see this Melissa chick, but not your boys Dean and Carter, huh...” Dean tugged at my sleeve, giving his most charming smile. If it weren’t for the brotherly vibe I got from him on a daily basis, I’d date him in a heartbeat. But it just wasn’t happening, and it was probably better that way. Carter and his musician friends were the only friends I’d made since I moved to Seattle, and I wasn’t very good at the girlfriend thing. The female friends I’d left behind in California were petty and fickle, and I didn’t have any others to compare them to, so I chose to keep things simple. And guys, for the most part, were simple.
“Okay, Kate. We’ll be sure you get a chance to chat with Melissa, but only if you let me buy you a drink—personally. Not the first random douche who hits on you.” He fist-bumped Carter. I still couldn’t get over their cheesy, yet undeniably cute fist bumps.
“Can’t argue with that, Dean. See you then.” I winked and locked my arm in Carter’s, and we stood there, watching Dean stroll away.
“You know the guy’s never gonna give up,” Carter nudged me, letting out a sigh.
“We’d have really pretty babies, huh?”
“Yup. They’d be rad little Brangelinas, running around tearing the place up.”
“Yeah, you’re right. My rejection is such a disservice to the world...”
With a few more fits of laughter, Carter led me to our workshop, chatting me up in his finest faux British accent.
We shuffled into the room still arm in arm, chuckling under our breath about our favorite Briticisms when I looked up and did a double take. Mrs. Meyer was nowhere to be found. Standing in her place was Mr. Campbell, my new, not-so-favorite yet ridiculously hot writing teacher. His name was sprawled across the dry erase board in perfect handwriting, and his favorite pencil was perched between his fingers, his hazel eyes staring me down.
2. PUNCTUALITY
I cleared my throat and nudged Carter. He looked up and glanced at the other four students in the room, his eyes eventually landing on the handsome Mr. Campbell and his name on the board. Glancing over at me in understanding, he pulled his arm from mine and bowed, gesturing to the table next to us. “After you, my love,” he whispered, his goofy British accent still intact.
“Is Mrs. Meyer not coming tonight?” He sat down and addressed Mr. Campbell. I settled into my seat next to him, avoiding our substitute’s deep gaze. He must be in shock I’m on time, staring at me like that.
“No sir, she’s not. Looks like I’ll be filling in for her just for tonight.” He crossed his arms and leaned against the dry erase board, glancing up at the wall clock with militant determination. He peeked at me out of the corner of his eye, returning his attention to the clock when he caught me peeking back.
Carter started scribbling on a piece of paper, passing me a note under the table like we were in elementary school. I crumpled it under my fist and surveyed the room, stifling a giggle. There were only six people in the workshop. The note passing was a bit dramatic, even by Carter’s standards. Opening it up, I let out the laugh I’d been holding.
It read, “Mr. Ass has eyes for you.”
“Do you think he’s cute?” I wrote back, adding, “Circle yes or no.”
“God, you’re such a child, Kate,” Carter whispered under his breath when he read my reply, giving me his most stern expression.
Mr. Campbell eyed us and cleared his throat. Straightening up, he began rustling with papers on the desk. “Okay, guys. I see the roster here says it’s only you six, so I guess I’ll begin.”
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I nudged Carter in the ribs as he stuffed the note in his pocket and finally turned to make eye contact with Mr. Campbell. I looked down immediately. Being in such a tiny classroom with him when there were only a handful of students was unnerving after my brief meeting with him earlier. I was acutely aware of how he made me feel on edge, and it wasn’t just his good looks. Whenever his eyes locked on mine, I felt as if I’d seen something I wasn’t supposed to and that I was being scolded for it somehow. Like everything had shifted off of its axis and it threw my confidence off kilter right along with it. I distracted myself as he began lecturing, flipping through my textbook, picking at the corners of the pages.
We began reading excerpts from our short stories to one another, discussing bits and pieces we were having problems with, volunteering to critique one another’s work in pairs. Mr. Campbell rattled off a few pointers on character development and then wrapped up the session by collecting our latest drafts.
“Ms. Parker, a word?” Mr. Campbell looked up at me from his seat as he filed away our paperwork.
“Um...sure.” Huh? Oh, what now?
Carter and I said our goodbyes and I shrugged my shoulders when he mouthed “Uh oh” to me. He strolled out after the other students and left me with God’s gift.
Taking a deep breath, I willed myself to look him straight in the eyes. “I’m positive I was on time tonight, so I’m not sure—”
“This isn’t about the time,” he stood and leisurely pulled his jacket from the back of the chair, slipping in one arm at a time. “Though, it’s nice to see you’re punctual for someone’s class.”
I watched the jacket form to his body perfectly, suddenly aware of how broad and built his shoulders were. He’s so aware of it, I scoffed to myself, sighing.
“Okay, so what is it?”