Because of Dylan: A forbidden student teacher slow burn romance (Riggins U Book 3)

by Erica Alexander

  “I love them.”

  “I know.” She touches my shoulder. “And they love you back.”

  I feel a connection to these babies. A part of my soul speaks to them, and they speak back to me. From the outside it may look like these babies are the ones getting all the help and love. But that’s not true. Not for me. I get so much more than I put in. I’m in debt to them. These babies don’t judge me. They make me feel clean and worthy of love too.

  Nancy walks away to tend to the other babies, and I’m left with Baby Jay and my thoughts.

  I can let my guard down inside the NICU. No one here is trying to hurt me or use me. Watching the babies thrive and get stronger reminds me I can do the same. If such tiny creatures, so completely dependent on the care and kindness of others, can learn to heal and grow and overcome all the odds stacked against them, so can I. One day I will learn to do it as well.

  The bottle is empty in a matter of minutes. I put Jay on my shoulder and pat his back. The strength of his belch betrays his size and makes me giggle.

  I pace the open area and sing, quietly at first, but Baby Jay likes when I sing louder, and he demands I raise my voice with a series of squeals and gurgles that make me laugh.

  “Okay, little boss. I’ll sing louder for you. What would you like to listen to today?”

  The first few notes of Parson James, Only You, rise in a hum, and I sway with Baby Jay. Words take form in song as I interject Baby Jay into the lyrics.

  I dance with my little partner and sing, my eyes closed, my heart open, pouring all my love into the tiny being in my arms. A song turns into two, three and many more until a light tap on my shoulder gets my attention.

  “Your time is up, Becca.” Before I’m ready for it to end, my two hours of volunteer work for this week are over. The nurse smiles at me in a way I imagine a loving mother would. I inhale Jay’s sweet baby scent, nuzzle his downy head. The nurse takes the sleeping baby out of my arms. He makes a sound of protest, but stays asleep.

  I leave the NICU and the hospital and drive away in silence, trying to hold on to the feel of Baby Jay on my chest. But it dissipates with each mile I put between us until there’s nothing but the sweet ache of the memory.

  I turn my phone on when I return to Riggins and find a text message from my father. I haven’t named his contact on my phone, so it still shows unknown. But I know it’s him. I tap my passcode and open Messenger.

  Unknown: Hi. Can we meet? Have lunch, maybe?

  Unknown: Please.

  I tap the number and add his name to my contacts. A name I have known for years but never even spoke out loud before. It’s surreal.

  “Robert Anderson,” I whisper to myself.

  Becca: Okay. Tomorrow, at noon. Pick a place, I’ll meet you there.

  His reply is immediate.

  Robert: Thank you. Is The Griller, okay?

  He names a burger place ten minutes away from campus.

  Becca: Yes. See you tomorrow.

  Robert: Thank you, Becca.

  I stare at my phone until the screen goes dark, then find my way to class. It will be a long day. I have a shift at the bar tonight and still have to finish a paper for my Monday class.

  My thoughts drift to Tommy again. And his evil brother, Professor Dick, who has occupied a ridiculous amount of time in my mind since that night at the bar. There’s an empty spot in my chest, and it aches. I miss Tommy.

  I’m lost in thought as I follow the throng of students walking down the hall in the Maslow building.

  “Miss Jones.”

  My name, softly spoken near my ear, startles me. I trip on my own feet and drop my backpack to the floor. I’m halfway to a face-plant when an arm snakes around my waist and stops my fall. A few snickers and a mumbled “klutz” make my face flush. A hand at my hip steadies me, I follow it to thank my savior and find Professor Dick staring down at me. I stumble backward, to get his hands off me, and my heel catches my backpack. Now, I’m halfway to falling on my ass.

  My arms reach for him, and he yanks me up. I crash into his chest.

  We freeze.

  He lets go of me like I’ve burned him and jumps back. He clears his throat.

  My face heats.

  Kill me now.

  The exposed skin on my wrist, the very place he touched, tingles. Not with pain. He didn’t hurt me. But he makes me feel … something. I rub my wrist on my jeans, trying to get the sensation off my skin.

  I bend and pick up my backup, killing a few precious seconds until I have to face him.

  He tilts his head a smidge as he looks me over—I look down at myself and what I’m wearing. Nothing special. Jeans, sneakers, and a Riggins hoodie. But his eyes linger, like he’s looking for something or trying to solve a puzzle.

  I adjust the backpack on my shoulders, pulling out a lock of hair that got caught under a strap. His eyes fall to the top of my head and narrow, and again I can see questions in his expression. I know what he sees. My real hair color peeking at the top of my head. The honey-blond hair contrasts with the brown dyed hair. I have to put a stop to his observation and gather my thoughts. It’s only us and a couple of late arrivals to classes left in the wide corridor of the bottom floor. Light shines in from the expanse of windows that face the main part of campus. There’s a riot of colors outside the windows. Oranges, yellows, reds, all a confirmation that fall is here, and winter is not far behind.

  I drag in a breath, bite my lip, and finally speak. “I guess I should thank you for keeping me from falling. Twice. But then again, if you had not creeped behind me, none of it would have happened.”

  “I did not creep behind you. I simply said your name when you walked past me.”

  He always sounds so cold and controlled. Like a freaking robot.

  “Why?” Walk away, Becca. Just walk away.

  “Why did I say your name? Isn’t that what polite people do when they meet someone they know?” One corner of his mouth quivers in almost a smile.

  “Yeah, but we don’t really know each other, do we? We met once.”

  His right eyebrow rises in challenge.

  “Or twice.” I correct myself since I know he’s thinking of the time he caught me with Lucas in his classroom. “Neither time was pleasant nor memorable. It was pretty fucked up as far as meeting people goes.”

  His eyes narrow at my free use of the F-bomb. But I don’t have to make nice to him. I know he’s the reason Tommy stopped talking to me. And it pisses me off.

  He tilts his head again. “You look like you want to … hit me.”

  “Well … if all you have is a hammer, everything looks like a nail.” I hate that he’s so tall, forcing me to look up.

  His eyes widen. “Interesting choice of words.”

  “Why is that? Because I quoted Abraham Maslow, the very guy they named this building after?”

  “You surprise me, Miss Jones.” And with those parting words, he leaves. I track him until he turns up the stairs and disappears from view.

  What’s that supposed to mean? I surprise him? How?

  Chapter Ten

  I get to The Griller first and ask for a table in the back. I want the extra time to find a spot out of prying eyes and ears and to prepare myself. I need to get into the right headspace to talk to my father. There’s a tug-of-war going on—my mind and my heart at opposite ends with me trapped in the middle. My heart says, “listen to him. Give him a chance.” But my mind says, “fuck him and the horse he rode in on. You don’t need him. You don’t need anyone.”

  But I know that’s not true. No matter how often I tell myself I need no one, no matter how much I fill my time with classes, volunteering, work, my internship, and meaningless hookups, at the end of the day there’s an emptiness that can’t be filled. There’s a void I cannot name, and my quick friendship with Tommy only serves to make it even more real. Tommy may be asking for help and looking for a friend in a place where he doesn’t know anyone, but it’s me who’s lost.

 
This time, I’ll try something different. This time, I’ll listen to my heart and give my father the second chance he’s asking for. And maybe, just maybe, I can give myself a second chance too.

  “Becca? You’re here.” He looks surprised and relieved at the same time. “Can I?” He points to the chair across from me on the other side of the table and waits for my permission.

  I gesture to the chair. “Yes, please.” It comes out more formal than I intended.

  My heart speeds up as the silence stretches between us, second by second, until it’s unbearable, and I have to break eye contact. I reach over and grab the icy water glass the waitress placed in front of me ten minutes ago. Moisture condensing on the outside makes it slippery, and I nearly drop it when my trembling fingers make a grab for it. I’m turning into a klutz. At this rate, I won’t survive the weekend.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “I know I’m staring. I can’t help it. It’s all so very surreal still. You look like my mother at your age. I brought pictures. I thought it might be a good way to start.” His words come fast and clipped, all in one breath, as if he needed to push them out in a rush before he lost the courage to say them. “Do you want to see the pictures now?”

  The irony is not lost on me. I can’t find my words, and he can’t hold his in.

  “You ready to order?” The waitress is back, giving us a much-needed break. I suck in a deep breath and hold the air in my lungs, expanding under the conscious effort to keep it in. A trick I learned years ago.

  Inhale as I count to five, hold to a count of ten and exhale until my lungs are empty again, and I can feel my chest concave. Repeat until my heart rate slows down to a normal pace. I do this now, deferring to him so he can order first. I take the time to look at him while he looks over the menu and asks for a cheeseburger, fries, and a Coke. He’s wearing a gray T-shirt under a zip hoodie and dark jeans. A thick manila envelope sits on the table next to him. I’m staring at it. At the hidden pictures it must contain—a part of my history which I know nothing of.

  “And you?” The question has me blinking a few times. Yes. Lunch. What do I want? My stomach recoils at the idea of eating, but I force myself to smile at the waitress. It’s not her fault I’m a head case. “Yeah, I’ll have a veggie burger and fries. And water is fine. Thanks.” She takes our menus and disappears between the tables, leaving me without a shield again.

  “Are you a vegetarian?”

  “No, not really. But I figure it’s an easy way to get my veggies in, and their veggie burger is delicious.”

  “Hmm, I’ll have to try that next time.”

  Another stretch of silence. My eyes drift to the envelope. “Are those the pictures?”

  “Yes, do you want to look at them now?”

  “Sure.”

  “May I?” He points to the chair next to mine.

  My shoulders shrug in response, and he takes that as a yes and sits next to me, bringing the envelope with him. I move my glass to the side to make room as he pulls out what must be dozens of pictures from the envelope—in all sizes and different states of wear and age. Some are black and white, some faded color, some are torn on the corners and others look newer, shiny and unmarred by time or touch.

  “I figured I could show you these, and then you can ask any questions you may have about me or anything else.”

  My eyes dart everywhere, taking in snippets of images as he sets the pictures in a neat pile right in front of him.

  The first picture he shows me is black and white and torn at one corner.

  “They are your grandparents.” He flips the picture and shows me the back—1969 is written in faded black ink on the yellowing paper. “They were fifteen here and high school sweethearts.”

  He gives me the picture, and I hold it with no small amount of veneration. I’m holding history in my hands and something flutters in my chest. A sense of belonging I’ve never experienced before.

  “Are they still alive?”

  “Yes, together and sickly in love still. It would be cute if I wasn’t so disturbed by the amount of handholding and kissing I saw my entire life.” He laughs, and I join in, the carefree sound escaping my lips almost alien to my own ears.

  I do the math in my head. They’ve been together for over fifty years. I can’t imagine such an enduring love. My eyes sting and I reach for the water glass, more careful this time, and take a sip to push down the knot forming in my throat.

  The next picture is in color, albeit faded, and shows his parents again. On their wedding day. His mom—my grandmother is wearing a simple white dress, fitted to her torso and loose from the waist down. A short veil on her hair, and curls framing a beautiful face. I can see a bit of myself in her.

  “She’s beautiful.”

  “You look like her.”

  I nod in agreement, but I don’t think myself beautiful. I never did. But looking into my grandmother’s face makes me wonder how harshly I’ve judged myself.

  “How old was she?”

  “Twenty-two.”

  “My age … and she already had her life figured out.”

  “I don’t think anyone has their life figured out at any age.”

  He heard me. I didn’t intend to speak my thoughts out loud.

  He rubs his chin. “I think everyone is bumbling around, but some people make it look easy, while others are still trying to figure how to make amends, apologize and figure out where to go from here.”

  His eyes are fixed on mine, an array of emotions skate through them until they mist, and my father blinks several times. He clears his throat and pulls the next picture out of the pile in front of him. “Ah, this is two years after they got married. And that fat baby is me.”

  His father holds a fat baby dressed in blue as his mother gazes at them. My heart constricts. I bite the inside of my cheek. Something dark and ugly washes over me. This should be me. I should have had loving parents who cared about me and took pictures. As fast as it comes, I push it away. The green monster has never helped anyone, least of all me.

  I spent a lot of years angry and jealous of other kids when I was younger. But by the time I started high school, I realized that a lot of the happy faces were masks, and under the fake smiles and mean words they were no different from me. They might have had parents that cared, and food on the table, but all of them were trying to fit in or make believe they did. I knew I never would fit in and didn’t bother to try. I was and would always be an odd piece. Unmatched. And unwanted.

  The waitress comes back with our food and again saves me from my thoughts. If I had any extra money lying around, I’d hire her to interrupt me every so often with her timely, if annoying, presence. I pick a fry and take a bite. To my surprise, find I’m hungry. We eat, my father and I, as he shares picture after picture. Telling me little stories here and there, the colors in the pictures getting more vivid with each passing year.

  He gestures as he speaks. “They were poor, yes. My father worked as a day laborer, and jobs weren’t always available. Mom cleaned houses two towns over and had to take a bus to work. My grandma helped and watched me when they were both at work. Despite everything, we were happy.”

  He picks up another picture. One of him in uniform. “I had a plan. Join the military as soon as I graduated high school. It would be one less mouth to feed at home, and I could make money and help my parents.”

  He takes a drink of water. “Your mother and I, we were the same. We didn’t have to pretend to have more than we did. But where I had loving and caring parents, your mother didn’t.” His eyes drift to the pictures between us, and he picks one up and places it in front of me. Our plates were cleared a while ago, and the bill was paid. He insisted on paying. I didn’t fight him.

  The picture shows both of them, my mother and father. It had to be summer as they were wearing T-shirts and cutoff jeans. My mother was even skinnier then. The line of her mouth challenged anyone to judge her, but the haunted eyes betrayed her true feelings. There was hopelessness
in them, but even that was better than what showed in her eyes the last time I saw her. There was nothing left in the dark irises. She was an empty shell, and I left before she and the men in her life turned me into one of them.

  He taps the picture. “Her father was a mean man, given to bouts of violence when he was sober and much worse when drunk. I don’t think he ever hurt her, but the same can’t be said about your grandma. No one knew we were together. We were both terrified of your grandfather. This picture is the only one of us together—my mother took it on the last day of school.”

  His gaze is lost in memory. “She took so many photos … someone she worked for was a photographer, and he gave her an old camera and developed the films for her for free. Otherwise, I don’t think we would have this many pictures.”

  “And my mother’s parents?” Are they alive now, or did my mother also lie about it when she said they were both dead?

  “I left before I found out your mother was pregnant with you, and I didn’t keep in touch with her or anyone other than my parents. What I know, I heard from others years later.”

  “Okay …”

  “The day your grandfather found out your mother was pregnant, he went ballistic. He wanted to know who the father was, and your mother refused to tell him. He beat her, and when your grandma tried to intervene, he beat her too. Someone called the police, and they arrested him.”

  “Good.”

  “Yeah, but they didn’t keep him long enough. Five months later he was out and right back where he left off. But this time he didn’t beat them. This time he kicked your mother out.”

  “While she was pregnant with me?” My heart tightens.

  “Yes.” He looks away from me.

  I lean into the table. “She had to be seven or eight months pregnant by then.”

  He squeezes the back of his neck. “And remember, I had no idea any of this was happening. By then, I was away in boot camp and then deployed.”