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

by Erica Alexander

  I want to ask what the hell is he doing here, but rein in my inner bitch. “What can I get you?”

  “A Dos Equis.” It’s a repeat of what he had the last time he was here. I don’t ask if he wants the lime this time, just add it to the bottle, and slide it in his direction, making sure to avoid the few inches of space between my hands and him. He catches it, pushes the lime all the way in, and brings the bottle to his lips. He has beautiful hands, long fingers, like a pianist. Hands that create instead of hurting.

  “Do you play the piano?” The question is out of my mouth before I realize what I’m saying. What the hell? What do I care if he plays or not?

  He hesitates, the tip of the bottle paused on his bottom lip, a tiny lime pulp touching it. His gaze on my face. He lowers the bottle without drinking, the tiny pulp stays behind, and his tongue comes out and captures it. My entire body freezes. I hold my breath, and then inhale as if by doing so I could rewind time like the old VCR player we had when I was a kid. As if I could take that question back or my eyes away from his lips.

  My toes curl inside my sneakers. I cross my arms over my chest, chin up in defiance. Muscle memory takes over. I brace myself for mockery or insult. Neither comes.

  “I play. Did Tommy tell you?”

  My head denies his question first with a slight shake. “No.”

  He tilts his head; curiosity tinges his beautiful face. “How did you know?”

  I shrug.

  His long and tanned fingers with short, clean nails tap the aged wood top of the bar again. He waits for an answer.

  I force my shoulders to relax. Uncrossing my arms, I gesture toward his hand. “Your hands. You have the hands of a pianist.”

  His eyes widen, his brows arching in response to my words. He’s surprised by my answer. I like that I put a chink in his shallow view of me.

  He grabs his beer, takes a long pull. The lime inside bobbing with each gulp.

  He points at me with the bottle's neck. “Do you play?”

  “No, always wanted to. Never learned.” Jesus! Why am I talking to him?

  “Never too late.”

  “Yeah, well, piano lessons are expensive. And time consuming. I’m running on a time deficit as it is.”

  He chuckles at that. “Aren’t we all? Time is like a dog chasing its tail. Just when you think you got it, you have to let go, and start all over again.”

  “Much like a dog chasing its tail, I don’t think we’re meant to catch time.”

  He takes another drink, the bottle almost empty. “No?”

  “No. To use your dog analogy, if time is the tail, then it should be as nature intended. It stays behind while you look forward. Time will pass anyway. Trying to look back and catch up with it only wastes the time you have now.” The words come to me with such a clarity. I’ve been thinking so much about my past over the last few days, weighing what the therapist said against my own perceptions. And now—just now—because of what Professor Dick said, everything clicks into place. Like a dog chasing its tail, I’ve been chasing and holding on to my past. And like a dog, when it finally catches up and bites its tail, it only hurts itself.

  He looks at me, eyes narrowing with intensity, the amber color hidden behind thick, dark lashes. The bottle dangles an inch above the bar top by three fingertips. He takes the last sip. Tilts the bottle on its edge, rolling it back and forth in a semicircle, the neck dangling from his fingers.

  “That’s an interesting concept, Miss Jones.” He lets go of the empty bottle, and it wobbles for a second before standing still. He reaches for his jeans pocket and pulls out a twenty. “Good night, Miss Jones.”

  Why does he always say my name like that? In that cold tone? He’s gone before I can react.

  What the heck is happening?

  I need somebody to tell me I'm not having a hallucination right now. I grab my phone and text River.

  Becca: You're not gonna believe what just happened.

  River: What happened?

  The reply comes in seconds, she must have been holding her phone.

  Becca: Professor Dick left here a minute ago.

  River: What?

  Becca: Professor Dick was here.

  The phone vibrates in my hands, and the screen shows River's face. I tap the green button to answer the call.

  “What? What do you mean Professor Dick was there? Where are you? What did he do? What did he say?”

  Wow, take a breath, girl. “I mean exactly that. I'm at work, at the bar, and he showed up. Asked for a beer, drank it and left.” But that wasn’t all, was it?

  “That's it? He said nothing else?”

  “Well … we talked a little.”

  “I knew it!” River shrieks so loud I have to pull the phone from my ear.

  “Knew what?” There’s nothing to know. Or is there?

  “I knew he has the hots for you.”

  “You’re insane.”

  “Nope. I know these things. He’s hot. You’re hot. You two are gonna burn the sheets! It will be like KABOOM and WHOOOSHHHH.” She makes special effects sounds and giggles.

  “No! He’s a professor. Of ethics, no less. He would never, ever get it on with a student. Ever!” I'm already regretting calling her. River will never let me live this down.

  “I call dibs on the maid of honor spot—”

  “You really are insane.”

  “And you have to name all your babies River.” She goes on as if I hadn’t said a word. I have to laugh. River never knows when to stop. I need to put the breaks on the delusion train and stop the madness.

  “I have to go, River, it’s getting a little busy here.”

  “Coward.” Yeah, she got me there, I don't want to talk about this any longer.

  “Forget I said anything. I have to get back to work. Bye now.” I hang up before River has a chance to say anything else, but my mind lingers on what she said. Especially the burning-the-sheets part. Sound effects and all. And I’m not averse to it. Not at all.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Tension melts away with each step I take closer to the babies. The NICU is my happy place. Most people wouldn’t think of a place where at-risk newborn babies are kept as happy, but for me, these babies are a clean slate, a haven, a home for second chances. And God knows I need all the second chances I can get.

  I’m about to get into the scrub room when the text message comes. I'm not surprised to see his name on the screen. My father has been texting me every couple days.

  Robert: Good morning, Becca.

  Robert: Hope you are okay. It’s been a few days since we met.

  Robert: I would like to see you again. Maybe grab breakfast?

  He wants to meet again—for breakfast this time. Seems like all the meetings revolve around food. Like the universe is trying to compensate for all the days and nights I went hungry. The universe can be a bastard sometimes.

  I think of everything that the therapist said … and about the odd conversation I had with Professor Dick last night. I don’t even know where that came from, but the thought hit me with such a clarity, with so much depth and certainty, I knew it to be true the moment the words left my lips. I’ve spent my entire life chasing my past like a dog chasing its own tail.

  The therapist’s words come back to me again: That which never changes.

  The truth is I’ve been waiting for my father my entire life. Even when anger replaced hope, and resentment replaced longing, that want was still there—dormant, silent, biding its time until it showed up again.

  Can I fit my father into my life now? Is there room for him in it? Is there room for me in his life? He seems to believe there is. He seems to believe that we can heal and make up for the lost time.

  I search for the pain that shadows all thoughts of my father—the barbwire that wraps itself around my heart whenever I think of him—and it’s not there.

  What happened to it? Where did the resentment go? I want to deny this vacancy in my chest where anger once existed
. It’s too soon, too fast for forgiveness. I’m not ready to let go. I want to chase the hurt, bite its tail, hold on to the familiar pain.

  I stand there staring at a screen long gone dark. Is my misery a habit? My bitterness a choice? A companion I choose to keep at my side?

  It hits me like an avalanche.

  A sob rises up my throat, and I clamp my mouth shut, press my lips together, keep it all in.

  This is not the place.

  This is not the time.

  I won’t sully the NICU with my dark and dirty past.

  I put my phone and bag in the locker behind me. Scrub my hands and arms until the skin is pink and tingles. If only it was this easy to wash everything else off of me.

  I dry my hands, put on a gown, shoe covers, a cap. Walk into the room. Look at the dozen or so babies. I envy their innocence, their raw potential, their unmarred lives.

  Nancy smiles at me. Baby Jay in her arms is a reminder that not every life starts unmarred. It humbles me. I force myself out of my pity-party for one and allow my love for this child no one wanted to swallow me. I take Baby Jay in my arms, immerse myself in the warmth of his small body and breathe in his sweet scent. I listen to his little cries, close my eyes and sing.

  Two hours is not nearly enough. My time is up.

  I leave the hospital and get to my car, shivering while I wait for the crappy heater to come to life. I grab my phone, my father’s text messages still on the screen. I unlock the phone to respond.

  Becca: Breakfast would be nice.

  Dots dance on the screen. The inside of the car is still not warm enough. My hands shake while I wait.

  Robert: Wonderful. How about tomorrow? Around 9:30? I can pick you up.

  I’m not ready to be this close to him, to be confined to the small space of a car without a way out. The sting may be gone for now, but who’s to say it won’t come back?

  Becca: Thanks. But I can drive. Where do you want to meet?

  Robert: How do you like the Waffle Bear? I got reservations.

  Waffle Bear? That place is impossible to get in. You have to wait hours for a table. And they don’t take reservations.

  Becca: I’d have breakfast with the devil if he got me into the Waffle Bear. How did you manage that? I thought they didn’t do reservations.

  And a part of me wonders if I'm having breakfast with the devil tomorrow.

  Robert: The owner is a long-time friend. We served in the army together.

  Becca: Wow, okay. I’ll meet you there tomorrow at 9:30.

  Robert: Great! Talk soon.

  I don’t reply. I plug the phone into the car charger and turn up the radio. The temperature inside is finally a few degrees warmer than the outside. I drive to Riggins with a flood of thoughts.

  My father also has a story. We all do. We’re telling ourselves stories and listening to other people's stories, and sometimes those stories don't go together. Sometimes two stories have chapters that don't overlap until much later.

  This is the kind of story I have with my father. There’s a prologue, and then we skip straight to chapter twenty-two. Looking at my life as chapters, only written as I go along, makes it easier to look forward. But looking back becomes that much harder because I get to see how well I didn’t do.

  I spent so many years blaming my mother for everything that happened to me. And yes, she was responsible for a lot of things. Her neglect, her hateful words, what she allowed to happen right under her roof. But if I'm being honest with myself, when I was older, I could have chosen differently. I could have asked for help. I didn't have to believe the stories my mother or Theodore told me. There comes a time when one has to take responsibility for their actions.

  The only way to move forward is to leave the past behind.

  I can choose to be who I want to be. I can create a new story.

  A story in which I'm worthy of love.

  So, I say yes to meeting my father again.

  I say yes to the love he wants to give me.

  I say yes to starting a new story.

  It terrifies me.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Waffle Bear is madness, especially on a Saturday morning. The parking lot behind the two-story log cabin-style restaurant is full, and I maneuver my car to the back where I find a spot under a tree bare of leaves. The naked branches reach for the sky like fingers looking for the warmth of sunlight in the chilly morning.

  “I know how you feel, tree.” I shake my head. “Great. Now I’m talking to trees too. If I didn’t need therapy before, I do now.”

  I step out of my car and lock the door. Tilting my face up, much like the tree, I soak up the weak warmth. The cornflower sky is clear of clouds.

  My phone vibrates, breaking the moment.

  Robert: I’m here. By the big bear.

  I pocket my phone without answering and walk around to the front of the building. Despite the chilly morning, there are people everywhere with pagers in hand waiting for their turn.

  I visited Waffle Bear only once before during my first year at Riggins. River treated me to the best breakfast I’ve ever had. Now I’m here again in my last year at Riggins. If my father hadn’t invited me, I don’t know that I would have returned. I’m in the habit of denying myself things I love. The insight digs into my brain. Learning my worth is a battle I must wage against myself.

  I find my father next to the big bear—a nine-foot grizzly carved out of a single log. My heart speeds up, and I scratch at my chest. He looks younger than forty in dark jeans, a T-shirt and a gray jacket.

  A smile lights up his face as soon as he sees me, and my steps falter. I cover my hesitation with a wave.

  “You’re here!” He steps closer, arms out as if welcoming me with a hug. I stop short of reaching him, shove my hands in my jacket pockets. This is much too soon for touching. Even if a part of me craves the love and attention he wants to give me.

  “Yep. I’m here.” I look around at all the waiting people milling and huddled into each other. Couples, friends, families. No one could guess that this is only my third time meeting my father.

  He gestures to the door, smiling at me still—his whole heart shines in the crinkles of his eyes, in the curve of his mouth—he’s happy I’m here. A part of me wants to do something mean and wipe the joy from his face. But I stop myself. Repeat the question that’s now a mantra, a prayer, a guiding light in my web of self-harm and misdirection.

  What is the truth?

  Who’s the real me beneath all the crap and all the lies I tell myself?

  I find comfort in the question. It keeps me in check, giving me something to hold on to and stop me from drowning in misery.

  I search for the me who holds babies for hours, who volunteers in soup kitchens, who helps strangers. I hold on to her and smile at my father.

  “Ready?” His arms drop, and he steps closer to the door, pulling it open for me.

  I walk through the massive glass and wood door. “Thanks.”

  The loud hum of voices, laughter, and the familiar notes of a country song I can’t name greet me along with the sweet scent of waffles, sugar, cinnamon, and the sharp smoky and salty smell of bacon. My mouth waters like Pavlov’s dog. I wasn't hungry before, but I'm hungry now.

  We’re greeted by a girl about my age.

  “Hi.” My father steps closer to her.

  “I’m Robert Anderson, and this is my daughter Becca. Our names should be on the list.”

  The girl taps away on her computer screen and smiles at us. “Oh, yeah. The boss said to give you the best seat in the house.” She waves a waiter over and gives him two menus. The waiter wears a friendly smile and Harry Potter glasses. We follow him to the back and up a wide set of stairs. We sit across from each other at a booth set along a thick glass wall facing a lake.

  “I’ve never been up here. I didn’t even know there was a lake. You can’t see it from the street.” The view is spectacular with the lake nested among evergreen trees like a blue gem r
eflecting the sky. The restaurant sits alone on a road flanked by trees and nature everywhere.

  “It’s so much quieter up here.”

  My gaze darts all over, taking everything in. The glass and log walls lined with booths, the many carved wooden animals propped into niches and the totem pole that stands in the open center through both. It’s just as busy up here as down below, but the conversations are more sedate. The atmosphere less chaotic. And despite the opening in the middle, the sounds from below don’t quite reach us.

  “Yes, Michael added soundproofing between the floors and a white noise machine around the opening.”

  “Is that your friend? The one who owns this place?”

  “That’s him. Michael Bear.”

  “Wait, Bear is his last name?”

  He smiles. “You didn’t know that?”

  “No, never really put much thought into the name.”

  “We both served in the army. Together in the same unit for three years.” His smile falters a little, and shadows dim the light in his eyes.

  I can’t imagine what kind of tortured memories he holds. I guess we both have some darkness to overcome.

  The awkward silence stretches between us, but neither looks away. We’re saved by our waiter when he arrives with water, lemon and orange slices dancing inside the pitcher he places between my father and me.

  I glance up and freeze. The waiter mistakes my reaction for interest and smiles at me. A hint of cockiness in his face. He reminds me of Theodore—a younger version of the man who still haunts me inside my mind. The way he hovers at the edge of my seat. Looming over me. I’m trapped between him and the wall. He’s too tall, too muscular, too smug. I scoot away an inch or two, drop my gaze to the general direction of his chest.

  “Need a couple more minutes?” he asks.