I’m not so sure about that.
He continues. “I want you to find someone you can trust and rely on. Find one person. And talk to them.”
“What if they hate me? What if they judge me or pity me or stop being my friend because of what I say?” Nausea swells in my stomach.
“I think you’re smarter than that and you know who you can trust.”
The only person I can talk to is River. I know she won’t turn against me.
I give in. “I have someone I can trust.” My voice trembles.
“It’s scary, I know, and I don’t want to push you. But I think you are ready. And you don’t have to reveal every little detail. You can be brief and generic. And you can choose what and how much to reveal. But it’s import to find someone in your life you can talk to.”
“Are you telling me this because I said I was mad when I couldn’t talk to you right away?”
“No. I’m telling you this because healing requires light and trust. Hurt has a way of festering and getting bigger and darker than it already is when it stays hidden for too long.”
If that’s the case, mine must be the size of Godzilla by now.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
My phone rings somewhere on my bed. I dig under the blanket. River’s face flashes on the screen.
“Hey, River, I only have a minute. I’m running out. Have a test in fifteen minutes.”
“I can’t believe you have a test. It’s three days before Thanksgiving!”
I hold my phone against my ear with a shoulder while I lace a sneaker. “I know. They had to reschedule it for today because of the canceled classes last week.”
“A lot of people left early. They should have canceled the rest of classes until after Thanksgiving. Have the tests then. And you should have come home with me.” Her voice sounds muffled. I finish lacing the second sneaker while she rants on.
I stand up. “It’s okay. The campus feels so weird, though. The halls are so quiet.” Even more so than normal before a big break or holiday. The shooting five days ago still hangs over everyone’s head. “I got to go. Call you later?”
“Yep. Good luck on your test.”
“Thanks.” I hang up, shove the phone in my back pocket and grab my backpack. I open the door to leave my room and nearly crash into Tommy.
“Jesus Christ, Tommy! You scared me. I almost peed myself.”
His laughter echoes in the empty hall.
I push at his chest and close the door behind me.
He pulls me into a hug. “You avoided me the entire weekend. Not cool, Becca, not cool.”
I hug him back, his gentle chastising stings and makes me even more awkward. Why is it easier to hook up with a stranger than to accept the affectionate hug of a friend?
He pulls back and drapes my arm over his like we’re an eighteenth-century couple. We walk to the elevator.
He pushes the down button. “So, I came here on a mission, and you can’t say no.”
I already don’t like it. “What are you trying to get me into?”
“Nothing bad. I want to invite you for Thanksgiving.”
My head is shaking like it’s on automatic pilot. I’m so used to declining invitations like this. I don’t do family holidays. And now I have three invitations. My father, River, and Tommy.
I still remember Thanksgiving freshman year. River dragged me along to her family’s farm. It was beautiful and heartbreaking. I got to see firsthand what I’d been missing my entire life. I never imagined there could be such a love. I have missed and envied it since. No. I don’t need another reminder.
His smile falters at my silent rebuttal.
He tugs at my hand, and we walk outside. “Come on, Becca, say yes. Please.” Tommy makes puppy eyes at me and holds his hands up in a begging motion. The weak sunlight makes a halo around his head and gives him an even more angelic and innocent face. My walls crack.
“I’m not much of a family-getting-together-Thanksgiving kind of person.” I hike up the straps of my backpack and quicken my pace.
“Nothing to worry, then, it’s me and my brother. And now you.”
“Just the two of you? No family or friends?”
“Just the three of us,” he corrects me.
Thanksgiving with Tommy and Professor Dick? How weird and awkward would that be after the moment we shared in his office?
“I don’t think your brother likes me very much. Not sure it would be a good idea for me to show up at your house.”
“Of course, he likes you. He always asks about you. I don’t know where you got that. It was his idea to invite you. Not that I wouldn’t suggest it, but he beat me to it.”
The concept of Professor Dick asking about me and liking me is so alien I trip on my feet. Tommy holds my arm and steadies me. “Please, don’t go breaking a leg just to avoid dinner.”
Should I? Should I accept this invitation? A part of me is screaming that I’m crazy for even considering. But another part—a bigger part is all too eager and curious. I haven't seen Professor Dick since the shooting. I want to go. I need to see if what we shared that day is still there, or if it was my imagination.
“Just the three of us?”
Tommy is bouncing on the balls of his feet, giddy like a little kid on Christmas morning. “Yes, just the three of us, I promise.”
I should say no. Why am I even considering going? This is crazy. But I need to see him again, and Tommy is so happy, I don’t want to refuse him. “Okay. I'll come.”
He throws himself at me, and we crash into a hug. I can’t help but laugh. I guess I’m getting used to his simple affections that ask for nothing in return.
This means I’ll have to say no to my father's invitation. I already said no to River's invitation. But at least now I have a real excuse.
“What can I bring? I can't really cook or bake anything, dorm life and all.”
“Nothing. Dylan's a great cook. Bring your sweet self around three o’clock.”
Three days. I have three days until Thanksgiving. Three days to change my mind and come up with an excuse that lets me get away without hurting Tommy. Or three days to push through.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
She’s leaning on the glass wall taking in the morning sun, face tilted up, eyes closed and lips barely parted. She’s partially hidden by a column and so still passersby don’t notice her presence. I may have missed Becca as well had I not been looking for her.
There’s more to Becca than meets the eye. What secrets is she keeping under her sharp tongue and abrasive demeanor? She’s so unguarded now, she looks like a different person.
Softer.
Gentler.
I want to hold her again, inhale her scent, touch her without the barrier of clothes. My fingers tingle with the need to feel her skin. I want to kiss her and find out what she tastes like. My body aches with the familiar want. My heart thunders faster as I give in to the fantasy.
“Who are you, Becca? What secrets do you guard so ferociously? And why do you act like you hate me?” I speak the words silently, hoping somehow the answers will come to me.
The ruckus of loud voices and laughter breaks the spell. Both mine and hers. She’s watching the men now. Riggins football players. If theirs faces weren’t already well known, their sizes would give them away. The four of them move together like a wall made of muscle and bones. In sync, in and out of the field.
Becca’s no longer enjoying the sun.
The closer the men get to her, the smaller she gets. Shoulders curving in, face angled down, hiding behind a curtain of hair, eyes downcast watching their feet. Her entire body rigid with tension so thick I can feel it from where I stand. The voices get louder, Becca gets smaller, her hands ball into her chest, she turns away from them, just enough to become even more invisible, but still watching their every move.
They walk by, and she freezes. As their voices fade, and each step adds distance between them, Becca unfolds. Hands open, fingers flex and arms
drop, her shoulders uncurl, her face tilts up, and as she reverts to her original spot, her eyes dart around. But I’m the only one watching her, and before Becca can see me, I step back into my classroom.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
I squeeze my hands around the steering wheel to stave off the trembling of my fingers. I’ve been sitting in my car staring at the house for minutes. The well-cared-for lawn is still green, but it won’t be long before snow and bitter cold dulls its color to a muted yellow. It's a beautiful house in a middle-class neighborhood with lots of space between homes, and nothing like the cramped, crappy house I grew up in.
As welcoming as this neighborhood is, all I can hear in my head are the words, you don't belong on repeat.
I suck in a breath and release it. I turn off the car and grab the wine bottle I bought so I wouldn’t come empty-handed. Stepping out, I look at the house again. Like most of the houses on the street, it has two floors and sits in a nest of well-trimmed trees and shrubbery. The home is so inviting with its cream-colored siding and stone face—my nervousness is temporarily abated. Movement through a large bay window catches my gaze. Someone knows I’m here. No going back now.
Tommy opens the front door before I’m halfway up the walkway. He rushes out on socked feet and pulls me into a bear hug, squeezing all the air out of me.
“She's here,” he yells over his shoulder as he drags me into the room.
Rich mahogany hardwood covers the floors of the open-concept home. From where I stand a few feet inside the door, the living room is to my left. Bookcases line the wall opposite of the bay window. The far wall houses a huge wood fireplace with an even bigger flat-screen TV on top. Soft chocolate-brown leather couches face the fireplace. The center table is made of a single slab cut from a tree and at least three inches thick, polished to perfection and beautiful with its uneven shape and knots. A deep red carpet underneath it all makes the space cozy. Paintings and other artwork cover the walls. In the back corner, there’s a baby grand piano.
My fingers itch to touch it, even if I can’t play.
The home is such a discrepancy from my own, I’m momentarily off-kilter. Like an alien looking in through a window. I shut down the insistent voice telling me I don’t belong and take a deep breath.
The smells of baking and roasting invite me farther in, and when I turn around, I see him. Professor Dick—Dylan. He wipes his hands on a dish towel and drops it on the counter before crossing the space between us with an extended hand. Dark-wash jeans and a black Henley make him look younger. Like Tommy, he wears socks only.
“Miss Jones. Welcome to our home. Glad you could make it.”
So formal. “Call me Becca, please.” His hand is soft and warm against mine.
“Is that for me?” He points at the wine bottle I’m hugging against my chest like a shield.
“Yes. I'm not sure if you like wine. I can’t really cook or bake living in the dorm. Tommy said you didn't need any food and had everything covered. I figured a bottle of wine would be okay.” I’m babbling. My voice sounds hoarse to my ears and a little wispy too.
I give him the wine and realize he's still holding my hand. There's an awkward moment when we let go and look away from each other. When I look up, he smiles, his face lit up. My body sways a little. I want to touch that smile with my fingertips, memorize it on my skin, save it for later.
Tommy clears his throat. “Okay. This is cozy. Dylan, shouldn’t you go back into the kitchen before something burns? And you, Miss Becca, come with me and help me set the table.” Tommy smirks like the Cheshire cat.
I forgot he was there. What the hell is wrong with me?
Dylan blinks and steps back with the wine.
Glad I’m not the only one zoning out.
Tommy takes my hand. “Take your boots off, you’ll be more comfortable.” He lifts a foot and wiggles his toes, showing me his sock with a turkey leg design and separated toes like a glove.
I laugh and take my boots off by the door, glad I have my favorite and warmest socks on.
I help Tommy set the table. “This is a beautiful set.” I admire the antique rose and gold pattern on a plate.
“Yeah, Dylan saves them for the special occasions, Thanksgiving and Christmas, and that's it.”
“Is it a family heirloom?”
“Yes, belonged to our grandparents. They're gone. They're all gone now.” His voice deflates.
Tommy looks at the table as if lost in memory. Perhaps happier memories. Then he glances up and offers me a small smile.
“I’ll be right back.” He walks down a hall.
Not sure of what to do, I walk back to the living room and look out the window. Wind knocks down the last few stubborn leaves from the trees, they dance in the air for a moment before falling to the ground. Everything gets knocked down eventually. I blink away the negative thought and turn away from the window. The bookcase draws me in. I run my fingers over the spines of several books, the kind you’d expect to see in the Harry Potter library. Old leather-bound books, antiques by the look of them. There are photos too. Several of a couple, probably in their forties, smiling at each other. More frames with the same couple and two boys, Dylan and Tommy. Tommy is very young in most of the pictures. Maybe six or seven years old. Dylan is a teenager, tall and skinny. He smiles freely. These are happy pictures. There’s so much love in them. In the way they touch, in the way they look at the camera, so open and carefree.
I search the walls of the room for newer pictures and find none. My gaze drifts back to the image of a smiling Dylan. A smile not unlike the one he gave me earlier. The kind of smile that melts cold hearts.
“That's our parents.” Dylan’s voice startles me. He is inches away.
I breathe in. A hint of his cologne teases my nose—fresh, clean, wintry.
He hands me a glass of wine.
I take it, my hands surprisingly steady. “Sorry. I didn't mean to pry.”
“Nothing to be sorry about. The pictures are out in the open for anyone to see.”
“But something tells me you don't get a lot of visitors.” What the hell? Why did I say that?
Dylan tilts his head. “How can you tell?” He sips his wine.
I look around. “I don't know. Just a feeling. This house looks like it was well-loved, but now it feels a little empty.” Fuck a duck! What’s wrong with me? Shut up, Becca!
He nods, takes another sip. “True. The house is mostly empty now. With Tommy in the dorms, it’s only me here.”
“If this was my home, I’d never leave.” Oh. My. God. I look at the wine I have yet to touch. I can’t even blame it for the deluge of words coming out of my mouth.
Dylan smiles openly, like in the picture. My heart flutters into an uneven tempo.
“This house used to be filled with voices and laughter and noises. There were always people over. So much so I had to go outside to be alone.”
I like this open version of him. I like this Dylan. There's no Professor Dick here right now. I hesitate, not sure where we stand—if this is proper or not—but I’ve already put my foot in my mouth, may as well shove the entire leg in.
“What happened?” I think I already know, but I don't want to speak the words in case I'm wrong. And I hope I'm wrong.
“We lost them—our parents, years ago in a car accident on Halloween.” He gestures at one of the pictures with the almost empty glass. His father and his mother, her hugging him from behind, wrapped around his shoulders.
On Halloween? That’s why Tommy ghosted me. I’m so stupid. “I’m so sorry. I know it’s just words, but I really am. Looking at Tommy and you and this house, it’s easy to see this was a happy home.”
He shrugs.
“You said it was years ago, but Tommy is eighteen. Who raised him? And you?”
Silence stretches out as the seconds tick. Dylan takes a long gulp, finishes the wine.
“I raised him.”
“You? You must have been a kid yourself.”
> He presses his lips together and, his shoulders go rigid for a second. “I was. I had to grow up fast.”
“I can’t imagine how hard it must have been.” I don’t know what’s worse. To have never had loving parents or to have them and lose them at such a young age.
“Some days I still can’t believe I managed it.” Dylan looks at his empty glass and then at mine, full still.
“I had to fight for custody. I couldn’t let him go to a foster home.”
“You had no other family?”
“No. It was the two of us. No uncles or aunts, and our grandparents died years before. But luckily my parents had life insurance, and that was more than enough to pay for everything we needed.”
I press a hand against my chest, rub at the ache blooming for him. For Tommy. For all that loss. I want to reach out and touch him, soothe the pain I see in his eyes. But I can’t. I hold myself back. Curl my toes into the floor to keep from moving. “But how did you do it?”
He nudges the corner of a frame, taps on the shelf. “I switched colleges and moved back here to be with Tommy and care for him. I changed my major, organized all my classes around his schedule so I could be home when Tommy was home. The first couple years were the hardest. But after a while we got used to our new routine.” He takes my glass and drains the wine.
The gesture is simultaneously intimate and abrupt. A myriad of emotions fleets through his face. He’s not over the loss regardless of what he may have said or how long ago it was. The need to pull him into my arms and hug him as tight as I can until all the pain I see in his eyes disappears, grows. The impulse is so strong I have to cross my arms and dig my nails into my palms to keep from doing exactly that.
He looks at both empty glasses, a questioning expression on his face as if he didn’t know how he ended up here and what happened to the wine.
“I think we both need a refill.” His voice is husky.
He walks away, and I watch him retreat into the kitchen. He refills both glasses and looks at me across the room.
Because of Dylan: A forbidden student teacher slow burn romance (Riggins U Book 3) Page 15