Dylan's car is parked in the same spot as last night. I look around before opening the door. No one is paying attention to me. I get inside.
“Thank you for picking me up so early.” The therapist’s advice flashes back in my mind, and I blush and look out the window to hide my face.
Dylan starts his car. “Eight thirty isn’t so early.”
“It is if you don’t have to get up and can sleep in, especially when it’s so cold.” I look down, avoid his eyes, and adjust my jacket under the seatbelt.
“My first class is at eleven, it’s no biggie.” He glances at me, then back at the road.
Something is different. I can’t figure out what, and I can’t stop thinking about it. “What changed?”
“What do you mean?” His hands curl around the steering wheel.
I debate speaking up and breaking this … whatever this is. Here goes nothing. “You were a dick to me.” The words are harsh, but my tone is neutral.
His eyebrows rise in response.
“You were a jerk when we first met. Now, you're not. What changed?” We come to a red light.
His shoulders drop, and his head follows. He closes his eyes, nods, and then looks at me.
“I deserve that. And I'm sorry. I owe you an apology, and I should have apologized earlier.”
“That still doesn't answer my question.”
His fingers tap on a knee. “I made a harsh judgment about you based on things I overheard and things I didn't fully understand.”
If I could poke around his brain and read his mind, I would, and then I could avoid the questions. But I can’t. And I can’t deal with not knowing or understanding what’s going on. I don’t know where we stand. Where I stand.
I look at him. “Explain.” The car behind us beeps when the light turns green. “Please.”
He opens his mouth, closes, opens, closes, and nothing comes out.
Another beep. He drives.
I reach to him, touch his hand on the steering wheel. “Don't hold back. Tell me what you're thinking.”
His hand flexes underneath mine. “Remember the first time we met? The very first time.” His eyebrows go up.
How can I forget how he found me kissing Lucas in his classroom? “Yes, you caught me kissing a boy in your classroom.”
He glances at me and back at the road. “I didn't like that. When I first saw you two, before I realized it was you, I was annoyed, but I also remembered being a teenager in a college. I understood. My only intention was to get you two out of my classroom before the next lecture started. But when I saw it was you, I got angry.”
That makes no sense. “Why? You didn't even know me.”
“But I did. Well, maybe not in person. But I knew you, I noticed you.”
“I don't understand.”
He laughs. “You are an attractive woman. I'm a guy. I noticed.”
I'm at a loss. I've never seen him look at anyone with anything other than cold politeness and utmost professionalism.
“You noticed me?”
“Is that so hard to believe?”
“Yes! Look at you!” I wave my hand up and down at him. “You could have anyone you want. The students, the staff, the teachers—they all have the hots for you.”
“No, they don’t.” His eyebrows dip into a V.
“Yes, they do. And if you’d look around and pay a little more attention, you’d see that too.”
He slows down, making a right turn. “It doesn't matter. I don't care about them. I would never get involved with one of my students. And we got sidetracked. I owe you an apology, so this is me apologizing right now.”
His students or any student? He said my student. He pulls into the empty parking spot next to my car. How did we get here so fast?
“That first time we met”—he makes air quotes—“I got angry because I wanted you, and I couldn't have you.” He runs a hand through his hair. “And then I heard stories about you being …” He looks at me. “This is not me saying I believe any of those things I heard, okay? I want to be honest with you.”
“What did you hear?” But I already know. I’ve heard the same words myself.
“I heard people saying you go after the freshmen. That you have some kind of fetish for them.”
My body revolts against the words, even though I know they are true. Just not the way people think. “And if it’s true?”
“I have no say in how you live your life or who you date, Becca. But I was a jerk. I was jealous and took my anger out on you, and for that, I apologize.” He opens his mouth as if to say more and then presses his lips together.
“Thank you. I appreciate your honesty. I dated some freshmen. But not because of a fetish or fantasy.” I don't give him anything else.
He looks straight ahead. “And then I saw you with Tommy. And he couldn’t stop talking about this new friend he was hanging out with. And all I could think was that my little brother was being used. I got angry.”
I’m taken aback by his candor. “Tommy and I were never together like that. We’re just friends. He's like a little brother to me.”
He takes off his seatbelt. “I know that now. After the first time we met at the bar, Tommy came to my office at Riggins and ripped me a new one.” He laughs, his gaze lost in the memory. “I had no idea he had it in him. He made me proud.”
“Tommy is a good kid. You should be proud.” I adjust the heat vent away from me. Why am I so warm?
Dylan shifts toward me, and with two fingertips, tucks a lock of hair behind my ear. “For the last two years I have been watching you from a distance.”
“Two years?” Never mind butterflies. There are seagulls dive-bombing in my stomach.
“Yes. I never planned on acting on it. I just like to look at you.”
Whoa … he likes to look at me? “I don’t know if I should be flattered or really creeped out.”
He grimaces. “Even before that day in my classroom, I knew you. I watched you, paid attention whenever you were around. I didn’t like the things I overheard. I hated when I saw you with someone. But to be completely honest, the main reason I was mad is because I wanted that guy to be me.”
Chapter Forty-One
He wanted it to be him? Him instead of Lucas? Something warm and unexpected tingles inside me. The sensation is so foreign to me, it takes me a while to identify. Is this a spark of … joy?
“You did?” My voice is the squeak of a bird.
He leans in and wraps a long lock of my hair between his fingers. “I still do.”
I don’t know what to do with this revelation. He wants me. And I want him too.
“What does this mean?” I’m in unfamiliar territory here. I have no footing.
“It means I care for you, and I’d like to get to know you better, take it slow, see where this goes.”
“Where this goes?” My heart flaps around in my chest like a bird fighting its cage.
“Yes. You lead. I follow.” His gaze drops to my mouth.
I’m falling, falling, falling. The ground is gone, and I have nothing to hold on to. All the barriers I carefully constructed around me, around my heart, crumble.
You lead, I follow. Those simple words did me in. He’s offering me control. Putting me in charge of this … whatever this is between us. The therapist’s advice comes back to me.
Take a chance.
Let it be.
My heart sprints. Each beat is a command. Take a chance. Take a chance. Take a chance.
I take a chance.
I lean in and kiss him. Our lips touch, soft and warm. We linger, not moving—not just yet. He waits for me to lead, and I do. I take charge, my mouth on his. I lick and nibble, shift in my seat and get closer, grabbing his jacket and pulling him to me. His hands go into my hair, and he anchors me to him. Our tongues play a chasing game, retreating and advancing in a dance as old as time.
Shivers dance on my skin, igniting fires everywhere. I want to climb on his lap, press myself against hi
m, soothe the growing ache. The confined space fights us, keeps us from getting closer. It’s a curse and a blessing because going slow is the last thing I want to do. But I need to. Maybe if we go slow, we can make this last.
I pull away, just enough to part our mouths, our chests heaving in the same air. He presses his forehead to mine and kisses my cheek. His lips warm and damp on my skin. We stay like this until our breaths regulate, go back to normal, and the cold outside sneaks into the car again.
His eyes crinkle in the corners, his smile easy, happy. I want to kiss that smile and make it mine. But I sit back instead, still not sure of what’s happening. Heave in another deep breath. “I thought you said you didn’t get involved with students.”
His smile falters, and I want to smack myself. “I said I would never get involved with one of my students. And I never have. Or any student.” He tugs at my hair gently. “But you’re not my student. And I have restrained myself for far too long.”
I shake my head, still in disbelief. “I had no clue.”
“This kiss is worth two years of watching you from afar.”
My cheeks burn. I press my hands on my face to stop the blushing. “I can’t believe you’ve been watching me for two years.”
“And now I sound like a total stalking creep.” He laughs, breaks the tension.
I want to stay here with him, but I have to go.
He’s watching me. “You have to go, right? Let’s get your car started.”
He grabs cables from the back seat, and we step outside. He has my car running in minutes, and I can’t help thinking if he’s also jump-starting my heart.
“I think you need a new battery. Your car may not start once you stop, and you’ll get stuck again. Do you have time to get a new battery before you have to go? I know a place, it should take no more than thirty minutes.”
I check the time on my phone. It will cut it close, but I can do it. “Yes, if it’s just half an hour.”
I follow him in my car to a place five minutes away. Dylan handles the conversation, haggles on the price and gets the battery installed and running. It’s surreal. I’ve never had anyone do anything like this for me. Ever. I have to hold back and stuff my hands in my pockets to keep from touching him.
“I know you have to go, but maybe we can talk? Tonight?” He tilts his head, his eyes amber-gold in the sunlight.
“Tonight’s okay.” Wind whips my hair into his direction, as if it craves his touch as much as the rest of me. He lifts a hand, drops it. Looks around. His gaze lowers to my mouth. I can still feel his lips on mine, still taste him.
I understand. There are rules. Rules we’re breaking. We’re in a public place with lots of people coming and going and not hidden from view in a deserted parking lot behind Gus’ bar like before.
“Tonight,” he confirms before walking away.
I watch him, questioning everything that happened. With each step he takes away from me, my doubts and worry grow. He can’t find out the truth about me.
So many complications.
He’s a good person. Responsible. Caring.
I’m a mess. Chaotic. Tainted. Broken.
No, you’re not. You’re kind and smart and generous.
He doesn’t need someone like me in his life. He needs someone sweet and pure and wholesome. You can be sweet and wholesome too.
And there’s Tommy to think of.
What good can possibly come out of this?
Take a chance.
Let it be.
You don’t have to marry the guy.
I laugh at the last one. As if. I’m not marriage material. I’ll die the way I was born. Alone and unwanted.
Not true. You have people who love you.
Take a chance.
Let it be.
I get into my car. Relish in the warmth inside. Drive to the hospital. My thoughts are a jumbled mess of opposite messages.
Take a chance.
Why bother? He’s not for you.
Let it be.
You’re going to hurt him and yourself.
Dylan: Tonight.
The message comes as I’m walking into the NICU. I smile. Something that feels like hope flutters in my chest. I turn off my phone, put my stuff in the locker, and prepare to scrub. I can do this. I can lead if he’ll follow.
Chapter Forty-Two
“Good morning, Becca.” Nancy is all smiles when I walk into the NICU.
I muffle a yawn. Spending half of the night talking to Dylan was worth every sleepless minute.
“Good morning. You look happy.” I check myself, make sure everything is in place—gown, cap, shoe covers.
“I am. We have great news. Baby Jay is going home.” She claps her hands.
I miss a step. I’m clobbered by her words. And I know she can read it on my face. Her smile fades. Her hands go to my shoulders. My eyes burn.
“Now, now. None of that. I know you’ve grown attached to him. And him to you. But this is good. A wonderful family will foster him. And they’re moving to adopt him.”
“When?” My chin quivers and my voice cracks.
She presses her lips together and squeezes my shoulders harder. “This afternoon. All the paperwork was ready to release him yesterday, but I called in a favor and asked them to pick him up today so you can say goodbye and meet the family.”
A nod is all I can manage. I knew this day was coming as it has many times before. Leaving the NICU is a wonderful thing for these babies. They fought hard to live. They have earned it. Going home with their parents is the ultimate goal. Why does this hurt so much, then?
I find my little man. His thin arms shake in excitement when I lean over his incubator. “Not yours, Becca. He was never yours,” I whisper to myself.
“Hi there. Ready for your lunch?” I take Baby Jay out of the incubator and nuzzle him to my chest, inhaling his heavenly scent. My eyes sting. I find an empty rocker and sit with him. He turns his head and looks at me with gray-blue newborn eyes that are too big for his face. His mouth opens and closes to form a little pout.
“Okay, sweetheart, I got your bottle right here.” He takes to it with a strength he didn’t possess a few weeks ago. He’s ready. I know he is.
“You put weight on, didn’t you?” His skin is rosy and healthy. No longer showing the tiny blue-green veins underneath. Jay feels less frail in my arms. He’s a little over two months old now, and finally the size of a newborn child. He finishes the bottle, and I burp him. His hands close into fists and open again.
“Okay, okay, I know what you want.” I settle him on my chest and hum all of his favorite songs while walking around the NICU and swaying back and forth with his little head on my shoulder. His strong heart beats against mine. I push all of my love and hopes for him into his chest through our tenuous connection.
“Becca?” Nancy’s voice reaches me. I don’t have to look at the clock to know my time with Baby Jay is over. I turn. They’re standing just inside the doors. My legs bring me closer to them against my will. Next to Nancy is the hospital social worker and a couple in their thirties. They’re dressed in the same sterile coverings I am. They are here for Baby Jay. The tears I’ve kept at bay this whole time spill. Nancy and the couple join me in the silent crying. The social worker checks her watch. Too used to such displays, and too callous to shed a tear over one more baby. I’ve never liked the woman. She’s strict and unfeeling.
Nancy is the first to recover. “Becca, please meet Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds. They’ll be fostering Baby Jay, and—”
The social worker steps closer, an open folder in her hands. “You mean baby John Doe. Naming foundlings is discouraged and—”
Nancy steps in front of the social worker and interrupts whatever she was about to say. Something unpleasant, for sure. “The Reynolds family have also adopted another NAS baby. She’s three years old now and thriving.” This is directed at me. She turns to the couple, her back to the social worker. “Becca, like me, believes all babies are deser
ving of a name, and she named him Jay.”
Mrs. Reynolds gasps and tears fill her eyes anew. Her husband puts an arm around her, pulls her closer and kisses her head. When he looks at me, his eyes are wet too. “Before we found out we couldn’t get pregnant, we had all our kids' names picked. We wanted four kids.” He wipes the corner of an eye. “Jay was our first pick for a boy name.”
“You see,” the wife speaks, “both our fathers have the middle name Jay, and we always joked that one day we would have a baby boy and name him Jay. We lost our fathers last year, within five months of each other. This is like a sign they are okay, and this baby is meant to be ours.”
The clamp around my lungs eases, and I can breathe a little better. I’ve never been one to put any faith in signs, but this moment seems to have been etched on fate. Baby Jay coos. I kiss his head, inhale his scent one more time and give him to his future mom. “Take good care of him, Mrs. Reynolds. I’m going to miss this little guy.”
She takes him from my arms, and he goes without protest. Perhaps another sign this is meant to be, that he knows he’s in the arms of his mother. “He likes when you sing to him.”
“Nurse Nancy told me all about you. I don’t want this to be a goodbye. We live in town. We would love for you to stop by and visit.”
A sound of irritation comes from behind Nancy. The social worker steps around her. “In cases like this, it’s best to cut all ties with the former caregiver.”
“This is not the case of a parent giving up their rights. Those rules do not apply here,” Nancy speaks up.
“Let’s go, please.” The social worker indicates they should leave. They follow her, but Mr. Reynolds comes back and shakes my hand. He presses something into my palm and whispers so low I can barely hear him, “Nancy warned us about the old hag. Both of our numbers are there. Call us.” I almost snort at his description of the social worker. Clasping the piece of paper he gave me, I cross my arms until they leave. Then, unfold the paper in my hand.
Call us.
802-555-0712
802-555-3849
Steve and Claire Reynolds
Because of Dylan: A forbidden student teacher slow burn romance (Riggins U Book 3) Page 21