Sweet Nothing

by Henry, Mia

  “Cheers,” I whisper, and raise my glass.

  A long, steamy shower kneads the anxiety from my body, and I feel almost human again as I towel-dry my hair and slip into a sleeveless white sundress and sandals. The dress is slightly wrinkled, but I didn’t pack an iron, so it will have to be good enough. I dig a small pair of turquoise studs from my jewelry pouch, slide on my glasses, and add a careless swipe of sheer pink gloss.

  According to my itinerary, I’m supposed to use the morning to organize my classroom. The afternoon holds lunch with my faculty mentor and a few boring but necessary errands: getting my faculty ID and parking pass; attending a computer training to set up my Email and online gradebook.

  Waverly and Gwen aren’t around when I finish getting ready, so I grab the campus map and keys on my dresser and step into the hall. Our cottage is a square, made of stucco and glass, with a small, open courtyard in the center. I picture Waverly, Gwen, and me hanging out in the evenings, grading papers and swapping student stories over sushi and chilled white wine. It’s a nice image, but I’ll have to be careful around Gwen.

  Once I’m outside, I wonder why I showered in the first place. The humidity is so thick that I feel like I’m walking through water. I’m used to humidity. What I’m not used to is the smell here. Instead of subway stench oozing through the grates and onto the searing pavement, a fresh, saltwater scent slips through my hair and tickles my skin.

  The rows of faculty cottages occupy a few side streets to the west of the campus. The Allford Academy campus itself spills over several blocks on the south side of Miami, just west of Biscayne Bay. I consult my map and follow my street onto a gated, lush campus dotted with sparkling white modern structures, similar in style to the cottage. On the other side of campus, the bay is bright and blue-green.

  It only takes ten minutes and four wrong turns to find my classroom, which is large and airy, with a glass wall that looks over the bay. I can see why Gwen would be shocked to come from Queens to this place. It doesn’t feel real.

  I spend most of the morning arranging my textbooks, plants, and posters, all of which I ordered online and shipped before I left New York. Then I settle in at my laptop to put the finishing touches on my syllabus and lesson plans. I lose myself in terms, definitions, and group project assignments. And for a split second, drift into a daydream about what life would have been like at Wharton. I see myself in lecture halls with brilliant professors, telling me about their positions with international corporations, about the books they’ve written and the research they’ve done. I picture my life starting. My real life; the life I was supposed to have.

  And then I pull myself back, because this kind of wishing is pointless. Torture. This is my life now. I rub my eyes beneath my glasses and glance at the clock. 12:30.

  “Oh, shit.” Pawing frantically through my purse, I search for the day’s itinerary. I find it, smooth out the wrinkles, and scan my list of activities.

  12:15 Lunch with faculty mentor (Location TBD)

  “Oh, SHIT!” I throw my keys and cell into my purse and scoop my files and notebooks into a pile, trying to shove them into a too-small leather tote. “Ohshitohshitohshitohshit.” How could I let this happen? I haven’t even been at Allford for 24 hours, and already I’m missing important meetings? At this rate, I’ll get fired before the week is out. I sprint to the door, my hand slippery with sweat against the doorknob.

  I’m standing in the hallway, gasping for air, before I realize I have no idea where I’m going. I consult the itinerary again.

  12:15 Lunch with faculty mentor (Location TBD)

  “Ahhhhh,” I moan. I close my eyes and lean against the closed door, knocking the back of my skull in even rhythm against the wood. The welt from my throw-down with Dr. Goodwin’s mantle hurts like hell.

  “That bad already?”

  My eyes snap open. I blink, just to make sure I’m not hallucinating or having a stress-induced stroke. Then I blink again.

  “Luke? What—why are you—” I stammer.

  “Fifteen minutes late? I’m really sorry. I got caught up with somebody. Didn’t mean to keep you waiting.” He smoothes the rumpled salmon-colored t-shirt he’s wearing with gray shorts. Instantly, my gaze finds its way to his hands again. The green swipe of paint from last night is still there, joined by splatters of orange and bits of dried clay.

  My head is whirring with questions. I want to ask them all at once. “But you—you’re not—”

  “Your faculty mentor?” He smiles and shrugs. “Guilty.”

  I don’t think I could tear my gaze from his hands if I wanted to. Unless, of course, it’s to look into his eyes. Today, they look more green than blue. Every cell in my body is acutely aware that I am pressed against my classroom door. And he’s just a few inches away. “But you’re… the guitar player!”

  “And the photography instructor, and the art teacher and ceramics guy, and, for one brief but humiliating season, the boys’ chess coach.” Is it my imagination, or is he leaning even closer? “What can I say, Ms. Sloane? I’m a complex guy. Many layers.”

  “I’ll bet.” He smells like the beach. I sneak a deep breath.

  “And you’re Econ. First year out of NYU; first teaching gig.”

  “You know an awful lot about me, Mr.—”

  “Poulos. Luke Poulos. And I don’t know that much about you, actually. Just what little the school’s told me.” I can see the chiseled lines of his chest and arms rise beneath the smooth cotton of his shirt. I wouldn’t mind sneaking a peek beneath that particular layer. Stop it, Elliot.

  “But I do know a little about life at Allford,” he says, pulling a pair of aviators from his t-shirt pocket and sliding them on. “You ready?”

  I nod, hoping I’m giving off a breezy, confident energy. Knowing I’m not. “I’m ready.”

  It’s my first lie to Luke Poulos. I wish it could be my last.

  chapter four

  Elle,

  He did it. David, I mean. It went like this: we’re walking home from Balducci’s, and he tells me out of nowhere that we need to talk. And I’m stupid enough to believe he’ll say something comforting. Like how he’s going to be there for me until this is all over. Instead, he tells me it’s not working. It has nothing to do with dad, or the trial, or the tabloids. It just… isn’t working. Asshole.

  It’s dangerous, isn’t it? When you trust a man enough to hope he can make your world safe? I believed that about Dad, too. Fool me twice…shame on me.

  Love you for infinity,

  A

  “Elle. Trust me. It’s perfectly safe.” Luke is standing next to the silver moped in the faculty lot, making surprisingly convincing puppy dog eyes. He unearths a helmet from the compartment beneath the seat. “It comes with accessories. Women like accessories, right?”

  I raise an eyebrow. The left one, which is my don’t bullshit me eyebrow. “First of all, I can’t pinpoint exactly why that’s sexist, but it is. And second of all, I’m not most women.”

  “Obviously.”

  Is he flirting, or teasing? I’ve never been good at telling the difference. I look at the ground. At the glorious, solid, unmoving asphalt.

  “Call me picky, but I really would like to make it to the first day of school in one piece.”

  “And I’ll make sure you do.” He moves closer and slips the helmet over my head. “Promise.”

  “Seriously, Luke, I’m not sure about this,” I announce, ignoring the way my body vibrates when he’s close.

  “You’re not sure because it’s a first,” he says simply.

  “Huh?”

  “You’ve never done it before. It’s a first. And that’s a good thing. I try to do one first every day.”

  “Good for you,” I grumble.

  “Trust me,” he says again. “You can hold onto me the whole way.” As he adjusts the chinstrap, his fingertips graze my neck. I’m sure he can feel my pulse, heavy and throbbing beneath his touch. I shudder.

  “Are
you okay?” His brow furrows as he pulls away. “Look, if you really feel unsafe, we can—”

  “No.” My voice is raspy, flustered. “I’m okay. Let’s go. Now.”

  Luke doesn’t tell me where we’re going, and I don’t ask. Instead, I wind my arms around his chest and hold on tight. Mold my body to his as we lurch out of the parking lot. He’s solid; strong. Which I’d probably be able to enjoy if I weren’t about to die.

  “So, how long have you lived in Miami?” I yell into his t-shirt. Ridiculous, making small talk like this, but maybe it will distract me from the fact that there’s nothing between me and the road but rubber and a few pieces of scrap metal.

  He shakes his head and taps his ear.

  “Both hands!” I scream.

  The road slips beneath us, silver-gray, and then we’re crossing the bay. A tiny part of me wants to drink it all in, watch the world run past in fast-forward. Instead, I stare at the back of Luke’s tanned neck. Every muscle in my body is taut. My heart is thundering, drowning out the wind and traffic and the voice in my head, telling me that even a physical attraction to Luke is dangerous. Salty air slips under my dress and across my skin.

  On the other side of the bay, we veer north. The buildings are colorful and square, dipping past slowly now. Palm trees line the median. I force myself to breathe. In and out. In and out. You probably won’t suffer a debilitating accident today. Probably.

  Before long, we’re parked behind a pink stucco building. Every nerve in my body is buzzing. From the thrill or the terror, I can’t tell.

  “See? That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Luke jumps effortlessly from the bike, then helps me to my feet. I feel woozy, like I’ve just spent a month on a sailboat and am finally reaching dry land.

  “It’s all relative.” Every inch of me is sweating. “We’re not maimed or dead, so I guess you could call this a success.” I tug off my helmet and pitch it at him. Hard.

  He catches it. “What kind of faculty mentor would I be if I maimed my mentee on the first day?”

  “A tor-mentor?” The joke just pops out. Possibly the worst one I’ve ever made. Humiliating.

  He snorts and rolls his eyes. “Your jokes are men-torture.”

  I can’t help laughing. “Nerd.”

  “Hungry nerd,” he corrects me. “Come on. Let’s eat.”

  Soon we’re seated inside a tiny restaurant with just a few picnic tables and a dusty concrete floor. The lighting is dim and the fans overhead do nothing but nudge the hot air from one side of the room to the other. The walls are bare, except for one poster: a faded advertisement for a local beer.

  “You really know how to charm a mentee,” I joke, fanning myself with the laminated menu in front of me. It’s sticky.

  “Just wait. I know it doesn’t look like much, but the food here is incredible.”

  “Another first.” I duck to catch my reflection in Luke’s aviators. My bangs are plastered to my forehead, and my cheeks are bright pink from the wind and heat.

  “Stop.” He reads my mind. “You look great.” He takes off his sunglasses and deposits them next to the smudged napkin dispenser.

  “Oh. Thanks.” I glance down, pretending to scan the menu. But the words on the page don’t register. I can feel his gaze on me, traveling my skin. Frankly, I’m grateful for the table between us. A little space can’t hurt. A reminder that I have to keep him—everyone—at a distance.

  “The ceviche here is killer,” Luke murmurs as a waitress deposits two gigantic cups of water with lemon on our table. “Best in Miami. So are the fish tacos. Oh, and they have this mango iced tea that—”

  “Sold.” My near-death experience has left me starving.

  The waitress nods and heads for the kitchen.

  “So,” Luke begins. “I’m supposed to tell you everything there is to know about life at Allford. Which is lame, because you’ll figure things out as you go. So why don’t you tell me your life story instead?”

  If I did, you’d run screaming. “Woah. You don’t waste time.”

  “True. We have no idea how much time we have in this life. No sense wasting it.”

  “Aaaand, things just got deep,” I tease.

  “I’m serious,” he laughs. He takes a long swig of water and chews his ice thoughtfully. “Small talk is for people who don’t have anything interesting to say.”

  My water glass is starting to sweat. I trace a cursive e on the side of the glass. “What if some people can’t handle other people’s interesting?”

  “Now who’s deep?” Luke laces his fingers together on the table and leans toward me. “Okay. Two truths and a lie.”

  “What?”

  “It’s a game. I play it with my classes on the first day of school, as kind of an icebreaker. I tell you two truths and a lie, and you have to guess which is the lie.”

  “And if I win?”

  “You get to have lunch with Allford’s worst chess coach on record.”

  I’ve never been able to resist a little competition. “Try me.”

  Luke’s face goes blank. “I grew up overseas, I’ve broken both arms and my left leg, and once when I was a kid, I got stuck in a palm tree.” His voice is monotone, giving nothing away.

  “Hmm.” I twirl my straw in my glass. “The broken limbs thing I can believe. Probably moped-related.” I study his features. His lips switch slightly. “So that’s a truth. And in related news, I’m catching a cab home.”

  “Your loss. Continue.”

  “The palm tree thing is too weird to be a lie. Soooo… I’m guessing you didn’t grow up overseas.”

  “Eeeeenghhhhh!” He makes a buzzing noise. As in, an actual old-school game show buzzing noise that makes me laugh so hard my stomach hurts.

  “You did not just buzz me!” I choke, reaching for my glass.

  He looks proud of himself. “Truth: I did get stuck in a palm tree once. Tree-climbing contest. A very understanding firefighter eventually carried me down. Marlon, if memory serves.”

  “Sounds romantic,” I sigh.

  He ignores me. “Another truth: I’ve never broken a single bone in my body.”

  “So you grew up overseas, then?”

  He nods. “From ages 8 to 15, I lived in a tiny town outside of Athens, Greece. My father was Greek. He and my mom and I moved there when I was a kid, for his work.”

  “So why’d you move ba—”

  “Here we are. Two mango iced teas, two blackened fish tacos, and ceviche to share.” The waitress bends between us, depositing enormous plates of food and a bowl filled with raw fish on the table. I breathe in the earthy scents of cilantro and lime.

  We eat in silence for a while. Luke’s right: this may be the best meal I’ve ever tasted. The fish is crisp and spicy; the ceviche perfectly sweet. I like that we can sit quietly. I like not having to fill the space between us with words; stories that aren’t mine.

  “So.” I stab the last scallop from the ceviche without the slightest bit of remorse. “You never said why you moved back to the States.”

  Luke’s eyes change from light blue to gray, like the ocean before a storm. “I, um…” He coughs. “It’s a long story.”

  “Ahhh,” I joke, trying my best Greek accent. It sounds Russian. “Crazy Greek girlfriend, no?”

  He shakes his head. “My parents… we were in a car accident. They passed away when I was 15.”

  “Oh, God.” You know better, Elliot. I didn’t mean to—”

  “No. It’s okay. Really.” He looks just past me, his expression hazy. “It’s been a long time, obviously. It’s just… people always say this kind of thing gets easier with time.”

  I nod.

  “I’m still waiting, you know? For the easy part.”

  I feel the sting of recognition, somewhere deep inside me. Because I know. I know what it’s like to lose everything in an instant. To feel a wound so deep, so gaping, that you are positive you will never recover. I want nothing more in this moment than to tell him that it’s p
ossible to heal. That grief fades. But I could never promise Luke something I don’t believe myself.

  Impulsively, I reach across the table and grab his hand. “I know what it’s like to lose your parents.” My words tumble in whispered scraps, settling on the table between us. “Believe me.”

  His eyes sharpen in sudden focus. “You lost your folks, too?”

  “I did.” It’s not a lie, exactly. Saying anything else, giving any more of my story away, isn’t smart. I know that. But I can’t stop. There’s something about Luke that makes me feel safer than I am. “Not at the same time, exactly. But I lost them both in the space of a year.”

  “Hey.” Luke squeezes my hands in three short bursts.

  “What was that?” I ask.

  “Nothing.” His laugh is sheepish. “Just this thing I used to do with my grandparents after my folks died. I used to hate it when someone would say ‘I’m sorry’ after the accident. Because—”

  “It’s so hollow.”

  “Exactly. A fucking ‘I’m sorry’ doesn’t mean you understand. And it’s not going to bring them back. So every time my grandparents wanted to tell me they were sorry, they’d squeeze my hand, three times fast.”

  “I like it.” I do. And it makes me want to cry. I squeeze his hand back, three times. Neither of us pulls away until Luke’s phone buzzes in his pocket.

  He checks the screen. “I’m really, really sorry,” he says earnestly. “I don’t usually do this, but I have to take this call.”

  “Go ahead.” I lean back, grateful for the interruption.

  Luke swipes the screen of his cell with his thumb. “Hey. Everything okay? Is she—now? Okay. I’m on my way.”

  “I’m really sorry, Elle. I’ve got to take care of something.” He’s all business now, a quick mood shift. “But I’ll drop you by campus so you won’t be late for your training, okay?” He fishes a wad of bills from his pocket and tosses them on the table.

  “I—is everything okay?” The energy between us is suddenly gone. Evaporated. I don’t want to pry, but he suddenly seems so different that I’m curious. It’s more that that. I want him to trust me. Ironic, coming from me.