I got to my feet abruptly. I needed to stop living in the past. I moved around my desk and started picking up the textbooks I’d told my last class to leave for me to collect. We only had one set of books per teacher, so they needed to be shared. I set my first stack on the window sill, where they were kept when we were not using them. I snatched up a paper airplane from the ledge, whose flight path landed it there. Holding it aloft, I charted my own course. Destination, trashcan. Noting some writing on the craft’s underbelly, I lowered it, unfolding its wings so I could read it. Boring! was scripted in elaborate and—I had to admit—pretty cool graffiti-type lettering.
Ernesto.
I snorted. The kid’s artwork was easily identifiable by its style. I could light fireworks under his desk and he would be bored. School was simply not his thing. But graffiti—graffiti was in his wheelhouse. He really had talent. The sketch blossomed into full color in my mind. I’d seen enough of Ernesto’s tags around town to get a feel for what it would look like. If he’d only put this much energy into my class, he’d be passing. But some kids’ present-time situations overwhelmed them and drew their focus, making history seem irrelevant. I’d heard the art teacher talking in the faculty lounge about wanting Ernesto to attend a certain art camp, but his father said he needed Ernesto at the family’s grocery store. It was a shame.
I sighed and bent to pick up a stray Snickers wrapper. A double no-no—eating in class, and bringing peanuts into the peanut-free area of the school. Rebel.
I wonder if Zoe has this much clean up to do in her room at the end of every day. I’m pretty sure folding paper airplanes is a bit beyond a kindergartener’s skill set. And, of course, their pictures would be more rudimentary. I wonder if she has an Ernesto. A student already showing talent in some area, but their gift will be squandered rather than encouraged.
And there I was, thinking about her again. Not knowing about her life was painful to me. I trudged back to the opposite side of the room to collect more books. I got to the third desk and the book totally fell apart in my hands, almost making me drop the other two. The guts of the American history book were separated from the spine and covers, like a banana peel.
Great. One less book to work with.
But just before I was about to relinquish it the recycle bin, I got an idea. A brilliant idea, about how to solve Tim McCallister’s problem.
Chapter 4
Nick
I strolled through Zoe’s living room, nosing about while she changed. I needed information about her to guide me in our conversations. I didn’t want to say the wrong thing.
While I searched, a debate was being waged in my mind.
She is a female, so it’s gonna be at least an hour before we’re out of here and I’m starved.
My gaze roamed over everything. No magazines or knickknacks graced the glass-topped coffee and end tables, just a cool, swirly wrought iron candle holder with five short candles in it. I ambled some more. A laptop sat on the coffee table, but it was closed. Meanwhile, in my head, the deliberation rolled on.
But…she’s not just any female, she’s Zoe. Zoe, who used to crash the boards in a game of pickup basketball as good as most males, and better than some.
I eyed the bananas on the counter, wondering if she would miss one.
The pertinent words being “used to.” It’s been years, and the female brainwashing had probably affected even her.
I drummed my fingers on the countertop bar between the galley kitchen and living room, then spotted some mail tucked between her coffee maker and the wall. I threw a look over my shoulder, then stole over to check it out. Something from the condo owners association and an advertisement from Bath and Body Works. Not very revealing or informative. And the internal tango continued.
Still…Zoe has never been one to wear a lot of makeup or do much with her hair. She didn’t need it then, and she doesn’t need it now.
“Nick,” her voice filtered in from her bedroom, which I hoped to become acquainted with in the very near future, “how fancy is this place?”
I frowned, shrugging, although she couldn’t see me. How does one judge that? “I don’t know. Fancy enough.” A thought occurred to me. “You do own a dress, don’t you?”
She stuck her head through the doorway. She’d taken her T-shirt off and only wore an athletic bra and her jeans. Girls marched around the gym in much less, but the sight of her in the same getup sent my pulse racing. “Yes, smartass. I own a dress.” She smiled, then disappeared again. “It’ll be just a minute.”
“Just a minute,” I mumbled under my breath. That could mean fifteen minutes or two hours from my experience. I wandered over to the sliding glass doors to check out her balcony. Two big plants in the corners and a small patio table and two chairs. Simple, like the rest of the place. I decided I needed to get rid of some shit before Zoe came to my apartment.
On the other side of the wall, it sounded like hangers were being slid along a bar, presumably in her closet. I rolled my eyes. “And the selection process starts.” But to my relief, the scraping sound stopped. Could she have found something already? Turning, I spied a book sticking out from beneath her laptop. Glancing at her bedroom door, I casually moved over to the table and coaxed the book out so I could find out what it was. The Literate Kindergarten: Where Wonder and Discovery Thrive. I grunted.
Sounds like a real show-stopper.
Footfalls made it sound like she was nearing her bedroom door, so I scurried over to the couch and sat, but she didn’t appear. I sighed—I would starve—and rested my arms along the back of her white couch. Glancing again at the book, I had to smile. She’d become the teacher she always wanted to be. It gave me a warm feeling. But kindergarten? I couldn’t decide if that was the perfect match for Zoe, or if she’d be impatient with little kids’ antics, as she occasionally was with mine. Come to think of it, I probably had about the mentality of a kindergartner then. And not much had changed. I was just able to fool people and make them believe I was grown up most of the time.
So, I need to drop a few comments about our educational system and how teachers are under-appreciated….
I was about to put my shoes up on the table when she came out, and I scrambled to my feet.
She wore this dress, this black dress…. She looked sensational. Like mega-hot. It dipped into a “V” between her breasts and was super short, like most girls’ dresses were these days. Not that I was complaining. I couldn’t find my voice at first.
“Damn,” I finally got out.
She dangled a pair of strappy silver shoes from a hand and had her head tilted to one side so she could mess with her earring with her other hand. “What?” She glanced down at her dress. “Do I have something on it?” She brushed her hand over the fabric.
“No. No. It’s just…you look goo-o-od. You look real good.”
She smacked my arm, coming around to sit in a chair. “Shut up.” She crossed her legs and started putting one of the shoes on. “It’s the only dress I have. I bought it for this—” she made air quotes, “‘voluntary,’ but actually mandatory, gala we have every year.”
“No. Really.” I bowed, adopting a Wayne’s World persona. “I’m not worthy. I’m not worthy.”
She frowned and gave a classic Zoe response. “Whatever.” Getting the strap on the first shoe, she switched legs. “Did you call and make reservations?”
“Uh-huh.” Actually, I’d made reservations at three different places before even seeing her.
“You better have, Nickie. I can’t stand in these shoes long.” She rose, and I took her hand.
“You will not have to wait, m’lady.” I thought about kissing her hand, but decided that was too over the top. We’d only taken a few steps toward the door when she ripped her hand away.
“Oh. My jacket. I’ll be right back.” She took off for her bedroom. The back of the dress held the same wow factor as the front did. It dropped to just above her waist and a series of thin straps ran horizontally
near the bottom, and two crossed between her shoulder blades.
Man.
Sizzling hot, and all mine.
Zoe
The streets were unusually quiet as we made our way back home. The swanky place Nick took me to was only a few blocks away from my condo, so we walked. I had my arm through his and leisurely swung one foot in front of the other as we talked. Nick ordered champagne at dinner and I was a little tipsy. Champagne always affected me that way.
“You know, being a lawyer suits you. You were always able to twist conversations to your advantage. Like when we agreed to see Inception, and you changed things around so we saw that awful Shutter Island instead. After you were through speaking, I wasn’t even sure what movie I wanted to see in the first place.”
He laughed. “Oh, come on. Leonardo was in both of them.”
“Yeah. But Shutter Island gave me nightmares for weeks. And I never did get to see Inception.”
His eyebrows rose. “You haven’t seen Inception?”
I shook my head.
“Man.” He looked in front of us. “I’ll have to make it up to you.”
“Sure, you will.”
“I will,” he insisted.
We were passing this little jazz bar. The door was open. A bouncer sat on a stool checking I.D.s. The mellow strains of a saxophone reached us. I secretly liked jazz, but tried not to let it show. I didn’t want to ruin my rock and roll reputation. But I guess I slowed as I peered in, trying to see who was playing. Nick moved his hand down to take mine, then held it up for me to spin under. I came around to face him again and he reeled me in, placing a hand on my back. He rocked with me, did a series of steps, and twirled me again.
“Well, all right.” The bouncer, an older African-American gentleman with a gray beard, held up the line, shining his flashlight on some kid’s I.D. but watching us dance.
“Get it, man.” Some guy down the line yelled out.
I laughed and drew away a bit to watch our feet. He was smooth, and—even more surprising—he made me seem graceful, and I’d never been a good dancer. I studied him, tilting my head. “So which girl did you learn to dance for?”
He chuckled. “No one. I sort of picked it up.”
“Oh, my gosh. Zack is gonna have a field day with this when he hears about you learning to—” I stopped moving, because my heart froze. Zack. The wound that never went away. I dropped my gaze.
Nick drew me into his arms and hugged me, not saying anything. I didn’t have to explain to Nick. He understood. After a moment I pulled away and searched his face. “I’m sorry, I—”
“Come on.” He took his arms from around me, but grabbed my hand, tugging me along. “I’ve got something for you.” His enthusiasm was contagious.
“You have something for me?”
He stopped at a snazzy red sports car and took out some keys.
“This is yours?”
“Yep.” He popped the locks and opened the door.
“Wow. I do need to get paid more.” At dinner he’d talked about what a vital role teachers played, and how underappreciated we were—before I even told him I was a teacher. He withdrew something from the back and handed it to me. The bottle said Don Julio 1942. “Tequila.” I clutched it to my chest. “How did you know I was a tequila girl?”
He lifted his shoulders. “I dunno. You seem like the tequila type. A wild child.”
“Wild child?” I scoffed. “Me?”
“Uh-huh. Anyway, I got it for you as a sort of parting gift for the evening.”
The idea of him leaving made me sad. “But I don’t want to part.” Whoa. Did I say that out loud? “Come up and help me break this bottle in.”
He smiled, and crooked his arm. “Well, if you insist.”
“I do,” I said regally.
We got back to my place, and I scrounged up some shot glasses as Nick opened the bottle. He poured, and handed me mine.
I started moving toward the slider. “Let’s go out on the balcony. It’s so nice tonight.”
“Okay.”
I spun around. “Bring the bottle.”
He tilted his head. It was already in his hand.
“Good man.”
It was gorgeous out, especially for late September. Sixty some degrees, a light breeze…. I leaned on the balcony railing and closed my eyes. The wind gently lifted my hair and fanned my cheeks. I turned and held up my glass.
“To old friends.”
“To new memories,” Nick added. We clinked, the bitter, limey smell of the tequila making my nostrils flare as I raised my glass. I downed mine. “Whoa. Whoa. This is sipping tequila, sis.”
“For wusses maybe.” I grinned and indicated my glass. He set his on the table so he could refill mine.
“To higher pay for teachers.”
“Hear, hear.”
The alcohol made me hot, so I set my glass down and started to shrug out of my jacket. Suddenly, Nick was helping to slide it off. He draped it over the chair.
“You’ve come a long way since that bomber jacket of yours.”
“I still have that,” I said proudly.
“I know. That’s how I knew it was you in the park. It was beside you on the bench.”
“Guess it’s lucky I brought it then.”
We were silent for a few moments, gazing out over the lights of the city. I lived on the fifth floor—lower third of the building—but I still had a decent view.
“That is a beautiful dress.”
Back in the day, he probably would have added, It’ll look great on my floor in the morning, but he left it at that. Still, the way he said it made me turn to observe him. He was running his eyes over me from top to bottom. An odd, non-alcohol related heat washed through me. He raised his gaze again and locked onto mine. He reached out and slipped a finger underneath one of my straps, gliding it up and down, his knuckle grazing my skin and sending a shiver through me.
I subtly shifted away, leaning my back against the railing, my elbows planted on top. He stared into his drink, then emptied his glass and made a move toward the table.
“Me, too, please.”
He filled both, gave me mine, then gazed out over the horizon again, his forearms resting on the railing. He’d changed since high school. Filled out. Senior year he had a late growth spurt, and I judged now he was in the vicinity of six feet tall. His jaw was more defined, cheekbones more chiseled….
He caught me looking at him. “What?”
“Nothing. It’s just…you’ve changed some.”
“Have I?”
“No. It’s all good.” I lifted my head to check out the stars. They were there in abundance. A plus we got in the Mile High City. “I guess, despite our best efforts, we’ve grown up a tad.”
“Eh.” He took another drink, then smiled at me. “It was bound to happen eventually.”
It should be odd being here with Nick and not having Zack with us. It was always the three of us. Z.N.Z like D.D.T, we used to say.
But it wasn’t weird. This was Nick, but not Nick, the grownup version of Nick. Somehow that made it all right. And having a friendly face from home around made me surprisingly happy, comforted. It was so easy being with Nick, even after all this time.
I didn’t realize how much I’ve missed him. I guess I haven’t been that good of a friend. Then again, he didn’t bust down my doors either.
Maybe this could be the start of a new, old relationship.
I liked the thought.
Chapter 5
Nick
It was after midnight, and we were sitting on the floor of Zoe’s condo, our backs to the couch, telling old stories. She’d finally gotten to the point where she didn’t flinch every time Zack’s name was mentioned, but that could be because she was shit-faced. I’d backed off my intake, but she didn’t notice, in case that bedroom of hers came into play.
“You were the one who dared me to do it,” she challenged.
I laughed. “Well I didn’t think you’d actuall
y be idiotic enough to go through with it.”
“I would have made it if that car hadn’t distracted me.”
We were talking about her colossal wipeout when I dared her to ride her skateboard down the courthouse stairs. “You damn well might have. You did a phenomenal job on the first set of steps.”
Her proud grin was loose, and her eyes were heavy. “Damn straight.” She lifted her legs and swung them over mine, setting every last one of my nerve endings in the area on fire. “And I still have the scars to prove I made the attempt.” She pointed to her knee cap where a jagged scar a couple inches long marred an otherwise perfect pair of legs.
My heart pounded, and I had to force myself to breathe. She was practically in my lap and her sweet fragrance made me salivate. Something light and floral, with a citrusy bite—the right amount of innocence and sass to be a match for her. I traced the scar with my fingertip. Her skin was smooth as a polished pebble, but warm, making my own heat rise. “What? That tiny thing?”
She clicked her tongue, staring at me with her mouth open. “Are you kidding? I’m lucky I didn’t break my femur. And there’s this one.” She scrunched her dress way up on her hip on the side farthest from me giving me a decent view of black lace panties underneath. “See?” She twisted to give me a better shot at seeing it, and most of her round ass. It was all I could do not to grab her and/or become aroused.
For some asinine reason I felt the need to cover her and tugged the material back down. “Somebody’s had too much to drink.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
Pitchfork in the Road Page 4