Absinthe

by Winter Renshaw

  His question is rooted in nothing more than concern for his own self. He’s afraid he’ll get in trouble if I tell them the truth.

  “Don’t worry,” I huff. “I won’t be telling anybody about this.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Rolling my eyes, I tug the hem of my shirt down. “That this was a mistake. One I’d like to forget.”

  His expression is bathed in genuine shock. I’m sure I’m the only girl he’s ever “hung out” with who has so much as dared to imply that getting hot and heavy in the backseat of Thane Bennett’s BMW is something they’d sooner forget.

  Yanking the door handle, I step out of the car, which sends him scrambling to get out of the backseat. Finally.

  “Where are you going?” he asks, his athletic body squeezing out from behind the backseat of his coupe.

  “Home.” With my bag hanging across my body and my arms folded, I trudge through a muddy cornfield, toward the twinkle of city lights in the distance. My feet sink into the soft earth with each step, and I’ll be trudging down gravel roads and through weedy thickets, but home is just a few miles from here.

  I’d rather walk for the next hour than spend another minute next to Thane.

  Chapter 25

  Ford

  I’m half asleep on the sofa Friday night when the faintest knock on my door has me convinced I’m dreaming.

  Until I hear it again.

  Peeling myself up, I finger comb my hair into place and shuffle to the door. If it’s Melissa fucking Gunderson, I’m going to scream.

  But it’s not Melissa.

  Quite the contrary.

  “Halston.” She’s the last person I expected to see standing at my doorstep at eleven thirty on a Friday night, but there she is, her clothes and hair disheveled, and her shoes covered in mud.

  “I need a place to stay.”

  “And your principal’s house seemed like the best option?” I lift a brow, pretending that’s the more pressing concern when really I want to know why the fuck she looks worse for the wear.

  “Yeah.” She pushes past me, showing herself in. Halston slides her dirty shoes off and leaves them on the rug by the door. “Believe it or not.”

  Glancing outside, I make sure no one saw her come inside, and then I lock the door. “What happened? You okay?”

  Halston rolls her eyes before taking a seat in my chair. “Don’t want to talk about it.”

  “If I’m taking you in, I need to know why,” I say, a million scenarios running through my head. Every part of me knows this is wrong, and if anyone caught us, they’d never believe that my intentions were noble. But every part of me knows I can’t shut her out.

  “My aunt and uncle think I’m staying with a friend. I was really going to stay with a guy.” She exhales, running her tongue along her full lips. They’re swollen, like she spent the last several hours making out. Her elbows rest on her knees, her body hunched forward. “Long story short, he thought he was going to fuck me, and I asked him to take me home. When he wouldn’t, I got out of the car and walked … through a muddy cornfield … down a gravel road ... and into town.”

  Exhaling, I hide my relief.

  “Smart,” I say.

  Her emerald gaze flicks to mine. “I don’t need your validation.”

  Smirking, I place my palms up. “All right.”

  Reaching for a book on my coffee table, she examines the cover. “A Wrinkle in Time. Why would you read this depressing shit?”

  “It’s a classic.”

  “It’s sad as fuck.” She tosses it aside, reaching for another book, making faces when she doesn’t find one that suits her liking.

  “I have more upstairs,” I say. “In my library. But you can’t go up there.”

  She arches a brow. “Why not?”

  “It wouldn’t be appropriate.”

  Tossing her head back, she laughs. “Nothing about me being here with you right now is appropriate. I think we passed that a long time ago, don’t you?”

  “I’m sitting here.” I drag my teeth along my lower lip, watching how she brushes her hair over her shoulder and tilts her head as she checks out my living room. “You’re over there. I’d say we’re being pretty fucking appropriate right now.”

  “Then can I see your library?”

  “No.”

  Her brows meet. “What are you worried about?”

  That I’ll get her upstairs, mere feet from my bedroom. That I’ll want to kiss her. That I won’t be able to stop. That I’ll lose all fucking control. That everything I’ve ever worked for will go down in flames because of a young woman named Halston Kessler.

  “I’m not worried about anything,” I lie. “But you’re still not going upstairs.”

  “You’re really high strung. Explains why you’re such a control freak.”

  I shrug, refusing to apologize for my inherent need for power over every situation.

  “When was the last time you got laid?” she asks.

  “I’m not discussing my sex life with you. Not anymore.”

  “I don’t know what the difference is between now and a few weeks ago,” she says. “I’m still Absinthe. You’re still Kerouac. Only this time we’re in the same room, sitting here trying to pretend we’re not ridiculously attracted to each other and that you haven’t wondered what it would feel like to touch me.”

  I exhale, refusing to dignify her with a response.

  “Admit it. You’ve thought about me.” She drags a fingertip down the front of her twisted lips, fighting a chuckle. “My mouth on your cock. Your fingers in my pussy. I know I’ve thought about it. So much.”

  Glancing away, I pull in a tight breath and let it go. “I’m your principal and you’re my student. I would never touch you. I would never cross that line.”

  “But what if you could? What if you knew with one-hundred percent certainty that we would never get caught?” She crosses her legs, angling her body toward me. “Would you do it?”

  “No.”

  “I would.” Her bee stung lips tug up at one side. “I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable, I’m just being honest.”

  “You’re not making me uncomfortable.” I sigh, covering my face with my hands. I’ve thought about fucking her. I’ve thought about how her curves would feel under my palms, ample and soft, how her lips would taste, like cherries or cinnamon, how her body would feel pressed warm against mine, how safe and protected I would make her feel. “I’m going to bed. Goodnight, Halston.”

  “You were my best friend this summer,” she says, her voice softer, quieter. “I told you more than I’ve ever told anyone before. I was myself with you, unfiltered, unedited. For whatever it’s worth, I just wanted you to know that.”

  “Likewise.”

  “It’s too bad we can’t be friends.” Halston leans back in my leather chair, her hands resting on her stomach. “But I understand. I don’t want to jeopardize your career or anything. Just miss talking to you, is all.”

  “I miss talking to you too.”

  Her eyelids flutter, and she flashes a sleepy smile. Rising, I grab a pillow and blanket from a hall closet and make the sofa into a bed. I’d let her have the guestroom, but having that extra floor between us feels safer tonight.

  “Here,” I help her to the sofa, keeping back as she makes herself comfortable.

  Spreading the covers over her body, she reaches toward me, her hand resting on mine. “Thank you. If you didn’t answer your door tonight, I was probably going to sleep at the park.”

  She says it like it’s no big deal, like she’s done it hundreds of times before.

  “You’re fearless,” I say. “That’s not always a good thing.”

  Halston lets her hand fall from mine before rolling to her side. “I know.”

  Within seconds, she’s out, and I switch off the lamp beside her.

  Every time I closed my eyes this week, I saw her. Every waking moment of every hour of every day, I thought of her. And
now that she’s here, in my house, it takes everything I have to walk away, when all I want to do is stay all night by her side, devouring books, reading our favorite lines to each other until we give in to the inevitable.

  But the inevitable can’t happen.

  I won’t allow it.

  She’s gone before the sun comes up, her blanket neatly folded at the end of the sofa and a scribbled note left on the coffee table.

  Kerouac,

  You’re a good man, maybe even the best one I’ve ever known.

  xoxo—

  Absinthe

  PS – “I love sleep. My life has a tendency to fall apart when I’m awake, you know?” – Ernest Hemingway

  PPS – Those are friendly and “appropriate” x’s and o’s.

  I fold the paper in half and press it between the pages of Philip Roth’s Goodbye, Columbus.

  If things were different, she could be mine.

  And we could be happy.

  Chapter 26

  Halston

  My heart pounds in my ears as I head to Chem II. I’ve been dreading fourth block all day, knowing I’ll have to spend ninety minutes next to Thane Bennett, asshole extraordinaire.

  He tried calling me Saturday. Texted me Sunday.

  I ignored him the entire weekend.

  Walking into class, I feel his eyes on me. I’m seconds from asking Caldwell for a new lab partner when a substitute takes the desk up front.

  Shit.

  Finding my seat, I fish my pen and notebook from my bag and face forward.

  “So you’re just going to keep ignoring me?” Thane breaks the silence with a stupid question.

  “Mm-hm.”

  “I’m sorry. I screwed up,” he whispers, leaning close. His cologne invades my space, but I secretly like the scent so I don’t say anything. “I like you. And I’ll wait for you. I’ll wait as long as you want.”

  His hand reaches under the desk, his fingers interlacing with mine.

  “Think about it at least?” he asks.

  The sub writes her name on the whiteboard up front, and I focus on the red ink and her terrible handwriting. Thane leaves me alone for the next forty-five minutes, but when the mid-block bell rings and the sub tells us to take five, he follows me out to the hall.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, stopping short outside the classroom.

  “I thought we could talk for a minute.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about.” My arms fold.

  His hand drags along his jaw, and he wears a sad, pathetic expression which unfortunately almost makes me feel sorry for him.

  “I spent all weekend thinking about how I screwed up,” he says. “I stayed home. I didn’t go out. I just lay around, thinking about you.”

  “Sounds like you wasted a perfectly good weekend.”

  “I’m serious, Halston. Give me another chance and I won’t screw it up this time.”

  My lips part, and I’m seconds from giving him a resounding “no” when Kerouac comes around the corner.

  “Is this student bothering you, Miss Kessler?” he asks, jaw flexing.

  Rolling my eyes, I shake my head. “We’re just talking.”

  He glares at Thane, sizing him up and looking down his nose. I didn’t give him any details Friday night other than telling him Thane wanted to fuck me, but clearly that rubbed Kerouac the wrong way.

  “Okay. You can go now,” I say, shooing him away.

  His head cocks, eyes narrowing in my direction this time. “Miss Kessler, I’m your principal, and you will speak to me with respect in my school.”

  My brows lift. I can’t tell if he’s joking, so I laugh until his jaw flexes and his nostrils flare.

  The halls empty just as the tardy bell rings.

  “We should get back,” Thane says, reaching for my hand.

  “I need a word with Miss Kessler,” Kerouac’s voice is stern yet impossibly sexy. I wonder if he has any idea how badly he’s turning me on right now?

  As soon as Thane’s out of earshot, I whisper, “It’s really hard to take you seriously when you talk to me like that.”

  “Talk to you like what? The way I’d speak to any other student in this school?” he asks. “I really hope you’re not expecting preferential treatment.”

  “I’ve learned never to expect anything from anyone,” I say.

  His expression softens. “Was he bothering you?”

  “No. He was actually apologizing.”

  Kerouac’s face hardens, like it’s a bad thing Thane apologized. “Just be careful.”

  “Thanks, daaaad,” I say in a slow, schmoopy voice.

  “And don’t call me that. I’m not nearly old enough to be your father.” He releases a heavy breath like I frustrate him. “The emotional health and welfare of my students is one of my top priorities as an administrator.”

  “So you’re invested in every relationship in Rosefield High? Ensuring nobody gets hurt and everyone lives happily ever after?”

  Sara Bliss, Rosefield’s notoriously ditzy art teacher, passes us in the hall, smiling when she sees Kerouac and nearly tripping over her faded Birkenstocks.

  “Get back to class, Miss Kessler,” he says, watching with folded arms as I walk away.

  He cares about me.

  And he likes me.

  He won’t admit it—not even to himself.

  But I know.

  “Before I forget,” Uncle Vic says at dinner that night, “I ran into Ford Hawthorne earlier. Invited him over for dinner this Friday.”

  I almost choke on my mashed potatoes before reaching for my glass of water.

  “Wonderful! I’d love to finally meet him. Bree talks about him so much, I feel like I already know him, but I’ve been dying to put a face with that name.” Aunt Tab flitters about. She’ll do just about anything for a chance to play hostess.

  “I have a date that night,” I say.

  Bree’s attention lands on me, though she says nothing.

  “You’re still seeing that Bennett boy?” Tab asks. “He seems very nice. We’d love to meet him sometime. You should bring him over for dinner! You could eat here and then afterwards, have your little date.”

  I mean, I hadn’t decided if I was going to forgive him yet, but I’m not in the mood to explain the intricacies of the past week to my aunt and uncle over a plate of quiche Lorraine.

  “That’s a great idea.” Vic nods. “Bree, you’re awfully quiet over there.”

  “I have a headache. May I please be excused?” she asks, monotone.

  “Of course, darling.” Tab places her hand over Bree’s.

  I’m finished as well, so I excuse myself, only by the time I round the corner by the front door, Bree’s standing at the bottom of the stairs, arms crossed.

  “I saw you come home Saturday morning,” she says, lips puckered like the asshole she is.

  “So?”

  “You weren’t walking from Emily’s house. You were coming from a different direction.”

  “And your point?”

  Bree huffs. “You lied about where you were that night.”

  “You lie about shit all the time.” I point at her chest. “Your entire fucking bra situation is a lie.”

  She covers her chest, jaw hanging, and I push past her, heading up to my room, but she follows.

  “I’m going to find out what you’re up to.”

  “Is that a threat?” I ask, keeping my voice down. “Because you don’t want to go there with me.” Stepping back, I smirk. “Wait, this is about Thane. You’re jealous.”

  Duh.

  “No, I’m not,” she says, chin tilted up.

  “You are so jealous.” Chuckling, I shake my head. “Doesn’t quite make up for the money you stole from me, but it’s somewhat vindicating.”

  “I stopped liking Thane years ago, when he dated one of my best friends. We don’t double dip in my group.” Her nose lifts in the air.

  “Best Friend? As in one of those girls you follow around lik
e a lost puppy because you don’t actually have any real friends because you’re a boring little poser that nobody wants to hang out with?”

  “I have friends,” she says, her words staccato and brusque, like she’s trying to convince herself as well.

  “How come you don’t ever hang out with them outside the cafeteria? Why aren’t they blowing up your phone on the weekends?”

  Her eyes water and her slender lips quiver. For a sliver of a second, I see Bree as a human being with feelings and not a humanoid Stepford daughter with a heart as black as coal.

  “You’re such a bitch,” she says, wiping tears with the back of her hand. “I hate you.”

  “For once we have something in common.”

  “I wish you would just leave!” Bree runs to her room, slamming the door.

  I don’t get the chance to tell her that the money she stole would’ve helped with allowing me to leave at will, but that’s neither here nor there.

  Ambling toward my room, I lock the door behind me and yank my phone off the charger.

  I miss talking to Kerouac.

  On a whim, I reinstall the Karma app and unblock him just to see if he’s still around. Lo and behold, his profile is still there and the app tells me he hasn’t been active in four weeks … since we last spoke on the phone.

  Settling into my bed, I compose a message:

  To: Kerouac@karma.com

  From: Absinthe@karma.com

  Subject: Oh, you.

  Time: 6:35 PM

  Message: Uncle Vic says he invited you to dinner on Friday. My aunt then suggested that we make it a thing and I bring Thane because everyone’s under the impression we’re still dating. I don’t know why I’m telling you this. Guess I thought maybe you’d get a kick out of it. I know you don’t like him, and now you get to sit across from us at supper later this week while we hold hands and play footsy. Just kidding. I don’t do that shit. But don’t think I won’t be eye-fucking you every chance I get. Okay, kidding about that too. Kind of. You know I like to tease. Anyway. I don’t even know if you still get push notifications from this stupid app. For all I know I’m talking to dead air.