“Quit looking at me like we’ve kissed.”
“But we have kissed.” He playfully puckered up, and she forcefully shoved him backward, shocking a laugh out of him. This was the same woman who’d dropped him on his ass in dodgeball. If you underestimated her strength, you did so at your own risk.
“We can’t, okay?”
“Can’t now, or can’t ever?” He didn’t wait for her to answer, afraid to give her a chance to stop things before they started. “My lease doesn’t expire till the end of December,” he said leadingly. He wouldn’t say anything more, but he had to know that they were on the same page.
Her eyes widened in awareness. “You’re staying until then?”
“As long as I can. As long as you want me to.”
She nodded. “I want you to. And your practicum ends in—”
“Nine days,” he cut in.
“Nine days,” she repeated. “Can you wait nine days?”
His lips twitched, then curved into a smile he was helpless to control. She’d set the challenge. She’d given him a target. And now he had his eyes on the prize.
Rebecca tied her shoes and took a sip of water before stepping outside. The sun shone brightly, but the weather had turned crisp, so she’d dressed appropriately for her run. Long-sleeved shirt and yoga pants. She warmed up her body with some dynamic stretches on the sidewalk in front of her bungalow to the sound of Russell Whitaker’s ivory-tickling from across the street. As always, the man rang in the morning with soulful melodies from bygone days. She mourned the impending sub-zero temperatures out of fear that he’d close his windows and she wouldn’t get to hear his beautiful music.
Unzipping her phone from the running belt at her waist, she startled when it buzzed in her hand. She accessed her messages and read the text from Hannah.
WE KISSED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Unlike Hannah, she didn’t feel like playing twenty questions via text, so she called her bestie to get the scoop.
“Good morning!” Hannah chirped.
Rebecca laughed. “Apparently. Are you implying that you and the detestable Kent Clarkson kissed, or have you already met someone new?”
“I think you mean ‘delectable,’ and yes. That’s exactly what I’m implying.”
Forgetting all about her run, Rebecca sat on the front steps of her home. “Okay. You’re gonna need to fill in a whole buncha blanks here. What happened between you thinking he’s an ass of the first order and you wanting a piece of that ass?”
Somehow, through Hannah’s squealing recount, Rebecca picked up the words ‘dog,’ ‘vet,’ and ‘Superman.’ More delighted laughter spilled from her lips. “Was it everything you dreamed it would be?” she asked, throwing Hannah’s words from their previous conversation back at her.
A breathy sigh reverberated through the line. “He’s . . . delectable. In every way.”
“I’m so happy for you, hon.” She’d never heard her friend quite this smitten before. Now was the perfect time to share her own boy news. “Will’s staying for another month after his practicum ends.”
“Oh, yay! This is amazing!”
Six more workdays, and she could pull a Hannah on Will. “I’m not sure if we’ll go out the Friday he finishes, or be all dignified and wait till Saturday night.”
“You are definitely waiting till Saturday so I can help you get ready. I’m talking makeup, shoes, hair, wardrobe, the works!”
Kill me now. “I can do my own hair and makeup. I’ll possibly let you help with wardrobe, but we’re looking through my closet, not yours. And hell no on the shoes.”
“Party pooper. Ooh, maybe we could double-date! After you get that pent-up sexual energy out of your system, that is. Unless you wanna keep him to yourself for as long as you’ve got him.”
Rebecca leaned her elbows on her knees. That was the part she didn’t want to think about. Would he be able to return to KHS for his second practicum? Did he even want to?
“I better run, babe. I’m late for work because, you know, reasons.”
Rebecca giggled along with her shameless girlfriend. “Bye, doll. I’m thrilled to pieces for you!”
“Ditto!”
She stayed sitting for minutes after they’d ended the call, until her limbs started to get cold again. Russell poked his head out the door to collect his copy of The Daily Dispatch, and he waved to her.
“Good morning, pretty lady! You come on over for some sweet tea after your run. I made a fresh pitcher.”
“Thanks, Russell! Sounds wonderful!”
He nodded and ducked back inside again. During their visits, the elderly gentleman had regaled her with countless tales of his adventurous youth, how he’d wooed his now-deceased wife, and the hundreds of places he’d traveled to with his former jazz band. Her mind flashed back to her conversation with Carmen Deacon at Dogspeed. The older woman had said she’d had her heart broken once and given up on love. Maybe she’d just forgotten how sweet romance could be.
Crestwood.
His father had secured him a placement at Crestwood. His alma mater. Edward delivered the news over dinner, brimming with pride that his negotiations had resulted in a position that would “most certainly lead into a full-time job.” Will had sat at the dining room table, picking at his food, while his father gloated about the impeccable timing of it all. There would be a retirement in the Phys. Ed. department in the next year. “You’d just have to get your professional certificate within five years,” he’d said.
Once he completed his college program in the spring, he’d earn an initial certification. The advanced certificate required a master’s degree, in addition to three years of teaching experience and 175 hours of professional development. That didn’t bother him. He’d been planning on going that route all along. If he’d been presented this opportunity before he’d stepped foot into Kendal High School, his enthusiasm might have compared to his father’s.
But, after being a Comet for six weeks, he wasn’t sure he could stomach returning to the world he once knew. The world that had helped destroy his sister. He didn’t belong in that world anymore.
Will pocketed his phone, keys, and wallet, and locked the door behind him. He hadn’t wanted to be anywhere other than Kendal following his Friday night sentencing, to feel closer to Rebecca, even if he couldn’t see her. He’d spent Saturday cooped in his apartment on Crescent Street, getting caught up on his class work, and was anxious to stretch his legs on Sunday before heading back to the city.
The shops and sidewalks were filled with townspeople, which seemed odd for a Sunday, but nothing about Kendal was ordinary. Maybe that’s why he’d fallen in love with the quirky town. He passed by Scoops on Main, and the gazebo, and a handful of other places that brought Rebecca to the forefront of his mind. Not that she ever strayed too far from there these days. He kept hoping that every face he met along the way would be hers.
He’d have to tell her about the Crestwood placement. But not yet. He’d waited too damn long to get to this point and, selfish or not, he didn’t want to give her another reason to pump the brakes.
Activity erupted all around him in the town square. He paused when a purple tent swam into focus, curious as to why it seemed familiar to him. Then he recalled his last conversation with Ethan, when his co-tenant had told him about Carmen’s proclivity for reading palms every Sunday. This must be the tent he’d been referring to. He was drawn toward the purple shelter as if by some magnetic force. His feet carried him forward, right up to the opening, but there was no need to announce his presence because Carmen breezed through the flaps to welcome him.
“Hello, handsome,” she purred. “I had a feeling you’d stop by. Please, come in, come in.”
He hesitated on the threshold, and her lascivious smile turned suspiciously gentle.
“There’s no lock on the door, dear. I won’t hold you against your will . . . Will.”
She spun around, flashing her purple rhinestone-covered cape, and cackled all
the way inside. The choice was his to make. Gulping in a breath, he opted to enter. Carmen sat at the table in the center of the tent. MoJo was curled up next to the far wall, his butt parked beside the space heater. Twinkling lights lit up the space and gave off a mystical glow. He glanced at the hot-pink sign above him which promised a palm reading in exchange for a generous donation to the food bank. He hadn’t brought any non-perishables with him, but he had a few bills in his wallet.
“Sit, dear.” The older woman indicated the seat across from her. “I know something’s troubling you.”
How could she know that without even reading his palms? Or did something in his expression give her that impression? He capitulated, joining her at the table draped in purple and gold silk.
She held out her hands, palms up, and instructed Will to place his on top. “Mmm,” she hummed from the back of her throat. “These are nice, big hands. Such lovely palms.”
“Uh, thanks.”
“A few ground rules first, my love,” she said. “In my tent, I go by Towanda and only Towanda. Keep an open mind. Nothing I reveal will ever be used against you. And once we’ve finished, when it’s convenient for you, please be sure to donate to the food bank.”
Will pulled one of his hands away and reached for his wallet. “I didn’t think to bring any food, but I could give you some cash. . .”
“Oh no,” she insisted. “No, no. It’s meant to be a personal and purposeful act, dear. Pouring money on a problem doesn’t solve it.”
Will was taken aback by the accuracy and timeliness of her words. It just creates more problems. He handed his palm over to her again, more trusting of the truths she might uncover.
She closed her eyes and ran her thumbs across his palms, feeling each of the lines multiple times before reopening them. “Hmm, yes,” she murmured. “You’ve gone through a difficult phase. There are dots—one in both your head line and life line. They signify an interruption to the flow of energy typically found in those who’ve experienced crisis or loss.”
“Oh.” The hair rose on the back of his neck. “Why are the dots in both lines?”
“Your head line is about life lessons, and the break speaks of mental strife. Whereas your life line exposes others’ influences on your unique path. A break in that path tells me that you don’t always have autonomy over your life, your choices.”
He gaped at the woman, stunned that an intricate trail of lines that he barely acknowledged most of the time gave her a window into the deepest corners of his mind.
“But rest assured,” she continued, “a short life line doesn’t mean a short life. It means that, ultimately, the independence and autonomy you desire shall be yours.”
Will wished she could say when that might be. And if, by then, it wouldn’t be too late to carve out a life that included Rebecca. “What about my heart line?” he found himself asking. “What does it tell you?”
She traced the aforementioned line, beginning below his index finger and running to the edge of his palm, beneath his pinky finger. “Yours reveals a contentedness in relationships, though its origins show me there was once restlessness. Seek wisdom in your partner, someone older to offer clarity and compassion. When you find your special someone, you’ll know it.”
He did know. He’d known her for six glorious weeks.
“Lastly,” Towanda said, “I want to discuss your fate line, your destiny. This line transforms the most over time. An itchy palm signifies an upcoming change, so be mindful.” She traced the short line that began at the base of his palm, beneath his life line, and curved upwards. “Yours currently indicates a high degree of influence from external forces.”
Will frowned. What was he supposed to do? Ignore those forces? He couldn’t exactly cut his family out of his life when he’d accused them of doing exactly that with Aly. No matter what he decided, someone was going to get hurt.
She squeezed his palms, regaining his attention. “Follow the path before you. It may not lead where you hoped at first, but it will come around. Trust in that.”
Their eyes met, and they shared a smile. Maybe not the straightforward answer he’d wanted, maybe not the solution to all his problems, but her confidence in his journey gave him faith that he’d come through the other side with more than he’d bargained for.
“Thank you, Towanda.”
She let go of his hands, and he stood and headed for the exit, his steps lighter. Freer.
“You’re welcome, cute buns,” she called after him.
19
The giddies returned with a vengeance on the final week of Will’s practicum. She and Berg were planning a little party for Will on his last day, and Rebecca was in charge of cake, decorations, informing the teachers closest to him, and basically every other damn preparation because she wasn’t very good at delegating and wanted to make sure it was a day to remember. Just in case it turned out to be his last day forever at Kendal High.
Unfortunately, a week that should have been filled with excitement and anticipation of things to come started off in the worst possible way. Berg was the one who broke the news to Will when he entered the office on Wednesday morning.
“Purnsey sprained his ankle playing streetball on the weekend,” he told Will. “Pretty bad sprain, according to the doc. He’s most likely out for the season.”
“Shit,” Will muttered as he dropped his things on his desk. “How’s he doing? Mentally, I mean?”
Rebecca and Berg exchanged a look. “He hasn’t been back since it happened,” she said. “He’s got an Aircast and crutches. We’ve contacted home, and they’re trying to get him to cooperate, but he’s not in a good place.”
Will leaned against the front of his desk and sighed. “I could try calling,” he offered. “I just can’t believe . . . after all the work. The other guys must be crushed.”
“We’re working through it.” Berg slapped on a happy face. “Well, Whitney, it’s your last week. Then you’re free.”
Will’s eyes sought out Rebecca’s and she quickly looked away, but not before Berg gave her a knowing smirk.
“Can’t believe it,” he said to Berg. “It flew by.”
“They always do. I’ll meet you upstairs in the science room, okay? We’ll talk about your evaluation.”
“Okay, Berg,” Will replied, stopping the big man in his tracks.
He pressed a hand to his heart. “Ledgey, did you hear that? First time he’s used my nickname. He’s one of us now.”
She chuckled, inwardly delighted that Will had never pinned a nickname on her. Because her full name always sounded like poetry coming from his lips. When the door closed behind Berg, she rolled her eyes at Mr. Poetry. “Quit it with the looks and announcing to the world that you like me.”
Will pushed off his desk and grinned. “Do you have a megaphone I could borrow?”
“Stop. Berg clearly knows.”
“You think?” Will asked, getting all up into her space.
“And if he knows, then we’re being too obvious.”
The creases in his face deepened, and those tiny dimples of his appeared. “I can’t wait till we can be super obvious, but in the meantime . . .” He trailed off and fished his phone from his pocket, passing it to her. “Can I have your digits?”
Butterflies cartwheeled in her stomach. Normally something so trivial and unremarkable, trading numbers with Will seemed major by comparison. She took his phone and punched in her numbers in the contact section, then handed it back.
“It’s not a fake number, right?”
She swatted at him. “Why don’t you test it out and see?”
Instead of texting her like she expected, he tapped the phone icon on his screen and her cell vibrated on her desk. His eyes stayed glued to her as she went to retrieve it. Turning back to him, phone in hand, she answered, “Hello?”
“Hey, is this Rebecca Ledgerwood?”
“Who wants to know?”
Will’s smile turned roguish. “The guy who thought—and
still thinks—you’re way out of his league.”
“Huh.” She pressed a finger to her lips. “Maybe he’s right. Bye!”
He burst out laughing when she hung up on him. “It was a pretty good call for our first call, but I hope the next one’s longer.”
“You should go upstairs. You’re being evaluated this week.”
Will shuffled over to his desk to gather his clipboard and messenger bag. “I like it when you play hard to get,” he rasped as he walked past her and purposely brushed against her.
She swallowed. Breathed. Tried to tamp down the arousal that flared in her body whenever he drew near, and said sexy things, and . . . existed. “I always play hard.” Her gaze lowered to his crotch to punctuate the point.
His blue eyes darkened, and for a second, she worried she’d awoken the beast, but then he forced out a breath, opened the door, and stepped into the hall.
Barely two minutes elapsed before her phone buzzed with a text.
Three days, it read.
Will continued with the countdown texts every morning, but she never texted him back at school. She’d attack later on in the evenings, right around the time he started winding down, and she’d rev him right back up again.
Her first text to him had read: I still dream about that kiss.
Ten minutes and a cold shower later, he’d replied: I’m writing in my yearbook bio that I kissed the teacher. #bestkissever
She hadn’t texted again until Thursday night.
Chocolate or vanilla?
He’d wanted to say, “I don’t care, as long as I get to lick it off you.” But he chickened out and wrote: Dark chocolate. It’s an aphrodisiac.
Should I get them to write that on your cake?
Will had laughed so loudly, he’d startled MoJo from his resting spot at the end of his bed. LOL vanilla’s great, he’d texted.
I’ll get chocolate icing, perv.
He’d gone to sleep that night with a grin on his face, hardly believing that they’d made it through eight weeks. That tomorrow the rules and restrictions would be lifted. That he’d survived being in the trenches and had come out the other side relatively unscathed and confident in his abilities to reach students. After all, he’d reached the one he never thought he’d stood a chance to connect with.
Learning to Love Page 19