When the shrill whistling in my ears stops, she tells me I can put my arms down, and she helps me over to the shower bench and sits me down.
She loosens the blindfold, and it falls away, giving me a look at what I’ve done to her, the absolute mess I’ve made. She’s fucking beautiful.
“Stay here, don’t fall over, okay?”
I watch her walk out of the bathroom, but the world blurs. I squint at the clock, and it tells me we’ve been in here for almost an hour. No wonder I’m exhausted. There’s something else, but I can’t put my finger on it. I rock my head back against the tile, still a little sore from banging it earlier.
When she comes back, she’s cleaned herself off and grabbed a bottle of water and a bowl of fruit from breakfast. I don’t even realize how thirsty I am until I start to drink and down the entire bottle.
“You’re probably still dehydrated from last night’s drinking. How do you feel?” Her hand cups my face and she’s feeding me fruit. Maybe I died and went to heaven.
I close my eyes for a minute and pull her onto my lap, nuzzling into her neck. There’s something…different. Like…like I’m about to…cry? My shoulders tense and I try to pull away, but she holds me to her.
“Let it out, Chase,” her honey voice in my ear whispers. Not in that sultry voice, but in a warmer, comforting tone that’s safe and nurturing. “Sometimes it gets emotional.”
That’s all I need. Permission. The tears pour down my face. I’m not one of those macho guys who doesn’t believe in crying. Hell, I cry for and at movies all the time. But this isn’t a movie, and I’m not sad. I’m not angry. I’m not scared. I’m… relieved.
“Good boy, Chase. You did so well, baby. Let it out.” She coos, stroking my hair.
Without lifting my head, I say the only words that mean anything to me right now. The only words that make sense. “Don’t leave.”
CHAPTER11
JUST FRIENDS
AMY WINEHOUSE
I don’t missChase Cooper. I can’t.
He left over a week ago, but he refuses to give me a chance to even start to miss him. Flowers and food show up at my door or my classroom. He calls me when he wakes up and talks to me until I fall asleep every night he can. I wake up to a text from him every morning. I try to tell him to go out and have fun, to not worry about me, to go meet someone crazy and exotic. Yet every night his name comes up on my phone.
I thought it would suffocate me to have someone call me every day and night. I thought I’d want more space, more room to be myself, but Chase cracked the code. Giving me enough room to breathe even when he’s clingy. It’s a strange juxtaposition that I could get used to under different circumstances. Even so, how could it ever work between us? Me lugging computer parts and broken robots around while he’s with his stylist being fitted for a tux to accept his Oscar? That’s not the way life works. Not for me.
But I can’t stop thewhat ifsfrom creeping into my brain. What if we gave this a try? What if we filled our nights with movie premieres and lavish parties? What if I wake up and drag myself into class while he’s in front of a camera? What if I took off during spring break and allowed him to whisk me across Europe and dote on me? What if we built a functional relationship built on trust and love instead of the cruelty and ownership I knew before?
Sitting in traffic gives me way too long to daydream about a happy life with him. It also doesn’t help that my sister gets to spend time with him at an Italian countryside winery next week while I’m stuck at a school function with Mr. Miley. Not fair. Dani’s boyfriend will be there, but it’s still not fair. Steve and Ethan, their mutual friends, are getting married in some beautiful, scenic, expensive destination wedding. The most I’ve traveled is to Mexico to visit family. The squeal of someone’s horn pulls me out of my daydream. Bastard.
That’s me, Renate Silva, daydreaming of castles, but stuck in a beat-up car in Los Angeles traffic.
When I’m finally home, I lug the box of papers and the day’s flower delivery out of my car. Someday, we’ll go digital with homework, but we’re still not there yet. I leave the flowers by the door and trudge through the house, heaving the box onto the kitchen table. I put on the kettle and change into more comfortable clothes, but just as I settle in with the first paper, the doorbell rings. I’m half tempted to ignore it, but it could be a neighbor.
“Hi!” The woman at the door greets me with far too much enthusiasm and I’m ready to shut the door in her face. She’s white with big, blonde hair and an orange spray tan. I’m waiting for the religious pitch that’s about to come my way, which always makes me laugh. We live in a Hispanic neighborhood full of Catholics, but these crazies still try. “Are you Mrs. Silva?”
My foot slides behind the door to make it harder for her to push her way in if she tries. I’ve had a few parents come to my house before, and not to thank me. Working as a teacher has become a little scary over the past few years when parents stopped seeing us as educators and mistook us for babysitters. In the minds of parents, we should pick up their slack for their child’s poor grades when they’re not bothering to put in any of the work it takes to be a parent. It used to be the rich parents that caused the problems, but now the poor families blame us, too.
“Mrs. Silva isn’t home right now. You are?” I reply in a blunt tone while pushing my glasses up my face.
“Oh, well, I’m Rachel Wexell. I work for a local magazine—” She glances down at something on her phone. “Oh, my mistake. You’reMs. Silva, right? Ms. Renate Silva?” She slaughters my first name, pronouncing itRaynawtay, which I’m used to. I curse my father in my head, knowing he’s watching and laughing.
“Whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested.”
“Right to the point! Well, I’m not selling anything, if that helps to ease this tension. We’d like to interview you about your…class.” She looks at her phone to reference what I assume must be notes before flashing her too bright smile. “You’re the teacher, right? The technology and computer sciences teacher for Hollywood Tech and Arts?”
“How did you get my address and who do you work for again?”
“Oh, I’m not at liberty to say,” her thick southern accent slips a little, and so does her smile. I glance down, noticing her foot tucked inside my doorway. She’s done this before, too. “We wanted to do a story about you and the smart boards, do you know who donated them?”
“Some rich lady who died?”
