A Proscriptive Relationship (62 page)

“
Nope, nope, I understand,” he said, holding up his hands. “You two don’t need me anymore.”

“
Jeremy that’s not it,” I protested, grabbing the back of his apron. “What are you talking about?”

Jeremy glanced at me from over his shoulder. “Now that you two are together you want me out of the picture.”

“
Yep,” Mr. Heywood responded just as I cried no.

Jeremy raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“
Don’t listen to Mr. Heywood,” I told Jeremy, shooting Mr. Heywood a dirty look. “I don’t want you out of the picture.”

Jeremy took a step closer to me. “But I want
you
out of the picture.”

I stared at Jeremy incredulously. “Huh?”

I took a step back, eyeing him warily. Jeremy sighed, shaking his head. “You see, Holly. I want Mr. Heywood for myself. We’re destined to be lovers and I—oof!” Jeremy doubled over, clutching his stomach as Mr. Heywood punched him in the gut.

“
Jeremy, go be stupid somewhere else,” Mr. Heywood demanded, grabbing my hand. “We’re leaving.”

“
I see you still can’t take a joke,” Jeremy wheezed, looking up and grinning at us.

I blushed, remembering the time I had blurted out that Mr. Heywood wanted to be with Jeremy.

“
Holly, let’s make plans to do something soon. Maybe take Jenna and Jane somewhere,” Jeremy said, brushing his hair out of his face.

A smile spread across my face. “Sure!”

“
Let’s go,” Mr. Heywood ordered, tugging on my hand. “I want to get something for dessert.”

“
May I suggest the chocolate mousse cake?” Jeremy called as Mr. Heywood started dragging me away.

“
I don’t like chocolate. Goodbye, Jeremy,” Mr. Heywood called.

I looked up at Mr. Heywood in surprise. “You don’t like chocolate?”

“
Some of it is okay, but most of it is too sweet for me,” Mr. Heywood explained.

“
Too sweet?” I repeated in a skeptical tone. “Coming from the man who uses three pounds of sugar in his coffee?”

Mr. Heywood smirked down at me. “Hey, sugar and chocolate are completely different.”

I laughed. “Whatever you say, Mr. Heywood.”

“
Mr. Heywood,” he said forcefully. “Holly, call me Chris.”

My cheeks blazed and I ducked my head. “Sorry, um, Chris.”

“
That’s better,” he responded, emitting a low chuckle. “I like the sound of that much bet—shit.”

Before I knew what was happening, Mr. Heywood shoved me to the side with enough force to send me toppling away. I fell behind a large display of cereal, landing painfully on my wrist. When I looked up to glare at Mr. Heywood, I saw him with an eerily familiar person. My eyes nearly bulged out of my sockets when I realized it was Ms. Long, the gym teacher.

“
Mr. Heywood! Funny seeing you here,” she crooned, smiling widely at him. “What are you doing?”

Mr. Heywood held up our shopping basket. “Just getting dinner.”

I scrambled to my feet and quickly turned, sprinting down the aisle and towards the exit. My heart thudded in my chest as I pushed open the door and jogged outside. The cold air instantly sent goose bumps up my arms, and I pulled my jacket tighter, heading towards Mr. Heywood’s car.

We were two towns over! Why was Ms. Long here? That was too close. A shiver ran through me, and I leaned back against the car, watching my breath come out in white steam. Frowning, I glanced around the dark parking lot, seeing if anyone was around. From what I could see, I was alone . . . My heart skipped a beat and I groaned, sliding my back down the side of Mr. Heywood’s car until I was squatting.

The paranoid feeling was back, even though I knew Shawn was in jail. To stop myself from looking around and freaking out more, I dropped my head into my arms, focusing on the sound of my breathing. No one was out here—there wasn’t anything to be paranoid about. Well, besides someone finding Mr. Heywood and me together. But other than that, I was safe.

Five minutes later I was literally shivering in my shoes. I plucked at the strings of my jacket, wishing I had a pair of mittens. And a hat. And a scarf. And anything else that could keep me warm.

“
Holly!” Mr. Heywood jogged towards me, a grocery bag in hand. He slowed to a walk and stopped in front of me, looking annoyed.

“
Why did you come out here?” he demanded. “Do you not realize it’s only about thirty degrees out?”

I frowned at him. “I couldn’t stay in there!”

“
You could have waited by the front of the store. It’s not weird for two people who know each other to be in the same store,” Mr. Heywood pointed out, frowning back at me. “Get up.” He held his hand out to me and I grabbed it. “Your hand is freezing,” he told me, making a face as he pulled me to my feet.

I blushed. “Sorry.”

Mr. Heywood rolled his eyes. “Sorry? Come on, get in the car.” He opened the door for me.

I climbed in, my eyes following his form as he went to the other side of the car, tossing the bag of groceries in the back before hopping in the driver’s seat. He quickly turned the key in the engine and flipped the heat on high.

“
Give me your hands,” he demanded.

Curiously, I moved my hands toward him. He enveloped my hands in his, pulling them into the sleeves of his jacket. Immediately my hands felt much warmer. Mr. Heywood smirked at me. “Better?”

Ducking my head, I nodded. “Yeah, thanks.”

“
Anytime,” Mr. Heywood told me. “And I’m sorry for pushing you. I was surprised and pushing you away was the first thing I thought of. Are you okay?”

I smiled at him. “I’m okay.”

“
Good,” Mr. Heywood breathed in relief. “But that was close. I guess if we want to go somewhere together, we’ll have to go further.”

I looked up at him with a frown. “Is that okay?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Is what okay?”

“
Won’t that be wasting gas?”

Mr. Heywood laughed. “Holly, us doing stuff together is way more important than how much gas it takes to do so.”

My face grew hotter and I looked away from him. “I—I see.”

Mr. Heywood chuckled, letting go of my hands. “Alright, let’s go home.”

LESSON forty-three

The smell of tacos wafted around the room as I relaxed on the couch, barely focusing on the images on the television. A yawn escaped my lips and I glanced towards the kitchen, pursing my lips. The sounds of cooking could be heard, but the person doing the cooking could not be seen. And I couldn’t go in there to see him either, since he had banished me from the kitchen.

I smiled and turned back to the TV, picking up the remote to change the channel—I could only watch so many infomercials before going crazy. As I was flipping through the double digits, a familiar face flashed on the screen. My breath caught in my mouth as I stared at Shawn’s mug shots. The text on the bottom of the screen relayed information about the trial tomorrow. Swallowing nervously I quickly switched the channel again, landing on SpongeBob.

“
Holly?”

My heart leapt into my throat and I quickly turned my head up, coming face to face with Mr. Heywood. My shoulders sagged and I let out a quiet breath. “You scared me,” I accused.

He chuckled. “Sorry. Do you want everything on your taco?”

“
Depends on what everything is. I don’t like onions—”

“
Or peppers?” Mr. Heywood interjected with a small smirk.

I stared at him in surprise. “Oh, um, yeah. How’d you know?”

“
You and I are more alike than we could ever have guessed,” Mr. Heywood responded with a shrug.  “I’ll be back in a minute.”

“
Sure.”

A commercial for Christmas sales at a department store came on and I zoned out, focusing on the picture of Mr. Heywood and his parents next to the television. A smile spread across my face as I remembered the first time I saw it. It was hard to believe that only three months had passed since I first met Mr. Heywood. It felt more like two years had gone by.

My phone suddenly vibrated in my pocket, knocking me out of my reverie.

Where are you?

The contact read Lance, sending a jolt of terror through me for a moment, until I remembered Lance bought a new phone with a new number. Seconds later I sent my reply telling him where I was—truthfully. Lance was one of the select few who could know about my relationship with Mr. Heywood.

Really? Behave.

My face heated up quickly.
Shut up. What do you want?
 

Meet me at the café on the corner of James Street before the trial.

Why?

There were a few moments of silence before my phone vibrated again.
Ever heard of the term breakfast?
 

Nope. Must be some British thing that didn’t make it to America.

 
Are you going to be there or not?

I’ll be there,
I typed back, grinning.

“
What are you grinning about?”

A startled squeak escaped my lips and I dropped my phone, a hand flying up to my mouth. My face flushed as I looked up to see Mr. Heywood looking down at me. “I didn’t know you were part mouse,” he commented.

“
I—I’m not!”

“
Uh-huh.”

“
Really!”

Mr. Heywood gave me a smug smile. “Whatever you say, Holly. We’re eating at the table.”

“
You have a kitchen table?”

“
I’m not a barbarian,” he responded in a flat voice. “Now go.”

“
Okay, Dad.”

As soon as the words left my lips, an awkward silence settled in. Mr. Heywood looked caught between amusement and discomfort. Another blush spread across my cheeks as I headed towards the kitchen, ducking my head. Note to self: Don’t call Mr. Heywood “Dad.” I really needed to think before I spoke. And I really needed to learn not to make things awkward.

“
Holly? Hey, Holly.”

 
A hand on my shoulder made me blink in surprise. I turned my head to Mr. Heywood. “Huh?”

“
I asked if you were allergic to peanuts,” he told me, raising an eyebrow. “Twice.”

“
Sorry,” I apologized, looking away from him. “And no, I’m not. Why?”

“
I put peanuts in the taco seasoning.”

I gave him a skeptical look. “What?”

He laughed, ushering me into one of the chairs. “Trust me, it’s good.”

“
Okay. Can I have a fork?”

“
A fork?”

I nodded. “You know, something you eat with—”

“
Are you going to do that every time I repeat something you said?” Mr. Heywood snapped, frowning at me.

“
You do it to me!”

He smirked. “That’s because it’s funny when I do it. You at least blush.”

“
I do not!” I denied, though contrary to my words, my cheeks burned again. “But I need a fork to eat.”

“
It’s a taco. You eat it with your hands.”

I ducked my head. “I need a fork . . .” I was definitely
not
going to eat a taco in front of him. It had to be the messiest meal in the world.

He watched me curiously for a moment before getting up from the table. Moments later he returned, handing me a fork. “A fork for the lady.”

“
Thanks.” When I realized he had another fork in his hand I gave him a curious look. “Two forks?”

“
I’m going to eat my taco with a fork too,” he told me, dropping into his seat. “I want to know what’s so fun about eating Mexican food with a fork.”

Mr. Heywood shrugged, stabbing his fork into the center of his taco. Some of the seasoning leaked out from under the tortilla shell. He raised an eyebrow. “Are you embarrassed to eat a taco in front of me? That’s cute.”

“
That’s not it!” I countered, feeling my face heat up again.

He gave me a smug look. “You can’t lie to me, Holly.”

“
Could Holly lie to you?”

Mr. Heywood’s expression was confused for a minute until he realized what I meant. Then his expression became guilty, and he dropped his gaze. For the second time, an awkward silence filled the room. After a moment Mr. Heywood sighed. “She could lie, yes.”

“
So how come I can’t?” I complained, ignoring the awkwardness.

Mr. Heywood gave a low chuckle, now appearing more at ease. “Should I be worried about why you want to lie to me so badly?”

“
I don’t want to lie to you,” I told him, shaking my head. “But what if I want to, like, have a surprise for you . . . or something.”

“
I’ll do my best not to guess.”

“
Maybe I’ll ask Holly for tips . . .”

Mr. Heywood pursed his lips at me. “I’d rather you not. Holly was a pain in the ass when she lied. I prefer you the way you are now.”

I smiled at him, not sure whether that was meant to be a compliment or not. It almost seemed impossible to lie to him. How had the other Holly managed it? Maybe she didn’t keep eye contact . . .?

“
Speaking of Holly,” Mr. Heywood suddenly started, breaking my thoughts. “Remember why she was in town?”

“
To hand out invitations to her wedding.”

He nodded. “Right. Well Jeremy and I both got one. I don’t really want to go—”

“
What?” I interjected, my eyes widening. “Why not? Mr. Heywood—”

“
Chris,” he corrected.

I rolled my eyes. “Chris, weddings are amazing! There’s cake, food, dancing, pretty dresses—”

Mr. Heywood smirked. “Pretty dresses?”

“
Well yeah,” I responded, quickly averting my gaze. “You get to dress up. You should go! I’m sure Holly would really like it if you went.”