School Ties (14 page)

When he stands, I can see him resist shoving his hands in his pockets. Instead, he takes a quick glance at his running shoe digging into the carpet before he gathers himself and looks up.

“Afternoon, everyone. Dean Allen introduced me as Zach, but if you don't call me Shep or Mr. Shepherd, I probably won't turn around.” That gets a chuckle from some of the faculty, knowing the habits of the boys and our own culture of addressing them formally. He twitches a half smile before moving on. “A lot of you might remember me. I graduated from Northwestern with a major in math and a minor in studio art this spring, a year early. I'll be on the math faculty and the assistant varsity lacrosse coach and thirds coach for soccer and hockey. I'm looking forward to being on the other side of the red pen and the whistle for a change.”

Dean Allen shakes Shep's hand and gives him the envelope that will tell him he'll be teaching two sections of Algebra I, statistics, and AB Calculus. In the room next to mine. I'd been excited when Cheryl, our space planner, had told me I'd have a new neighbor but now I'm not so sure. Shep's blue eyes flash to mine and there's a spark of longing,
want
, in his expression, but it clears when there's another round of applause to welcome him and his fellow rookies.

He takes his seat and I spend the rest of the meeting lost in thought about what the hell I could've done wrong.

Shep

It's the first day of class and I'm waiting for the guys to walk into my classroom.
My
classroom. I've never had a classroom before. It's spare. I didn't bother with pictures or the lame motivational posters some of the other teachers have. I'm sorry, but if you're not motivated, a poster with a tiny kitten dangling from a windowsill telling you to “Hang In There!” isn't going to help.

I've got my books stacked on my desk and I've written my name on the board. I broke two sticks of chalk before I finished. How did my teachers make this look so easy? Especially Erin. It must have taken everything she had to stand up in front of us. I'm surprised she managed it that first day. My gut is churning and I'm used to this. It's not so different from being a team captain, or for that matter, easing someone through a scene at the club.

I build up that leadership headspace, the sliver of distance I enforce between me and them in time for the first guy to walk into my class. I'm glad I've got freshmen first thing; they'll help me warm up for dealing with the seniors later. I didn't go to school with any of those guys, but only by a few months. It's weird.

I keep a close eye on the clock and it's not long before I've got a full class of freshmen—most of them looking too young to be wearing regulation blazers and ties—staring at me. I'm about to start when, through the wall behind me, I hear her, sunshine voice dimmed by the old-school plaster walls: “Good morning, gentlemen. My name is Erin Brewster. Miss Brewster to you, please, and we'll be spending first period together this year.”

A spiky shim of regret wedges its way under my ribs. Is it wrong that over the years when I've thought of her, sometimes I've wished I were sitting in the back of her classroom again, not as a student anymore, but watching her and getting to hear her say those words? But when she would, it would be different.
Good morning, gentlemen. My name is Erin Shepherd. Mrs. Shepherd to you, please, and we'll be spending first period together this year.

When the kids had left the classroom, I'd get up and pin her against the chalkboard. She'd flush and struggle, scolding me gently, “Shep, you're going to get chalk all over my sweater.”

She wouldn't mean it though; the press of her hips against me would be begging for more. I'd kiss her and wind that single strand of pearls around my thumb until it would leave a light impression on the delicate skin of her neck. She'd let out a breathy moan as I slid a hand under her shirt to fondle a breast, tweak a nipple through the lace of her bra. I wouldn't stop until she was pleading for more.

“You want more, Mrs. Shepherd?”

“Please, please . . .”

I'd turn her around to face the wall, ruck up the back of her skirt and rip away her panties with my fingers not twined in her necklace. Then I'd kick her feet apart, opening her for me. I'd get to look at her flawlessly round ass while I fumble with my fly one-handed because even in dreams I have to obey laws of physics. Just when I won't be able to stand it any longer, I sink inside her and she sighs, a loud, satisfied signature of pleasure. Then I'd wind my arm around her waist and fuck her while I finger her clit until she'd come around me. The spasms in her tight cunt would knock the control I'd been clutching out from under me, and I'd come in her, hard.

I'd let her pearls go and slide a hand up her arm to cover hers, shaking, splayed against the chalkboard, twining her tiny pinky in mine. I'd kiss her flushed cheek and say soft in her pink shell of an ear, “I love you, Erin.”

That's always when I'd wake up, a hand shoved down my shorts, wrapped around my dick in the middle of the night or if I was lucky, first thing in the morning when Hurley had an early class. I'd rub one out as soon as I could, thinking of how her heels would rise out of her purple shoes every time I drove my cock into her and how her hair would smell when I had my face buried in it, her small, gasping sex noises driving me on.

I'm ripped away from my sick fuck fantasies by a pubescent voice. “Mr. Shepherd?”

There are titters in the classroom because his voice cracked on the “P.” I want to smack each one of them upside the head.
It'll happen to every single one of you at least once this year, so don't be douche bags to each other.
But it's a tradition, pretty innocent sport all things considered, so I let it go.

“Good morning, gentlemen. My name is Zach Shepherd. Mr. Shepherd to you, please, and we'll be spending first period together this year.”

I get through the day, classes, meals, practice, without getting hard although my blood's pooling in this funny way like it's affected by tides, always at the ready to make a break for my dick. When I stumble into my tiny apartment after proctoring study hall, I barely make it into the shower before I'm gripping my cock, pulling with rough and angry strokes, my other hand spread against the cool institutional tiles while I jerk off. When I come—thick, hot and heavy against the wall and dripping down my closed fist—I choke out her name and wonder how I'm going to survive the next year. Wanting her, maybe watching her find someone else. Coming back here was the worst idea I've ever had.

You're such a stupid fuck, Shepherd.

Chapter Thirteen

Erin

It's been a month. A month since he's been here, a month since he's been avoiding me. He's not rude. No, Shep wouldn't be rude, but god, it hurts. I can't catch him in his classroom—he leaves as soon as his classes are over—and he's laser-focused as a coach so I can't even make eye contact when they're out on the soccer field. He won't sit at a table I'm at in the faculty dining hall and if I sit down at a table he's already at, he'll make an excuse after a few minutes and leave.

I'm a pariah and I have no idea why. Not that he's a barrel of monkeys with anyone else—he's always been serious and earnest and that hasn't changed. He's not sunshine and bluebirds when he's not with me, more like an overcast day, but whenever he sees me, or even when he senses me . . . I don't know how he does that, anyway, but his shoulders stiffen and his face darkens without having to set eyes on me. I'm a storm cloud.

I gave up for a while, but that only made me feel worse. My appetite has suffered, my attitude has suffered. I am suffering. Aunt Tilly had asked me about it when I had dinner with her and Uncle Rett on Sunday.

“Is everything all right, Erin? You've seemed down lately.”

Down is an understatement, but I'd plastered a fake smile on my face, not showing my teeth. “Yeah. Getting back into the swing of things is a little rough.”

Maybe they'd speculated later that it's because of the divorce, but they'd be wrong. I have fleeting moments of missing Will, but it's overwhelmed with relief. That decision was absolutely for the best.

Tilly'd raised a skeptical brow before cutting into her duck à l'orange. It's one of her specialties.

“How's it having one of your old students teach next door? Mr. Shepherd seems to be doing well.”

I'd swallowed my wine before I could choke on it. “Yeah, the boys seem to like him.”

It's a weak endorsement, but if I tell her how I sometimes sit in my classroom during my free periods to hear him through the wall, I might cry. He's brilliant. Really brilliant. I love to hear him talk, love the way his mind works, the way he explains things in a way I never would. I wish I could sit in his classroom and have him teach me, instruct me, fill me. That's when my thoughts start to wander away from his brilliant mind and on to less cerebral and more . . . corporeal thoughts. Fleshy, sweaty, sexy thoughts.

Luckily, Uncle Rett had jumped in, talking about how our thirds soccer team was crushing the other schools in the division under Shep's leadership. My unfulfillable fantasies had puffed into the air, a victim of reality.

I'm tired of suffering. I've suffered enough. If he's going to be like this, I at least deserve an explanation. So that's how I find myself standing outside his door, poised to knock. The hand by my side is curled in on itself in sympathy and I steel myself, setting my jaw and my brow before I rap my knuckles against the wood.

When the door opens, it's clear I'm the last person on earth Shep's expecting. Was he expecting someone else? My stomach lurches at the thought, remembering knocking on Will's door.

“Erin.” His dark brows crease while he takes a step back, his head turning like a horse's yanked by reins. “What are you doing here?”

All my resolve deserts me, scattering in flimsy scraps all over the stained hallway carpeting. My shoulders collapse and I can't meet his eyes. “I . . .”

“Is everything okay?” Just like that, he's back. The Shep I remember who was always so concerned about me, offering me his fleece, walking me back from Turner at night, rushing me to the ER. His hands are braced against the doorframe like he's trying to hold himself back. I wish I'd come here with some problem for him to solve, a crisis to manage. But all I've got is, “Yes, everything is fine,” and I hate the way a barrier gets drawn down between us, his expression shuttering. Why is he locking me out?

“I . . . Can I come in?” My voice is small and desperate.

He digs a running-shoed toe into the hardwood on his side of the threshold and looks down at it. It's as if he's expecting some unusual reaction, a cloud of smoke or maybe a secret hole to open that he can slide through. “I don't think that's a good idea.”

Okay, then. I look over my shoulder to make sure there aren't any little ears to hear what I'm about to say, but the hallway's clear and silent. I gather whatever pieces of tenacity I can and wait until he looks me in the face. “Why are you avoiding me? Since you've gotten here, you barely speak to me.”

“I'm not avoiding you, I'm busy. You know how it is.”

His response is rote, like he's practiced it. Is it the height of narcissism to think maybe he has in case I ever came around to call him on this?
You're so stupid and conceited, Erin. God.
But then he scrubs a hand through his hair, and through the gap I can see through a doorway on the opposite side of the hall. Into his bedroom. At least I think it's his bedroom. Tacked over a desk to the institutional-beige walls . . . Are those his drawings from his senior year? Along with one I haven't seen before. A finely detailed portrait of heels lifting out of a pair of shoes. My shoes. I'd recognize those purple flats anywhere. Even from the back, even in grayscale.

The sight gives me the courage to stand firm instead of turning tail and running away, inflates the hope inside of me that this thing between us hasn't just been in my head. It's there. It has to be. Why else would he have pictures of me hanging in his room? When he notices me gazing over his shoulder, he raises his hand to the doorframe again, blocking my view. I'd like to push past him or duck under his arm to look my fill but I won't invade his space. I will, however, give it one more try.

“I do. I'm busy, too. But, I thought . . .”

“What? What did you think?” I hate the bordering-on-derisive note of his questions. “Cruel” is not a word I would've ever dreamed I'd associate with Shep but that's what this is. Downright mean. I could call him on it, set up evidence like we're in the midst of some television courtroom drama.
Exhibit A: You kissed me. Exhibit B: All the updates you sent into the bulletin. Exhibit C: You came back here.
I could go on for days with all the small, unsaid ways he's told me that he cares for me, is attracted to me. But the habit of not saying these things out loud, of keeping the pull between us a furtive secret we don't even dare whisper, is a hard one to break. All I can do is gesture weakly behind him.

“What are those, then? Your drawings of me. I thought they meant something. At least they used to. I don't understand. I just—”

“Stay away from me, Erin.”

His voice is hard but brittle. Like if I took a hammer and chisel to his words, they'd flake off in sharp slabs.
Stay away from me, Erin
. There's a jagged warning there and it punctures any hope I had of us being together. Or being friends. Or being anything at all. He didn't deny it but it doesn't matter. My eyelids flutter, tears behind them, and my stupid weak chin quivers.
Don't cry
.
He'll pat you on the head and maybe hold you because you're pathetic, because that's what he'd do for anyone.

I've bared my expansive vulnerability to enough men and I'm not going to do it again to someone who doesn't give a care about me or my stupid feelings. My throat is tight and it makes my words come out tiny and weak. “Will do.”

I open and close my hands, which have been clenched by my sides this whole time, and turn to hurry down the hallway, hoping to at least make the stairwell before I start to cry.

Shep

Erin hustles down the narrow hall and I hope none of the doors open as she rushes by. It's bad enough she's so upset but the last thing she needs is one of the guys seeing her like this. I wait until she's turned into the stairwell, a hand clamped over her mouth, before I shut my door and slide to the floor with the ancient wood against my back. I can see my drawings hanging on the wall over my desk, the ones she must have seen. I'm just glad my sketchbook was shoved under my bed when she came by.

Drawing Erin is not exactly a hobby of the past. I've got pages of pieces of her, ranging in time from the day I first saw her to yesterday. On the nights I'm not jerking off thinking about her—and who am I kidding, often on the nights I do—I draw her. Sometimes I try not to but it's always the same: the slope of her shoulder against a bright blue sky while she sits in the bleachers, a drift of her hair as she walks down to her classroom on a windy day, the clutch of a pen in her hand while she takes notes in a faculty meeting.

If I thought avoiding her day in and day out, watching her laugh and smile and chat with other people, listening to her teach her classes through the horsehair plaster that separates us was bad, I was right. But this is a hundred thousand times worse. Knowing she had to screw up the courage to confront me, forced herself to walk up all those stairs to knock on my door, hope in her heart that maybe it didn't have to be this way or maybe hurt sinking in her stomach because she didn't understand what she's done wrong. Because she'd make it her fault, I know she would. Will.

I scrub my hands through my hair and push off the floor to look out the window. There she is, like I knew she'd be. Running across campus with her hand still covering her mouth, probably trying to contain the tears because I made her cry. I watch her make her way across the quad and into Sullivan, catch a fleeting glimpse of pumping legs through the window that looks into the stairwell that leads to her apartment. It's like watching a replay of four years ago. The buildings are different, but the small, pained shape of her hurtling across campus is the same. A knife twists in my gut that I have anything in common with Will Chase.

It's for the best. She'll stay away from me, get over it, find some nice vanilla guy who'll tell her she's pretty and make love to her. Not someone who wants to pull her hair, spank her until she cries, bind her up in black leather, and have her up the ass. In all fairness, I'd tell her she's pretty, too, because she is. She's the prettiest girl I've ever seen. And I'd tell her I love her, all the time. Because I do.

I want to destroy something. But knowing I don't have the cash handy to fix anything I break, I strip off my jeans, throw on some shorts and head down to the gym to lift. Because lifting weights is the simplest thing in the world and everything else is too complicated.

Erin

It's the day of the fall art show. I used to half love and half loathe this day every year. Loved it because remembering the pencil drawings Shep did of me gave me a thrill. They'd been beautiful and took my breath away when I came into the alcove, unsuspecting. But after seeing them in his apartment when I confronted him last week—a glaring reminder of how he used to feel about me but doesn't anymore—that makes me sad, too.

I guess that just leaves the loathing. I've hated it because that was the night of The Mistake. Having what was supposed to be meaningless sex with Will is the stupidest thing I've ever done.

Even though it was a Mistake, with a capital M, I do wonder. What would've happened if I hadn't had a miscarriage? Would we have scrapped and struggled our way to a happily ever after? Or would it have been equally as disastrous, and having a baby would've made it all the harder to leave? But I do think of that tiny lost life from time to time. There was a reason I miscarried: the baby wasn't viable and I can't count how many people have told me it wasn't my fault and it doesn't mean anything. I believe them, I do. But I also want to mourn and no one wants to hear that, either.

So my emotions are already running close to the surface as I shower and dress. I put on my purple ballet flats and a new dress I bought over the summer because it looked cute when I tried it on and I couldn't remember the last time I bought a dress. While I was preening under the flattering soft lights in the dressing room, I did not, absolutely did not, picture myself sitting across a candlelit table from Shep, peeking over my menu to see his trademark gravity applied to picking out his entrée. Flushing when he caught me staring. “Accidentally” grazing his ankle with my foot under the table because we'd be sitting so close together our knees would touch.

I had none of those thoughts then and I'm not having them now. Nope. And none of the sadness that wrings my stomach out like a damp hand towel because that will never happen.
Stay away from me, Erin
. His words echo through my head as if he were standing behind me, leaning over my shoulder and saying them into my ear. It's harder than usual to apply my eyeliner and mascara because tears are making a break for my cheeks, but I manage and then I'm set to go. Is it selfish and awful of me to hope Shep won't be there? It would only take a scrape of a razor to make me bleed and Shep's always been more of a cleaver where my emotions are concerned, for better or for worse. I don't know what it is about him that hits me so hard, but . . . Battered. That's how I feel as I wander about my apartment for a few minutes before I can't procrastinate any longer.

I'll put in my appearance, make sure my students who had invited me see me there, glad-hand any parents who've shown up and then I'll come home. I've got a book waiting under my bed for me. It's one that's supposed to be especially filthy. I've been saving it as a treat and I'll earn it if I can get through tonight without bursting into tears.

Shep

“Hello?”

“Caleb?” The voice on the other end of the phone sounds too old, more like one of my students than my brother, but when he says, “Zach!” I know it's my stubborn mind insisting he's still six like when I left home and not about to turn fourteen. He could be one of my students next year.

“How's it going?”

There's a pause, too long, before he says “Fine.”