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Bailey
Monday comes the same as it always does, and I have to pull myself together and go to work. Chelsea and I spent basically the whole weekend on my couch, watching John Hughes movies and eating pizza. We haven’t done that since we were in college. But unlike in college, Chelsea slept at my place because she didn’t want to be alone, and sometimes she would randomly burst into tears. The advantage was, I didn’t have to spend any time at all with my own feelings because I was busy taking care of hers.
I really considered calling in sick, but I thought returning to some kind of normal routine would help. And it does; I get through my morning just fine. It’s at my break that things start to go sideways.
I check my phone for the third time in ten minutes. I tell myself it’s to check for any updates on how Chelsea’s doing, but that’s a bald-faced lie. She would call me on it if she knew. I’m not sure Zeke even has my number, but he found out where I worked without any trouble, so getting my phone number doesn’t seem like a huge stretch.
My work friend Diane invites me to eat lunch with her to spend our shared prep period grading, but she’s friendly. As in, she asks questions about my life and expects me to answer. She doesn’t really take “fine” for an answer and wants me to talk about my life. And if I have to face her friendly questions, the whole story is going to come tumbling out of me, and I’m just not ready to face that.
So I eat by myself in the teacher’s lounge, surreptitiously checking my phone and trying to focus on the stack of essays in front of me. It’s going badly. It’s not like I’m pining or anything, but after the weekend I had, it’s hard to keep my brain from circling back over the events. The drink, the shootout, Chelsea getting kidnapped. Zeke going out to save her.
Zeke. His strong arms and deep voice, the gentle way he spoke to Chelsea and the rough way he kissed me—
Okay, so maybe I am pining a little. Just a little. It’s been so long since I’ve felt anything other than passing attraction to a guy. And longer still since there’s been anyone in my life who would do for me what Zeke did the other night. And I’ve never had that kind of experience in bed before, at all, ever. But I’ve also never lived through danger like that, ever. I saw Zeke’s passion that night, but I also saw how unequivocally brutal he can be. No matter the pleasure, no matter the draw, the danger is immeasurable. There’s no way to make it work between us, even if he did call.
This is my real life. Teaching and grading and movie marathons with Chelsea. Not bull-riding and shootouts and mind-blowing sex. I just have to accept that and move on.
I’m so deep in thought, I miss the first warning bell and have to scramble to pack my stuff up to get to class on time. I pass Diane in the hall, who gives me a questioning look, but I just shoot her a tight smile and book it to class. It’s not like me to be late, or disorganized. Just the thought of Zeke is undoing my careful control. If the whole awful experience of Friday night wasn’t enough to confirm what a bad idea this is, losing my grip at work should make it obvious. But I can’t help the way my thoughts tend.
Not that it matters. No calls, no texts, nothing. I should be grateful to get out of this scot-free, but instead, I’m just kind of sad.
The truth is, I want him to call me. Sure, I could talk a big game about how I would give him a speech about how we can’t be together, but the truth is—the truth is, if he called, I’d be back at his side in a heartbeat.
God. It’s pathetic.
I take a second to pull myself together before opening the classroom door. Whatever’s going on for me, I can’t let my students see it. They’re like sharks. If they scent blood in the water, you’re done for.
The after-lunch period is always a little rowdy. I’m greeted by a bunch of eleventh graders clustered together around someone’s phone, exclaiming over whatever’s on the screen. But when I walk in, they immediately fall silent. That never happens. I would say they’ve suddenly got respect for my position, but let’s be real, they’re teenagers. Something’s up, and they don’t want me to know. But demanding directly won’t get me anywhere. I need to be sneaky.
“What’s gone viral this time?” I ask casually as I set my bag on my desk. “Is it another dog video?”
“No, it’s Snapchat.” says one of the girls, Leanne. I think it’s her phone. A couple of the girls giggle and whisper to each other behind their hands, glancing up at me and then back to each other.
I don’t like this. Something is definitely up. I’m not usually the target of student gossip, but I know what it looks like when I see it. Oh God, did my weekend adventures somehow get out? Is there footage of me riding the bull? Did my name make it into some reporting about the shootings? I dig out my students’ corrected homework, trying to keep my face blank and disinterested.
Some of the students have drifted out of the cluster to their own seats, but a number of them are still peering at Leanne’s phone.
“Leanne, the bell rang, you know that means phones away. I should confiscate that,” I say in my I’m-sorry-but-those-are-the-rules teacher voice.
She guiltily turns it off and puts it in her bag. “But, Ms. Temple! It only just rang. See, I put it away.”
I pause, as if considering it. “Okay, well, if you can describe the video to me in Spanish, I won’t confiscate the phone. No looking anything up, though. You have three minutes.”
My students confer amongst themselves. Eventually, Leanne says, “Hay un hombre con una—motocicleta? en tu lugar de—um, parking?”
There’s a man with a motorcycle at your parking spot. Hope surges through me. And right behind it, a kick of fear.
“Tu versus vos, Leanne,” I remind her. “But I’ll allow it.”
Correcting her grammar gives me something to do to cover the way my heart hammers in my chest. I can’t blush, not here. I do my best to appear disinterested and collected as I write the title of today’s lesson on the board. The kids are still murmuring, so I turn around and hit them with my teacher glare, but just the mild version.
“Okay, enough clowning around. Everyone to their own seat. Who remembers about the subjunctive?”
The class groans collectively, and the stragglers shuffle to their seats.
Class goes by blessedly fast. I can’t let my attention slip even for a second. Whatever was going around the school’s digital rumor mill has them all fired up, and they keep glancing at each other and smirking. Students. I have to keep them well in hand.
At least it gives me something to focus on. Because if I think for even one single second about the man with the motorcycle, my skin is going to burst into flame.
We get through the period without any more serious disruptions, thank God. I’m supposed to teach my ninth graders next, but if the eleventh graders were bad with the story as it was breaking, my ninth graders are going to be positively nightmarish an hour later. I need to deal with this situation right away before it escalates. So I do a pop vocab quiz at the end of the period with easy words and let them go five minutes early as a reward for good performance. It gets them out of my classroom in record time, and it’ll gloss over any friction from threatening to confiscate Leanne’s phone.
Once they’re all gone, I leave the room and walk down the hallway at a steady, measured pace. It won’t do to be seen to be running in the hallway for anything short of a real emergency. And besides, my students could have been having me on. I need to investigate, but it’s not DEFCON one.
But once I get to the back stairwell, I pick up the pace to a power walk. I don’t have a ton of time. And if I’m honest, hope spurs me on to walk a little faster. I hustle down the stairs, and the hallway spits me out into the faculty parking lot, into the gray, muggy afternoon. The sky’s been overcast all day, like it’s thinking about rain, but stepping out into the parking lot is as good as stepping into the sunshine.
Because there, as reported, is a man with a motorcycle. The student rumor mill was correct after all. My heart jumps and hammers in my chest. My face feels hot. I can’t believe this is happening. But as I get closer, the fearful joy in me turns to freefalling disappointment. Because it’s not Zeke. It’s Stinger.
He’s messing around on his phone, but he perks up at my approach.
“Hi, Bailey.” A smile breaks out on his boyish face. Maybe it’s a little more restrained than it was the other night, though. I approach him cautiously.
“Hey, Stinger,” I say. The last thing I want is a repeat of the other night, so I decide to go for blunt and to the point so that he doesn’t get any ideas. “I’m glad to see you’re feeling better, but what are you doing here?”
Maybe he doesn’t sense my impatience, because he says “Leg’s a lot better, thanks.” But then he straightens up and draws an envelope out of his leather jacket. “Zeke sent me. Wanted me to give you this.”
My heart jumps into my throat at Zeke’s name, and I’m definitely blushing. Sheepishly, Stinger hands me the envelope. It’s sealed, with my name across the front in jagged capitals.
“Thanks. I’m sorry to be like this, but my students have noticed you’re here and it’s causing a bit of a disruption, so perhaps we could continue this later?”
“Yeah, no worries, I’m out.” Stinger swings himself over his bike, wincing at the pressure on his injury. “I was just told to wait for you and give you that, so my work here is done. The rest of it is up to you.” He gives me a significant look, and I can’t help wonder what he means. But he flashes me a little salute and pulls away, so I don’t have time to ask.
I hustle back into the school, the envelope burning in my hands. I really don’t have time, but I fumble it open as I rush back to class, praying I don’t run into anyone.
Reading it means I nearly run into Diane the office gossip as I round a corner. I quickly jam the letter into my back pocket and hope she doesn’t notice that I’m blushing.
“Hey,” she says, “Don’t you have the ninth graders right now?” She gives me kind of a funny look.
“Yep, just on my way!” I give her a bright smile and keep walking before she can ask any more questions. Maybe she’s heard about my little visitor. But the matter is dealt with, and that’s all I can really do at the moment.
I compose myself as best I can before facing my ninth graders. It’s kind of a blood bath, but honestly, I don’t even care. Because Zeke’s letter is burning a hole in my pocket, and the words on the paper keep running in a loop through my mind.
I’d like to see you again. Meet me at Junction City at 5? Z