one
I rushed into class six minutes late, cursing the teacher who’d backed out of the community summer writing course at the last minute. Hustling into the classroom, I dropped the books that’d been weighing me down and turned to address the class. My eyes travelled over familiar faces and new ones. Some older, a few housewives who were no doubt scratching “take a summer writing course” off their bucket list, and a few younger, still in high school, I'd bet. And then my eyes landed on a face I knew well about halfway back, in the farthest row to my right.
Auburn Lawrence.
The tiniest of grins tilted my lips when I saw her. She glanced up and caught my eyes, a slow grin curved her mouth and just like that I was transported to this same classroom, three years ago when she was in high school, and my student. Our gazes sat suspended across rows of desks and other students, freezing time as a prickling sensation of awareness flooded my body. Auburn was here. She was back, she was writing, and she was enrolled in my summer class.
My mind snapped back to memories of just the two of us and afternoons spent in hushed conversation after class about reading and writing books. It was my first year teaching and from the moment she'd began talking, I'd known she was different. Thoughtful, intelligent, introspective, ambitious. When she'd mentioned that she wanted to be a a writer a few weeks into the class, all the pieces had seemed to snap into place for us. A connection had existed, or so I'd thought. From the beginning I'd thought of her as my equal, as more than just another student. In the years I'd been teaching since then I'd never had a student like her.
A cough from the back row pulled me from my musings on the past between Auburn and I. I shook the memories off with a smile at Auburn, making a mental note to chat with her later and see what she’d been up to the last few years. I knew nothing, beyond that she'd gone to Central Michigan University, after graduating three years prior.
After discussing our goals and explaining the project I expected them to turn in at the end of the summer, I dismissed the class. Students rambled out and it wasn't long before I noticed Auburn lagging behind. I was glad for it.
“Long time, no see.” I crossed my arms and relaxed against the edge of my old wooden desk.
“Yeah.” She stopped in front of me with a hesitant smile and tucked a stray lock of chocolate hair behind one ear. “Never thought I’d be in this classroom with you again” A sexy grin lifted her lips. The energy between us seemed to spark and that same sense of awareness I'd had earlier returned ten-fold.
“That a good thing or a bad thing?” I nearly choked, all the while clutching at the desktop until my fingers ached. In the three years since I'd last seen her Auburn had changed. Gone was the lanky, athletic body and nervous giggle, she was a woman. Her back straight and held with confidence, her smile easy and engaging, rich brown eyes that seemed to defy the laws of physics by peering into your soul and reading all the stories you had buried there.
“It's a great thing.” Her eyes flashed to my lips and I heard the smallest of sighs whisper in the space between us.
“I was thinking that too.” I suddenly found myself breathless, my brain short-circuiting and struggling for words. “So you’re still writing?” I spit out lamely. Making casual conversation with her seemed trivial. All the moments from our past now flooded my memory and had me feeling things that had been repressed for the last few years. I itched to ask her if she remembered those moments as fondly as I did. I wanted to ask her if she felt the connection burning up between us, the energy pregnant with unspoken words.
“Always,” she finally murmured.
“It's great to see you again.” I drank her in, from the soft waves of her dark hair down to her long legs.
She smiled, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. “It's great to see you too,” she breathed, her eyes caught with mine, saying all the things that we were too self-conscious to say after the long absence.
“I'm glad you're still writing.” I gestured to the notebook in her arms.
“I can’t imagine not writing, and when I decided to come home for the summer, I wanted to keep up on it. It's easy to get lazy,” she finished quietly and I sensed there was so much more she wanted to say. There was so much more I wanted to say.
“Isn’t that the truth?” I added. “It’s going to be good. I’ve got some fun things planned.” I couldn't help but gush. I loved writing. I loved being around writers. This was familiar territory.
“Fun?” She laughed a genuine laugh that hit me like a canon to the gut. The unbearable urge to touch, connect, feel her soft skin beneath my fingertips was a distraction. I struggled to resist. Her eyes focused on mine left me feeling breathless and rattled. “Everything okay?” The rich tone of her voice interrupted my thoughts.