Sweet Nothing(9)

I’m standing in the hallway, gasping for air, before I realize I have no idea where I’m going. I consult the itinerary again.

12:15 Lunch with faculty mentor (Location TBD)

“Ahhhhh,” I moan. I close my eyes and lean against the closed door, knocking the back of my skull in even rhythm against the wood. The welt from my throw-down with Dr. Goodwin’s mantle hurts like hell.

“That bad already?”

My eyes snap open. I blink, just to make sure I’m not hallucinating or having a stress-induced stroke. Then I blink again.

“Luke? What—why are you—” I stammer.

“Fifteen minutes late? I’m really sorry. I got caught up with somebody. Didn’t mean to keep you waiting.” He smoothes the rumpled salmon-colored t-shirt he’s wearing with gray shorts. Instantly, my gaze finds its way to his hands again. The green swipe of paint from last night is still there, joined by splatters of orange and bits of dried clay.

My head is whirring with questions. I want to ask them all at once. “But you—you’re not—”

“Your faculty mentor?” He smiles and shrugs. “Guilty.”

I don’t think I could tear my gaze from his hands if I wanted to. Unless, of course, it’s to look into his eyes. Today, they look more green than blue. Every cell in my body is acutely aware that I am pressed against my classroom door. And he’s just a few inches away. “But you’re… the guitar player!”

“And the photography instructor, and the art teacher and ceramics guy, and, for one brief but humiliating season, the boys’ chess coach.” Is it my imagination, or is he leaning even closer? “What can I say, Ms. Sloane? I’m a complex guy. Many layers.”

“I’ll bet.” He smells like the beach. I sneak a deep breath.

“And you’re Econ. First year out of NYU; first teaching gig.”

“You know an awful lot about me, Mr.—”

“Poulos. Luke Poulos. And I don’t know that much about you, actually. Just what little the school’s told me.” I can see the chiseled lines of his chest and arms rise beneath the smooth cotton of his shirt. I wouldn’t mind sneaking a peek beneath that particular layer. Stop it, Elliot.

“But I do know a little about life at Allford,” he says, pulling a pair of aviators from his t-shirt pocket and sliding them on. “You ready?”

I nod, hoping I’m giving off a breezy, confident energy. Knowing I’m not. “I’m ready.”

It’s my first lie to Luke Poulos. I wish it could be my last.





chapter four



Elle,



He did it. David, I mean. It went like this: we’re walking home from Balducci’s, and he tells me out of nowhere that we need to talk. And I’m stupid enough to believe he’ll say something comforting. Like how he’s going to be there for me until this is all over. Instead, he tells me it’s not working. It has nothing to do with dad, or the trial, or the tabloids. It just… isn’t working. Asshole.



It’s dangerous, isn’t it? When you trust a man enough to hope he can make your world safe? I believed that about Dad, too. Fool me twice…shame on me.



Love you for infinity,



A





“Elle. Trust me. It’s perfectly safe.” Luke is standing next to the silver moped in the faculty lot, making surprisingly convincing puppy dog eyes. He unearths a helmet from the compartment beneath the seat. “It comes with accessories. Women like accessories, right?”

I raise an eyebrow. The left one, which is my don’t bullshit me eyebrow. “First of all, I can’t pinpoint exactly why that’s sexist, but it is. And second of all, I’m not most women.”

“Obviously.”

Is he flirting, or teasing? I’ve never been good at telling the difference. I look at the ground. At the glorious, solid, unmoving asphalt.

“Call me picky, but I really would like to make it to the first day of school in one piece.”

“And I’ll make sure you do.” He moves closer and slips the helmet over my head. “Promise.”

“Seriously, Luke, I’m not sure about this,” I announce, ignoring the way my body vibrates when he’s close.

“You’re not sure because it’s a first,” he says simply.

“Huh?”

“You’ve never done it before. It’s a first. And that’s a good thing. I try to do one first every day.”

“Good for you,” I grumble.

“Trust me,” he says again. “You can hold onto me the whole way.” As he adjusts the chinstrap, his fingertips graze my neck. I’m sure he can feel my pulse, heavy and throbbing beneath his touch. I shudder.