The Force of Gravity(33)

He smiles at me. “I will wait here until you’re safely inside.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that. My dad’s home, it’s okay,” I assure him.

“I insist.” He steps out of the cab and opens my door.

I pop another breath mint in my mouth and step out of the cab. The rain bombards me, and I clutch my bag, trotting up to the front porch, under the shelter of the roof.

“Well, that sobered me up,” I say to myself.

I run my hand through my dampened hair and exhale as I press the little glowing disk on the side of the house and wait.

No answer.

I count to ten before knocking on the door—I don’t want to have to go back to the cab and explain to the driver why I’m locked out. Praying for a miracle, I count again—when I reach six, I hear the deadbolt unlock. My heart races as Mr. Slate slowly opens his door. He’s barefoot, wearing jeans and a white T-shirt that look like they’ve been thrown on in a hurry—his hair is damp and disheveled.

He squints in the dim light, then his eyes widen. “Kaley?”

“Can I come in?” I ask.

His eyes dart behind me, and he hesitates before opening the door wider and stepping aside. I turn and wave to the cab driver, and he waves back before driving off.

I look Mr. Slate in the eyes as I step into his house.





CHAPTER SEVENTEEN



MR. SLATE CLOSES THE DOOR behind me and faces me in the entryway. The state of his appearance has me already regretting my arrival.

“Am I interrupting anything?” I ask. If The Blonde pops out from behind a corner, I will die, just die.

He shakes his head slowly, still clearly befuddled. “I mean . . . not exactly.”

What does that mean?

“Are you alone?” I ask more directly.

He chews on his full, bottom lip, and I imagine biting it.

“Yes,” he says eventually, crossing his arms. “What’s going on, Kaley? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I say, shivering. I rub my arms as I take in my surroundings. The décor in his house is reflective of his wardrobe. Rich, earthy colors run throughout the open floor plan. A large island separates the kitchen and living room, and there’s a hallway to my left. It’s cozy, yet masculine, and I’d be having another panic attack if it wasn’t for the alcohol silencing my anxiety.

He presses his lips into a fine line. “Okay . . . well, you just took a cab to my house, and you’re carrying an overnight bag.”

“Um . . . yeah,” I say, dissolving into a nervous giggle.

He grabs my bag and sets it down next to the hunter-green sofa. I watch him step into the kitchen and pour a glass of water as I remain rooted to the floor. On his way back to the living room, he gestures for me to sit.

“Here,” he says, handing me the glass. “Drink this.” He sits on the opposite end of the couch, his posture rigid, and clears his throat.

“I’m not completely plastered or anything,” I say, crossing my legs.

“You’re something,” he says. “Drink up.”

I take a sip of water. “I’m okay, really.”

His disapproving eyes and five o’clock shadow remind me of his age. He slips a coaster on the coffee table just before I set my glass down, and I smile. Ruggedly handsome neat freak.

I shiver again, and he tosses me a blanket off the back of the couch. “Here, dry off with this.”

His eyes dart across my dress as I pat myself down. “Do your parents know where you are right now?”

I smirk and toss the blanket beside me. “What are you, an after-school special?”

His unblinking eyes remain humorless. “Where do they think you are?”

I swallow. “Emily’s house.”

“And where does Emily think you are?”

“Um . . . in a hotel room across the hall from her.”

His jaw tightens, and he waits a moment before asking, “And where does Bradford think you are right now?”

I bite my bottom lip. “Home.”

He sighs. “Why did you take a cab to my house, Kaley?” His inflection is too close to his teacher tone, irritating me.

“I didn’t really think about it,” I confess. “I planned on going home, but when the driver asked where I wanted to go . . . I just gave him your address.”

He leans back against the couch. “I’m not even going to ask how you know my address.”

“I appreciate that, thanks,” I say, stifling more nervous laughter.

“Drink your water.”

I roll my eyes. “Yes, Mr. Slate,” I say teasingly as I pick up the glass to take another sip.

He winces. “Don’t call me that, please.”

I set down the glass and tilt my head. “So, what—you want to be on a first-name basis again?”

He runs his hands through his damp hair and locks his fingers behind his head. I linger on his protuberant biceps as he speaks. “I don’t know, Kaley. This hasn’t been easy for me, either.”

I scoff. “Really? Could’ve fooled me.”

“Good. That was the whole point.”

I realize the liquid courage will eventually wear off, leaving me embarrassed and humiliated for my candor, but I can’t live with this tug-of-war in my mind anymore.

I came here for a reason.

“Okay, look,” I say, folding my arms across my waist. “You’re kind of ruining my entire life, and I need to move on. Either you want to do something about this or not. I’m graduating in four and a half weeks; I’m eighteen years old—what’s the problem?”

He lowers his arms, resting his elbows on his knees and leans forward. “I’m going to assume that’s the alcohol talking.”

“It’s not just the—” I start. And then it happens. My words are past my lips before I can stop them. “You can’t kiss me like that and then just tell me you lost control. Maybe I’d believe you if I didn’t always catch you staring at me in that . . . way of yours. I mean, what are you afraid of? Obviously, you are—or were—attracted to me, so what do you want? Are you worried I’ll get too attached or something?”

He springs up from the sofa. “I should take you home.”

I mirror his action, standing up too fast for my inebriated state, and the room starts to sway.

“I don’t want to go home,” I say, trying to steady myself. “I want you to at least answer my question first.” As much as I hate my transparency tonight, I know I need an answer—I need to move on for good.

“And what’s that?” he says, turning to me.

“If you’re attracted to me—and I swear I won’t tell anybody—what are you afraid of? Getting into trouble? I mean, I get that, I do. I’m sure you get laid all the time, so I’m not worth the risk.”

His eyes tighten. “That’s who you think I am?”

“Well what else is it? Don’t you have some beautiful girlfriend or something? What am I supposed to think? You said you cared about me, and I get it—you said that in the heat of the moment. Look, we all make mistakes. But I’m a big girl, I can take it. I just want the truth for once. I—”

“I do care about you,” he says, cutting me off. He takes one long stride and grabs my arms, his face inches from mine. “The truth is I care too much about you. And it isn’t right. You’re a student—I’m a teacher—that’s not okay. Get it? You’re young, Kaley, you have college ahead of you, a boyfriend, and I could lose my job—there are a million reasons why I shouldn’t care about you!”

Time suspends as the full impact of his words hit me.

“But you do care?”

He breaks his hold, stepping away. “Look, it’s more serious than you think. Even if I caved in to my feelings and we tried this out after you graduate, I could still get in serious trouble.”

Feelings? Regretting the last few shots of alcohol, I’m not sure I heard him correctly, and it takes me a moment to process.

“Even after graduation?” I dare to ask. Now that I know he might actually have feelings for me, my guard comes crashing down before I can stop it.

His expression is solemn. “If we went public soon after graduation, or if someone found out about us, I could still be reported to the school board and be blacklisted from the district. Every district, in fact.”

I know he’s telling me bad news, but I’m too enthralled over his use of “we” and “us.”

“It’s kind of difficult to get another teaching job if you’re known for dating students,” he says, allowing a slight smirk.

“Oh,” I say, defeated. “Have you dated other students before?”

He jerks his head back. “What? Of course not! Honestly, is that what you think of me? I’ve never felt this way about a student. Look, Kaley, I’m really sorry I put you through all of this. But like I said, you’re young with so much ahead of you. Our relationship would be too complicated. Trust me. I want to do the right thing here—just please forgive me for everything, and I promise I will treat you like a normal student and leave you alone.”

“No,” I plead. “Please don’t leave me alone; I don’t want to be left alone.” My pride is long gone, and I step forward, cupping my hands around his face.