Then there are empirical probabilities, which are based on observations and experiments. I’m good with this, too. I like evidence. I like dealing with facts.
But then there are subjective probabilities—the gray area of statistics. An estimate based on experience, or intuition—not hard facts. Kaley and I have already beaten the odds of our improbable relationship. And the outcome?
Pure bliss.
Another improbable statistic is sitting in my classroom right now. According to Kaley, his parents are making him take this class so he won’t be behind when he starts his first semester here in the fall. He tries to act natural around me, but I can sense his discomfort. As long as he keeps his mouth shut, I’ll do my best to treat him with respect.
I get up from my chair and make another round. Some kids are still on the first page of the test, and it pains me. Math doesn’t have to be so bad, it’s just not meant to be crammed into five short weeks. And the three-hour class blocks are information overload for the average human brain, especially for a college-level math course. Frankly, I’m against it. But I need the money and hope to teach at a university one day. Until then, I’m making some extra cash by teaching intermediate algebra at the local community college in the sweltering July heat. Sure, there’s air conditioning, but the insulation in this building is a joke.
When I return to my desk, I see a text from Kaley:
I’m off to work. :( Love you.
I can almost hear her irritated voice through the screen, and I stifle a laugh. She has no idea how cute she is. She’s upset about having to work on her birthday. She tried to get it off, but her boss wouldn’t allow it. Kind of harsh, but at least we’re both off the next two days and can start our celebration. I reserved a suite at the Royal Palms Resort and Spa in Phoenix for two glorious nights. I can’t wait to surprise her.
Love you, I reply. I’ll see you when you get home.
If you really love me, you’ll tell me what you have planned.
Not a chance, baby.
I glance at the time and give a ten minute warning to the class, and most of the students straighten up as they frantically race the clock. Bradford hands me his finished test, and I give him a nod. It’s the best I can do, given the fact that I can’t stand the punk.
WHEN I GET home, I change into my workout gear and down a protein shake. I’m barely holding onto a six pack these days. She doesn’t seem to mind, but she’s young, and I’m trying to at least keep up with her energy. I walk back to the spare bedroom that I converted into a home gym and slide my iPod into the dock. I turn up my favorite eighties rock playlist and rack the weights.
It’s chest day, and I start with the flat bench. The weights clang against each other while I think back to my life without Kaley. Memories come flooding back like a movie reel, all the hours I spent in here trying to work her out of my mind. It all seems so long ago. Now, we not only share the same bed, but we share our lives together. We’ve made love just about everywhere . . . in the spa, on the side of the spa, in the pool, in the shower, on the couch, the kitchen island, even the hallway one time when we lost ourselves in the moment. She even interrupted one of my workouts and had her way with me on this very bench, while I watched her through the mirrors.
After about an hour of hard lifting, my muscles finally reach fatigue, and I take a quick shower. I grab a protein bar from the kitchen, then turn on ESPN and lean back on the couch. Eventually, I pull the stack of tests out of my bag, and I’m still grading by the time she walks through the door.
“Hey, baby,” I say. “Happy birth—” I stop when I look up at her. “What’s wrong?” I toss the papers on the coffee table and turn to her.
“Nothing,” she says. “Why do you think something’s wrong?” She smiles but it doesn’t meet her eyes.
“It’s obvious something’s wrong.”
“Ugh,” she groans. “You can always read me; it’s so annoying.”
I fight the urge to laugh and tell her that anyone can read her. Instead, I stand up and walk over to her.
“I’m fine, Slate,” she says. “I just want to take a shower.”
“Bad day?” I ask.
“You could say that.”
“I’m sorry.” I grab her slender arm and pull her in for a hug. “Happy birthday.”
“Thanks,” she says, muffled into my chest.
I let her go, and she walks down the hall and into our bedroom. I sit back down to continue grading, but my gut gnaws at me, and I decide to go check on her. The shower’s on when I find her in the bathroom, but she’s still clothed, standing by the sink. I catch her wiping a stream of tears off her cheeks, and my adrenaline instantly begins to fire.
“Kaley, what’s wrong?” She jumps, and I soften my voice. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“I’m fine,” she says, turning to me. “Just a bad day. I’ll be okay.”
“Is it your boss? Is he making you work tomorrow?” For some reason there’s been some tension between them, and I’m not sure why. My only guess is it’s because he’s the brother of one of her closest friends and maybe doesn’t approve of our relationship.
She shakes her head. “No, it’s not him. He wasn’t even there today.
“Then who?” I ask, causing her tears to spring up again.
“No one, it’s stupid,” she cries, hiding her face.
I pull her into my arms and stroke her hair. “Just tell me, baby,” I say, resting my chin on her head. I’m careful to appear at ease, but I’m dying to know who made her cry.
“Tommy came in today,” she says.
The hairs on the back of my neck start to rise. “What’d he do?”
“Nothing,” she says, pulling away. “He was just being a dick. It was bad enough I had to cover his table, but then he made some snide comments about you. He usually only comes in if Derek’s there, so I wasn’t expecting it. And he brought Avery—not that I care—but she laughed along like the little slut bag she is when he was talking about you.”
I couldn’t care less what Bradford has to say about me—I know I have nothing to worry about. But nothing enrages me more than how he treats Kaley. It infuriates me and takes a massive amount of self-control not to beat his ass.
“Are you mad?” she asks.
I let out a sharp laugh. “I want to beat the hell out of the little bastard.”
“That’s why I didn’t want to say anything. He’s not worth it, trust me.”
“Oh, I’m well aware of that,” I say. “But I can’t let him treat you that way—just know that.”
“Slate,” she groans.
I rub my face and let out a deep breath. “Get in the shower. I’m taking you out.”
“What are you talking about? I thought we were celebrating tomorrow.”
“We are. But I’m not going to let you have a bad birthday. Besides, I want to try that new Italian place.”
She blinks at me. “I don’t know what’s more shocking. The fact that you want to take me somewhere in town, or the fact that you want to go to a restaurant that serves pasta and bread.”
I erupt into laughter. She’s the only one who can diffuse my anger in a moment like this, and my love for her deepens. “I want to take you out. You deserve it.”
“Okay, but let’s go somewhere out of town, like usual,” she says.
“I’m tired of that,” I say, touching her cheek and watching it blush. “I want to have a normal life with you. I love you, baby. Let me do this.”
“All right,” she says with a sigh.
I draw her in for a kiss, and she slides her arms around my waist. The soft touch of her lips runs through me, and I can’t believe she’s all mine. She doesn’t deserve some jackass disrespecting her—she deserves the best. I wish I wasn’t the little weasel’s teacher. Then I could just sock him in the mouth and be done with it. I’m definitely going to have a talk with him after class on Monday.
It’s tempting to slide into the shower with her, but I leave her alone to get ready.
SHE ENTERS THE living room wearing one of my favorite dresses just as I finish grading the last test. She hasn’t worn it since she was my student, and the yellow looks incredible against her tanned skin.
“Hey, beautiful,” I say, rising from the couch. “I feel like it’s my birthday.”
She blushes, and it takes all I have not to wrangle her into the bedroom right now.
“You don’t look so bad yourself,” she says, admiring my attire.
I lean down and kiss her flavored lips as I reach behind her head, fastening a silver chain around her neck. When I step back, she touches the necklace, peering down at it.
“Is this . . . a real diamond?”
“Of course,” I say. I’m not going to spoil the moment by telling her how I went to my sister’s jewelry guy and used her discount. It’s quality jewelry, no doubt, but I got a great deal.
“Elijah,” she whispers.
I press my finger to her lips. “If you tell me I shouldn’t have, I will seriously get upset. I was going to give it to you tomorrow, but I wanted to take this moment to remind you that you have a worthy boyfriend now. Who’s madly in love with you. Who wants to take you out in the actual town we live in. And who wants to come back here and make passionate love to you all night long. Is that okay with you?”