Heating Up the Holidays 3-Story Bundle(113)

“It sounds good, Ms. Hart,” said Jenna thoughtfully, “but in reality it’s much, much harder. You feel like a dork.”

“You’re sometimes going to feel like a dork, but that’s better than doing something that can hurt you.”

They stared back at her, blinking and doubtful.

“A lot of this is about self-trust. You need to trust that the rules that you live by, the decisions you want to make, are the right decisions for you. If you don’t want to break laws, or have sex with someone you don’t love, or do drugs, but someone else is trying to convince you to do those things, you have to trust that when you made that clearheaded decision, not in the heat of the moment, you did the right thing. Your gut led you right. And it will lead you right every time if you trust yourself.”

“Is it easier when you’re n-n-not a kid?”

That was Geoff, who rarely spoke in class because of his stutter.

“Saying no?”

He nodded.

He was looking at her with such hope in his eyes. They all were. Please, Ms. Hart, tell us it gets easier. Better.

“Saying no gets a little easier. Trusting yourself, though, is always a challenge. And if you listen to the wrong voices, it can be very hard to hear your own.”

The bell rang, punctuating her assertion. The students gathered up their papers and books, shoved them into backpacks. The hurriers hurried; the dawdlers stayed behind to schmooze with friends. “Hope you get what you want for Christmas,” she called to them as they left. “See you next year!”

She wondered what percentage of what she’d said to them would get through. Hopefully, if nothing else, they’d learned some skills in the role-play. That stuff mattered ten times more than all the words she’d said combined, because, for so many of them, the words would go in one ear and out the other.

Your gut will lead you right every time if you trust yourself.

That’s great, Ms. Hart, but what the hell does that mean in practice? Huh?

Yeah, kids never heard that stuff, or if they did, they didn’t know how to make it work for them in real life. Kids watched the models in their lives—which at this age, sadly, were mostly other eleven-year-olds—and they learned from doing. Actions spoke louder than words.

You’re too trusting.

Fuck you, Henry.

She was too trusting and not trusting enough. What the hell was she supposed to do with that?

She had no clue.

She’d have to start from what she did know, and maybe, maybe, if she was lucky, the rest would come.

She knew one thing for sure.

If you listen to the wrong voices, it can be very hard to hear your own

“We’re all done here, Henry,” she said aloud. And, for finality’s sake, she picked up her messenger bag and walked out of the classroom, away from him.

*

Nora wasn’t here, among the partygoers, among the brushed nickel and rice paper, among the streamers, balloons, relentless eighties’ music. No flash of pale-red hair, no bright smile, no blue eyes. He was quite certain that even if he’d missed one of those aforementioned body parts, he wouldn’t have missed the mind-bending chemistry she exerted over him. She was absolutely, positively, not here.

It was after eleven-thirty, and he’d been sure, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that if he flew to Boston and wrangled an invitation to this party through Owen’s Facebook friendship chain, he’d find her.

But that had been foolish and deluded, of course. Why should she be here? He’d behaved badly and she’d moved on, and just because he’d been unable to let go of her, of the idea of starting over with her here, there was no reason to believe she’d nursed any of the same fantasies.

He hadn’t called her or texted her or let her know he was coming. He hadn’t wanted her to tell him no, to turn him away. He’d wanted to use every persuasive power at his disposal when he finally got the chance to talk to her. And if sex was part of that persuasion toolbox—okay, that would be no hardship.

He pulled out his phone and dialed her number, but he got her voice mail. He didn’t leave her a message. Instead, he wrote her a text. View’s nice up here.

He put his phone back in his pocket, but a minute later he pulled it out to make sure a text hadn’t come in and failed to vibrate. Nothing.

He didn’t know her address, and there was little point in trying to go to her on New Year’s Eve, anyway. She was probably at a party somewhere. Smiling at another man across the room. Dancing.

He was torturing himself.

His phone buzzed in his pocket and his heart pounded madly, so hard it hurt. He pulled it out.

Owen. She there?

No.

Oh, man. Sorry.

Dumb to think that because he wanted so badly for her to be here, she somehow would. As if he could conjure her through will alone.

His festive surroundings had begun to oppress. The Mylar balloons with their Happy New Year’s message were mocking him again.

He headed for the elevator, took it down.

He saw her again in his mind’s eye, at another New Year’s Eve party. Smiling. Dancing. Leaning close to whisper. And, later, tilting her face up as the countdown receded toward zero.

The thought of it made his chest hurt so much that he flattened his palm against the wall of the elevator to steady himself.

Because of course anyone who saw her across the room, as he had, would want her. Would want her so much—