Not So Nice Guy(21)

IAN: Next time we’ll do that in person.





7





S A M



It’s the morning after THE PHONE CALL and I’ve developed some kind of PTSD. I don’t answer Ian’s wakeup call, mainly because I don’t need to. I’m already awake and in my kitchen, scrambling eggs. On my counter, there’s bacon, fresh blueberry muffins, sliced fruit, coffee, and orange juice. I look like a mom on a sitcom. Any minute now a teenage boy will stroll in with bedhead. I’ll tell him to sit down for breakfast and he’ll say, Mom, UGH, I’m late for school! I’ll throw a granola bar at the back of his head as he walks out the door.

I have all this food because I woke up and decided I needed a hearty breakfast. I need to get my strength up for the day ahead. No low blood sugar for me, not if I intend to be a strong counterpoint for this new version of Ian. Ian 2.0: sexy devil, husky phone-sex operator.

Last night I let him lure me into some weird scenario in which we weren’t Ian and Sam, best friends. We were just playing a role: Ian and Sam, horny teenagers. Plausible deniability.

I wish I could call in and take a personal day, but they don’t exactly give teachers a million days off. I refuse to waste one because I’m scared to face Ian. I doubt he’s scared to face me. No, not after that text message he sent last night. It’s clear he’s the one holding the cards.

I pull the text up again, just to confirm I wasn’t dreaming.

Yup, there it is.

I shiver, lock my screen, and go back to shoveling food into my mouth.

My outfit is picked out strategically. When I stroll into school an hour later, I’m wearing a dress that could easily be worn in a historical reenactment at Plymouth Rock. The black garment goes down to my lower calves and buttons all the way to my neck. The frilly white lapel adds a nice, colonial touch. It’s actually my funeral garb, which is appropriate because last night, my old way of life with Ian died.

Teachers stop me in the hall and ask if we’re supposed to be wearing costumes today. “Shit, it’s not Dress Like a Literary Character day, is it?” They’re not even pulling my leg; they’re genuinely confused. I decide I can unbutton the top a little. My cleavage is still completely concealed, but the circulation in my neck is able to return.

I turn the corner into my classroom and spot Ian waiting for me. He’s sitting in my chair, feet propped up on my desk. I jump a mile in the air. My Tupperware falls to the ground and the lid pops off. Muffins spill out.

“Jesus, Ian!”

He’s calm and bored when he replies, “Funny, you said the same thing last night.”

My eyes go wide and I whip my head back and forth down the hall.

“You can’t say things like that! Are you crazy?!”

I fall to my knees and start shoveling muffins back into the Tupperware. Ian doesn’t bother helping, just watches me with an amused little smile.

When I stand back up, he tilts his chin in my direction. “What a dress. Did you wear it for me?”

“Are you asking if I’ve thought about you since our phone call? Because no, I haven’t. I forgot you existed.”

“You look like an American Girl Doll named Chastity.”

“And you look like you’re trespassing. Why are you in my classroom?”

He stands and saunters over, reaching around me to shut the door.

Alarm bells ring, both from the fact that he has me cornered against the door and because he felt the need to close it in the first place. I reach back and twist the door handle, but his hand hits the wood beside my head, not hard, but he exerts enough pressure to keep me from opening it.

Slowly, I glance up into a pair of familiar blue eyes that are currently doing wholly unfamiliar things to my body. My stomach is clenched. My fists are clenched. My jaw is clenched. Everything is rigid and coiled tight like a spring. I’m liable to strain my spleen or something if I keep this up.

I think he’s going to try to pick right up where we ended last night. My suspicions ping louder when he steps closer. Our bodies barely brush.

God, he really is tall and foreboding. There’s a reason I’ve never dated a guy as big as he is. He’s the horse and I’m the jockey—except jockeys get helmets and whips. I have nothing to defend myself from him, just muffins.

He raises his hands, and my eyes pinch shut.

I’m being completely irrational. I know that, but like I said, his size is intimidating. I should have opted for some kind of platform heel this morning, maybe stilts. Even a pogo stick would allow me to be at his eye level for milliseconds at a time.

Something hits my chest, and it could be a bomb for all I know. Seconds tick down and we could both explode. I relish the idea—I’d love to be put out of my misery.

“Open your eyes, Sam.”

His tone is teasing and light. It’s the way Ian 1.0 used to sound, so I pry one eye open and then the other. I glance down.

He’s pressing a blue Gatorade bottle against my chest.

An innocent little sports drink.

“Relax.”

“You’re not going to kiss me?”

“Do you want me to?”

My eyes stay glued on the bottle. “I don’t know. I can’t feel my feet and first period is going to start soon.”

He steps back and shakes his head. “Drink up. You look thirsty. And did you forget? No first period today. We have to go teach that sex-ed course.”