Getting Schooled (Getting Some #1)(53)

Bruce picks up the story. “It was so good, we kept meeting up to do it, every day. For weeks.”

Callie’s eyes widen. “In my apartment?”

“Yeah.” Cheryl’s head toddles apologetically. “You may want to get a new couch when you come home.”

I laugh—Cheryl’s kind of awesome.

“Why didn’t either of you say something to me?”

The last few months have been a tornado for Callie time-wise, but I know she’s been touching base with her friends a couple times a week.

“It was so new in the beginning, we barely talked about it to each other. And there was something exciting about keeping it on the down-low. Clandestine.” Bruce wiggles his eyebrows. “Like we were doing something wrong that felt oh-so right.”

“And then, last week, Bruce put his balls on the table and let it all hang out.”

Callie grimaces. “Which table?”

Cheryl waves her hand. “I mean, figuratively.” She turns to Bruce, her voice going mushy and mesmerized. “He told me he loved me and asked me to marry him.”

“And she said yes.” Bruce stares at Cheryl, brushing a hair back from her face, the very picture of total and complete pussywhippedism. Infatuation and devotion practically ooze from his eyeballs.

And I get that—respect it—it speaks to me. It’s how I picture myself in my head, every time I look at Callie Carpenter.

Okay . . . maybe I’ll end up liking Bruce. A little.

They both turn their heads to Callie.

“And here we are,” Bruce says.

“We want the wedding to be in the spring, so . . . since you’re going to still be here, you’re gonna have to up your data plan because I’m going to need help with flowers and a dress . . . and everything.” Then, slightly hesitantly, because Callie’s opinion obviously matters to her, Cheryl asks, “What do you think, Callie?”

Callie’s eyes drift back and forth between them. And then she flings her arms around them, hugging them both at the same time. “I think it’s amazing! I’m so happy for you!”

After the hugs and congratulations settle down, we grab Bruce and Cheryl’s bags and head back to Callie’s parents’ house. Dean’s band is playing at Chubby’s that night—an unusual mid-school-year performance for him—so the four of us go there for drinks.

The next day, I eat Thanksgiving dinner at the Carpenters’—Callie’s dad hobbles around but still manages to slice up a mean turkey. Bruce and Cheryl are comfortable with Callie’s parents and her sister and brother-in-law, so after dinner, she leaves them at the house and stops by my parents’ place with me for dessert. We split the holiday between our families . . . the way couples do.



~



The Lakeside Lions finish their season with an 8–4 record. It’s not states, and it’s not anywhere close to how I envisioned the season playing out—but all things considered, it’s not bad. I’m damn proud of my boys and I make sure to let them know it.

On the first Tuesday in December, I’m in my office, after school, going over tapes from the last game. On the desk, a text message pops up from Callie on my phone.

Callie: Come to the auditorium. I want to show you something.

I rise from my desk and text her back as I walk.

Me: A naked something?

Callie: Lol, no. Come through the side to the stage left loft—be stealthy.

Ah, the stage left loft. The legendary student body makeout spot. Our own little slice of seven minutes in heaven—Callie gave me our first blow job there. Though you never would’ve guessed it was her first time—even back then the girl had skills that could blow my frigging head off.

Me: Good times in that loft—we going for a redo?

I know she knows exactly what I’m referring to, when she texts back.

Callie: Not tonight . . . but maybe another time ;) Are you coming?

Me: Not at the moment—hopefully soon. But only after you come first.

I imagine that sweet blush rising on her cheeks, as she shakes her head at her phone.

Callie: You have a one-track mind.

Me: No, I have a three-track mind. Your mouth, your ass, and that pretty, pretty pussy—are always on it.

I walk down the side hallway, outside the theater, and quietly go through the side door that leads backstage. The overhead lights are on and there’s some student chatter happening out front. I climb the black, metal ladder to the loft, where Callie is waiting.

She offers her hand as I climb the last of the way up, smiling softly.

“Hey.”

She’s wearing a black formfitting turtleneck today, sleek black skirt, and high black boots—gorgeous.

“What’s up?” I whisper.

There’s a black sofa along the back wall of the loft. The concrete walls are also painted black, with tons of graffiti left by students through the years, in chalk and white marker. It’s a quiet, private space—with probably more body fluid on that old couch than I ever want to fucking contemplate.

Callie leads me by the hand to the railing that overlooks the stage below.

“David and Layla are working on their big song. They’ve been practicing so hard.”

In the last few weeks, Callie’s really hit her stride teaching-wise. She’s a natural, and I’m so proud of her.