Four Years Later (5 page)

Sounds like torture.

I let my mind float. I think of Mom and how she wants me to come home. She misses me. I’m her only child and she’s super lonely. Her friends don’t come around much now that she’s in Concord and Dad is in jail. She’s got no one. She likes to tell me that every time we talk. No one but me.

But I can’t afford to go visit her whenever she wants me to and I want to save up for Thanksgiving, when I have a week off. That makes more sense. Somehow, I need to convince her of that.

But how am I going to get a week off from my job at the diner? The tutoring comes to a stop because it’s school break, but it will still be busy at the diner. I haven’t even dared ask my boss for any time off yet, which is dumb. I need to prepare early. I need to stop being such a chicken …

I need to stop thinking about boys with pretty green eyes who think I’m a joke. I saw the amusement in his gaze at the diner. He probably laughed about me with his friends when they left. They might have asked who I was, and I bet he said
she’s nobody.

Nobody.

I’ve always been nobody.

Why can’t I be someone’s somebody? I’m lying to myself when I say I’d rather be asexual or a lesbian or whatever other silly scheme I come up with. I want a boy with a sexy walk and glittering green eyes to like me. I want him to whisper sweet words in my ear that make me shiver. I want him to touch me. I want to know what it feels like to be cherished. Just once …

“Hey.”

I recognize him, recognize that one softly spoken word. Look at how he even haunts my dreams. His deep, rumbly voice moves through me, making me tingle, and I let loose a soft sigh. A sigh that turns into a barely there whimper when he touches my hair, his fingers tangled in the strands.

“Wake up, sleepyhead.” His tone is tinged with amusement, and I realize I’m not dreaming.

His voice is real. His fingers in my hair are … real.

Crap.

I lift my head and blink my eyes open to find him standing right above me, a smile curving his lips, his hand nowhere near my hair. Did I imagine that? “Wh—what are you doing here?”

“I’m supposed to meet you here, remember?” He peers down at me as if I’ve lost my mind.

Maybe I have.

“What time is it?” I push the hair out of my eyes, my vision fuzzy, my head foggy. I must have really fallen asleep.

“Six fifteen. For once, I’m right on time.” His smile grows and he leans his hip against the table. “I figured you’d appreciate that.”

He showed up on time to please me. And guess what? It
does
please me, more than it should. I’m such an easy target. “I fell asleep.”

“Clearly.”

I rub my forehead. “I don’t usually do that.”

“Maybe you should more often. I think you were sleeping pretty hard.”

Wariness fills me and I stiffen my spine. “Why do you say that?”

“Well, you have crease marks on your cheek.” He reaches out and traces them, his fingertips so light on my skin a shiver steals through me.

I cannot believe he touched me.

His hand drops and he pulls out the chair next to mine, settling in it like he belongs there. He’s not sitting across from me the way I usually meet with my students; he’s right next to me and I can feel his warmth, smell his intoxicating scent. Like smoke and spice, fresh air and crisp apples. He smells like fall.

Fall has always been my favorite season.

“You have those assignments?”

His question knocks me out of my distracted state and I pull a folder from the pile I have stacked beside me, the one that’s labeled
Maguire, Owen
. I flip it open and hand him the sheet of paper I copied for him earlier. It lists all the assignments he’s missed so far and the ones he’s completed, which aren’t many. “Here you go.”

The paper lands in front of him and he studies it, his brows crinkled with concentration, his lips pressed together. I stare at him unabashedly because I can. As though maybe I’m supposed to, because hey, I’m his tutor. I need to watch over him and make sure he understands what’s going on, right?

“Can I make up the tests?” His deep voice wraps around me, making me warm, and I nod, staring into his dreamy eyes.

“Yes.”

He keeps staring at me as if he’s waiting for me to say something else, and I realize I do have more I need to say.

“You must finish the assignments leading up to the three tests you’ve missed first.” Leaning over, I point at the four assignments he missed that are listed before the first test. “So you turn those in, then you can complete the test.”

“What about these?” His index finger joins mine on the sheet of paper, tapping on the missing work just below the first test, his finger almost but not quite brushing mine.

I hold my breath, count to five. My insides are a fluttering, riotous mess, all because our fingers are close to each other on a piece of paper. “Same thing. Turn in the work, then take the test.” I sound all breathy and girlish. Like I’m trying to flirt, which I’m not.

Owen Maguire just puts me into a breathless, girlish state.

“Mmm-hmm.” He glances back up at me and our gazes meet. A lock of hair has fallen over his forehead and I want to push it back. Test its softness. Why is he looking at me like that? There’s no amusement, no mocking, no anger in his gaze. He’s looking at me as if he might … like me.

Yeah, right—you have completely lost your mind.

“You’ll help me?”

“That’s my job.” I nod.

“You’ll meet with me twice a week? Monday and Wednesday?”

I nod again. “Yeah.” Clearing my throat, I sit up straighter. “Yes. I will.”

He smiles. I like his smile. His teeth are straight. His lips are temptation. “Then we have a deal, Chelsea. See you Monday.”

Before I can say goodbye, he’s up and out of the chair, fleeing the room in a rush. I can almost believe he was never there in the first place.

Almost.

Monday #1

My weekend dragged on for what felt like forever. Friday, after making sure my paycheck was direct deposited into my account, I cruised to the bank and took out some cash, then texted Mom to meet me. I handed over a stack of twenties and she took them greedily, her eyes wide, her mouth curved in what I suppose was a smile.

Later she brought over two twelve-packs to the house and we got high together, though really I only took one puff. It bothers me, doing that with her. I’m to the point where I can’t stand it. And I only smoke with her when no one else is around.

I don’t need the guilt, or the weird looks. Wade knows my relationship with my mom is twenty flavors of fucked up, but Des doesn’t. He thinks my life is sunshine and roses.

Irritated with everything going down in my life, especially Mom, I got her to leave pretty quickly and she went without protest, happy because she was high as hell and had a pocket full of cash.

I made a mental bet with myself she’d be back within a week, needing more.

Wade, Des, and I hung out together all weekend when I wasn’t working, and considering my boss cut my hours because the owner said he had to, I was glad to be working at all. We drank beer, watched shitty movies, and talked about nothing in particular. The usual. I wanted to forget my troubles. The fact that I wasn’t able to play in this weekend’s game ate at me, though I tried to not worry about it. Still, I was pissed when Wade was gone, playing without me.

Looking for a distraction, I was glad when a couple of girls came over late Friday night. But I realized quickly that I didn’t want to deal with them. I don’t remember their names, even though one sat on my lap, stroking my hair, whispering in my ear how hot I was and how much she wanted me. I let her do it, my attention focused on the shit movie rather than her, and I know it pissed her off. I wasn’t into her. So she left me and went and sat on Wade’s lap.

Pretty sure he scored with that one.

I worked Saturday night. The rush of the dinner crowd kept me busy, my brain occupied, which I needed. My shift was till eleven but I stayed later, past midnight because it got so busy, and I helped out wherever I could. The tips were extra good and I stashed the cash in a secret spot in my closet, in the pocket of one of my old jackets. Fabes taught me that trick.

Hopefully I’d be able to hang on to some of the money and not have to give it all up to Mom.

Each night I lay awake in bed for way too long, thinking about my tutor. Chelsea. It’s as if I can’t stop thinking about her, which is pointless. Stupid. Remembering how I found her resting her head on the table, fast asleep. Her pink lips parted, her breathing even, looking like a dark-haired angel. She’d been incredibly still, fascinating to watch, and doing so made me feel like a voyeur. Seeing her like that felt like an incredibly intimate experience I had no business being a part of.

And when I touched her? I don’t know what made me do that. Her brown hair looked like silk, and I wanted to see if it felt like silk, too.

It did.

When she stirred, I yanked my hand back as if I’d just touched fire and got burned. No way did I want her knowing I had my fingers in her hair. She’d probably freak out. I don’t think she likes me much.

I make her uncomfortable and sick asshole that I am, I like it. I pushed her on purpose last Thursday. Wanting to see a reaction, needing to see her cheeks turn pink and her lids slide down so they were covering those too-blue eyes. She has thick, dark eyelashes and a sprinkling of freckles, just like I thought.

Never knew I had a thing for freckles, but I’ve come to realize I might.

You don’t even know this girl. What gives?

When did knowing a girl ever matter to me before?

Sunday I didn’t do shit. Slept in, lay around in bed until finally Wade asked if I wanted to order a pizza for dinner. I agreed and pulled out the assignment sheet Chelsea gave me while we waited for the delivery guy. What I needed to do to catch up and get my grade out of the gutter wasn’t that bad. Answer short essay questions about books we were supposed to have read that I haven’t yet. Or questions asking for our opinion on a certain topic—simple stuff that I could handle. I found one of the assigned books for cheap and downloaded it on my phone.

After I wolfed down half the damn pizza I worked on a few of my assignments, feeling like I’d actually accomplished something when I finished two of them. I thought of how much that might please Chelsea and that spurred me on, making me finish another assignment after I skimmed the other assigned book, which I finally found under my bed.

Now here I am moving down the crowded hall, pushing through the throng of students, anxious to reach the room where I know Chelsea’s waiting for me. I’d put on jeans and a brand-new black T-shirt I picked up in a pack at Walmart, throwing one of my favorite old flannel shirts over it because it got damn cold outside. The sky is gloomy and gray; I think it might rain, and I wonder how long the decent weather will last before summer leaves us for good.

I finally find the room and see that the door is closed. Approaching it, trepidation fills me. What am I doing? Why do I look forward to seeing her? She’s nothing. Nobody. She’s not even that attractive.

Liar.

Fine. She’s cute. But nothing special. I don’t understand why I feel this way.

Clutching the door handle, I push it open and walk inside. She’s sitting at the same table, hunched over her cell phone and tapping away at the screen. Texting someone, no doubt. I wonder who.

A friend, a family member, a … boyfriend?

I don’t like the idea of her having a guy and I sort of find it hard to imagine, too, though that makes me sound like a dick. But she gives off that untouchable vibe. Chicks like that normally don’t interest me whatsoever.
Fine, you don’t want me to touch you, let alone look at you? No problem.

So why does seeing Chelsea make me want to touch her all over?

Focus, asshole.

“Hey.” Her soft voice breaks through my thoughts and I glance up, meet her gaze to see she’s smiling at me. Seeing that smile shoots a zing straight through my heart, but I ignore it. “You made it.”

Flicking my chin at her in greeting, I settle in the chair across from her, not right next to her like last time. I’d done that to rattle her before. It had worked. But not today. Today I’m thinking we need to act like she’s my tutor and I’m her student.

“I completed a few assignments,” I tell her as I unzip my backpack and dig through it, pulling out the three assignments I worked on last night. “Here you go.” I hand them to her.

Chelsea’s entire face brightens as she takes the papers from me, our fingers grazing, her gaze roving over each page as she looks through them. “I’m so glad you did this. Did you go to class?”

I nod. It had been kind of hard, because I was behind in assignments and it was difficult to keep pace, but I pretended to keep up as well as I could. “Went to my Creative Writing class, too.”

“That’s the one class I’m looking forward to working on with you. I’ve heard it’s your secret talent,” she says, grabbing her phone so she can shove it into her backpack before she opens up my academic file.

“I have lots of special talents.” When she glances up to look at me with a frown, I raise my brows at her, trying to look like an egotistical ass.

She rolls her eyes. “I’m sure,” she says sarcastically, but her cheeks are tinged with pink, giving away her discomfort at my dirty joke.
Cute
. Most girls would flirt right back or call me out on it.

“So what do I have due in the Creative Writing class?” I may as well get it out in the open and make it happen. The faster I can get through this, the faster I can get rid of her and get on with my life.

“You could start on these shorter assignments. They’re quick and should be easy for you.” She hands me a sheet of paper and I take it, glancing over the missing assignments and the requirements they have before I turn them in.

Great
. I need to actually create and keep a portfolio of my writing for the entire semester. Considering I’m already about six weeks behind, I have a lot of catching up to do. At this rate, I’m never going to get back on the football team.