School Ties (16 page)

“You told me to stay away from you.”

Her words slice at me. I remember saying them. They cut then and they cut now. “Yes.”

“So why aren't you staying away from me?”

If only I could answer honestly:
I don't want to stay away from you. I want to own you, possess every inch of you, mark you as mine, and show you what all that means. But you're as vanilla as a milkshake and just as sweet, so I can't. But that doesn't mean I wouldn't step in front of a tank for you. It doesn't mean I can stop the want, the urges.
I should go to the club Mordecai gave me an introduction to. Maybe I could find some nice, kinky, submissive girl who could make me forget about Erin Brewster and what I'd like to do to her. I doubt it.

“I can't.”

“Then don't.”

Erin's stopped short in the middle of the path and grabbed the sleeve of my regulation navy blazer.

“Erin, I . . .”

“Please, Shep, don't.”

She winds my tie around her hand and I think she's going to yank my head down to kiss me, but she doesn't. She looks up into my face, and I get hard as hell when she whispers, “Please,” her eyes round as the full moon that's out tonight. I want to. I'd strip off my tie and bind her wrists around the top of the lamppost, rip off her dress, yank down my fly and fuck her right here. But no.
No.

I untangle her fingers as gently as I can and smooth out the wrinkles her tiny hand made in the fabric, wishing it were her palm gliding down my chest instead of mine. “We can't be together. I told you.”

“Why? Why not?”

She stamps her foot in a tantrum and my brain goes blank, every rational reason this would be a terrible idea buried under a fevered desire to discipline her and make her stop behaving like this spoiled brat she isn't. I miss the adoring way she used to look at me, how pleased and flushed her face would get when we had a few minutes alone. Now look at us. This is a fucking disaster. I'm letting everybody down.

“It's complicated.”

“I'm too stupid to understand?”

“No, Erin. Jesus, why are you making this so hard? We can't be together, end of story. It's not you, it's me. I'm not the right guy for you. So please, give it up and move on. Kurt seems like a nice guy.”

She stiffens. Kurt
is
a nice guy, a good teacher from what the guys say, but there's something about him that reminds me of Will. By the way Erin flinches, I'm guessing she feels that way, too. If she were anyone else, she'd slap me across the face. I would have, because I am being the world's most giant douche bag. But instead, her face crumples like she's going to cry and she turns up the path without another word. I don't catch up this time but trail a few yards behind, careful to slow my pace because though she's hurrying as fast as her little legs will take her, it's nothing compared to my long strides. I follow her all the way back to Sullivan and watch her fling open the door and run up the stairs before I shove my hands in my pockets and head back to my apartment to indulge in Erin the only way I'll ever be allowed.

Chapter Fourteen

Shep

“Where's Erin?”

It's a few days before the end of our month-long winter break. The department meeting has started and she's not here. It's weird for her not to be here. She's punctual, and has an almost slavish devotion to her teaching duties, even inane meetings like this one.

Skip Connelly pipes up. “She sent me an email a few hours ago, said she wasn't feeling well.”

Erin's taught class and come to meetings when she's been bleary-eyed and barely breathing with allergies, and when she was having the worst miscarriage you can imagine. “Not feeling well” is not accurate.

I tap my pencil against the side of the seminar table until Dan gives me a censorious look and goes back to giving an update on department matters, starting to schedule things for the fall. It's been dicey whether I'd be here next year, but John Phelps finally announced his official retirement and odds are on me getting to stay.

I barely pay attention for the next half hour, my mind focused on Erin. She's sick. She's really sick, and she's alone. I'd like to pretend I go back and forth on whether I should go over there when this is over. Erin is an adult. She's perfectly capable of taking care of herself, and I shouldn't muddy the waters. I've told her we can't be together, warned her off me, and it killed me to do it. Her quavery chin, the look of betrayal in her eyes.
We finally get the chance to be together and you're saying NO?
I'd done my best to make her believe it wasn't about her, but she didn't believe it.

But she's sick and there's no way I'm going to leave it up to Skip motherfucking Connelly to take care of her. The minute the meeting is over, I slam my folder shut, realizing I didn't take a single note. I'm glad for the first time that Dan is so god-awful anal-retentive he'll be sending out minutes in half an hour. I don't bother with pleasantries, don't even see anyone except as shapes to avoid as I head out the door and haul across campus, bounding up the stairs two at a time to Erin's apartment.

I wish she'd move. I hate that she still lives in the space she shared with Will. I dread going into the place where they shared meals, a bed, even the air they breathed. But that's where she is, so that's where I'll be.

I knock on the door, rapping my knuckles against the wood, trying my best not to pound. There's no answer. I lean my forehead up against the corkboard and splay my hand against the door as I close my eyes and take a couple of deep breaths.

“Erin?”

No answer. No sounds.

I knock again. I'm not sure whether to hope she'll open the door or not. But nothing, no indication anyone's even there.

“Erin?” I try one more time before I reach for the knob. She never locks her door. Something I'd irrationally like her to do. Nothing's going to happen to her in the locked dorm and she's got twenty built-in guard dogs should anyone make it in.

The brass twists in my hand, unlatching, and I push into her small living room. It's dark and quiet; the shades haven't been lifted. Is she so sick she didn't make it out of bed today?

“Erin?”

I make my way down the narrow hallway and stop outside a closed door, no light shining from underneath.

I knock, loud enough for her to hear if she's awake, but hopefully not so loud I'll wake her if she's not. When there's no answer, I go in. It's warm and stuffy in the dim room, the curtains drawn and no lights on. There's a little mound on the bed buried under blankets and I take a few steps farther, hoping I'll be able to see her face.

Her brown hair is strung out across the pillow, sweat-darkened strands clinging to her face and her ears. Most of her face is pale, except for two bright red patches blooming on her cheeks. She's tucked in up to her chin and her lashes flutter over her cheeks. How sick do you have to be to look like this? Like one of those pretty tubercular women who wasted away in the sanitariums of old. I roll my eyes. Because of course I'd fall in love with some doomed consumptive—of course I would.

I hesitate. If she's that sick, should I wake her up? I should let her rest. But odds are she hasn't done anything about being so ill, and this doesn't seem like something you can sleep off. So I run the backs of my knuckles against her fevered cheek, hot to the touch, until her lids lift and her big brown eyes, glassy and reluctant, look back.

Erin

“Shep.”

It comes out a whisper, so I clear my sore throat, making me choke.

“Shh, lamb. Take it easy.”

He's stroking my face, pushing sticky strands of hair off my forehead. And he's called me lamb. I don't know where that came from, but it slides off his tongue like he's said it ten thousand times before. It is such a comfort. A flush of warmth spreads through my body—not the fevered burning I've felt since last night, but a pleasant rush.

I should sit up, send him away, express my protest at him waltzing in here when he's done his damnedest to keep me at arm's length since he's been here, but his cool gentle touch convinces me otherwise. I want him to touch me this way forever. Besides, I'm not confident I could sit up without passing out. So fluttery blinking it is, like some Victorian-era lady whose unspecified illness keeps her abed.

His voice is soft and his forehead pinched in concern. “Have you gotten out of bed today?”

I shake my head, feeling like my skull might become detached from my body and roll off the pillow, settling under the bed. “No.”

He frowns and I look at the clock. It's two in the afternoon. “I'm going to get you some water. Do you have a thermometer?”

“Bathroom.” Will was a bit of a hypochondriac, always certain he had whatever bug was making its way around the boys, so we'd had three all told. He left me the old-school glass-and-mercury one when he'd moved out.

Shep brushes a hand over my forehead one more time. Though he'll be gone a few minutes at most, I want to cry.
Come back, please.
I fall half asleep while he's gone. He has to rouse me again, calling me out of my sickness with his low voice and his weight making the side of my bed dip. Shep is technically in my bed. The thought makes my heart stutter, and not in the fevered palpitations that had scared me half to death in the middle of the night.

“Open up, lamb. Let's take your temperature and then you can have some water.”

I open my mouth, suddenly conscious I probably have worse than morning breath, but before I can fret too much, he's sliding the glass and metal under my tongue. When it's as far back as it will go, I close my mouth and my eyes, shivering when his hand rests cool on the hot skin of my neck. He leaves it there until the temperatures even out and then it's a warm, heavy, comforting weight.

“Time's up,” he says, stroking me. Then he takes the thermometer from between my lips. I crack my lids to see him squint at the tiny numbers in the glow of the lamp he's turned on. The crease between his brows deepens. “I'll be right back.”

Shep

A hundred and three? That can't be good. Normal's ninety-eight point six, right? A hundred and three?

I don't want to scare her, though, so I pet her a few more times before I get up and walk out, the whole time a panicky voice in the back of my head scrambling all over itself, freaking the fuck out.
A hundred and fucking three?
In the living room, I pace and fumble my phone. I have to scroll through my contacts three times before I find the number I'm looking for. After a ring, she answers and I cut her off, not giving her a chance for hellos.

“Mrs. Wilson? I mean, Tilly?”

“Yes, Shep—”

“I'm with Erin. She's got a fever of a hundred and three. Do I need to take her to the ER?”

There's a pause on the other end. What's taking so long? This should be simple: yes or no. Mrs. Wilson was the school nurse for twenty years. She's dealt with more fevers, real and fabricated, than you could shake a rank jockstrap at.

“Probably not,” she says cautiously, “but I can come take a look at her.”

“Would you? I don't want to—”

“Of course. Erin's like a granddaughter to me. And if Kent knew she was sick and I didn't check on her, I'd have a very unhappy ghost on my hands. I'll be there in twenty minutes.”

“Thanks, Mrs.— Tilly, I appreciate it.”

That's a weight off my shoulders. But Mrs. Wilson's said “probably.” What if she's—

No, can't think that way. I shove the phone in my pocket and head back to Erin's room, where she's lying with her eyes closed.

I sit on the side of her bed and stroke her cheek until she opens her eyes.

“Your Aunt Tilly's going to come over. In the meantime, you should have some water. Can you roll over?”

She struggles onto her side with my help. I was glad but surprised to find a bendy straw in her kitchen, but the place is like a kindergartner's dream house: a drawer full of straws, another of cookie cutters, and a shelf full of glasses with colorful cheery animals. I brought her an orange owl. I thought it looked the happiest.

She sips listlessly and I urge her to have more, prodding her until the whole glass is gone. Her skin tone's evened out, some of the red in her cheeks leaking into the cream of the rest of her face. It makes things seem less dire. I get her another glass and when she's made it halfway through, there's a knock at the door. I excuse myself to find a rosy-cheeked Mrs. Wilson on the threshold.

Shedding her snow-caked boots and coat, she bustles her way past me to Erin's bedroom, leaving me to trail behind her like some useless puppy dog.

She starts fussing over Erin and I stand helplessly by the door until Mrs. Wilson verbally shoos me out. “Could you give us a few minutes, Mr. Shepherd?”

It's been a while since anyone on staff called me Mr. Shepherd. They're good about not treating me like a student, but it still kicks me back into a guilty feeling, like maybe I'm not supposed to be here. I wander out to the living room and take a seat, bouncing my heel off the threadbare carpet.

I try calling Caleb to take my mind off Erin while Mrs. Wilson is taking care of her, but no one picks up. Later. I'll try again later. I've been calling three times a week since Caleb told me he wasn't going to pass two of his classes, and it's paid off. For his semester report card, Caleb had managed to pull Cs in math and science, and gotten his English and social studies up to Bs.

It was such a relief for so little effort on my part. Call the kid a few times a week, give him some accountability from someone whose opinion he gives a crap about, add a shit ton of work on his end and there you have it: passing grades. It's not like it was a chore for me. Caleb's a goofy kid. He makes me laugh in a way most other people can't.

In a few minutes that feel like forever, Mrs. Wilson comes out. I search her face for worry but don't find any.

“You're right about the fever, but she doesn't have any other symptoms that worry me. It's probably a virus, and the only way to get rid of that is to rest. I gave her some aspirin and had her drink some more water. She just needs to sleep it off.”

I've been nodding this whole time as if my acknowledgment will make anything better. But Erin's going to be okay and the vise around my ribs loosens.

“What can I do?”

“You don't need to do anything. You can go home.”

Leave her? I don't think so. I've already left her too many times when she needed me. I'm not going to fuck this one up, too.

“That's not happening, so what can I do?”

The side of Mrs. Wilson's mouth quirks up along with her eyebrows, giving the impression that the other side of her mouth has had its puppet string snipped. Her expression is impish, reminding me of Mordecai of all people. That is the only thing Mordecai and the Headmaster's wife will ever have in common.

“If that's the case, try to keep her comfortable. Mostly you can let her sleep, but when she wakes up, she can have more aspirin and more water. Regulate her temperature as best you can; put a blanket on her if she gets chilled or get a cool cloth if she's too warm. You can ask if she wants something to eat, but don't be surprised if she says no. That's it.”

“Okay.”

I thank Mrs. Wilson and she gives me a funny look on her way out the door, as if she knows this isn't just one colleague looking after another. She's not wrong. I go back to Erin's room, pluck a book from her shelf and dump myself in the chair by her bed until she needs me again.

•   •   •

Twenty-four hours, half a dozen animal glasses complete with colored bendy straws, and a small mountain of wet washcloths later, Erin wakes with a small, sleepy “Mmm.”

I get up from the chair that will have my ass permanently imprinted in the seat and drop onto the side of her bed. Even in the dim light she looks better, and her skin isn't hot but warm to the touch. Before I can stop myself, the smile breaks across my face and the words are out of my mouth. “There's my pretty baby.”

She dips her head and her eyes go wide and shy, not meeting my gaze. We both blush.

I clear my throat and drop my hand from her face. I don't think I'm imagining the frown tugging at her mouth when I'm not touching her anymore.

“Are you feeling better?”

“Yes, much, thank you.”

We stare at each other until her frown deepens and she looks away again. “Thanks for taking care of me, but you can go.”

Her words wedge themselves under my rib cage and poke at my heart. She doesn't want me here?

“Hey, Erin. Look at me.”

Her eyes roll reluctantly to mine. In them I see all the times I've hurt her, every time I've let her down. She doesn't trust me, and I don't blame her. I don't blame her, but I want that to not be true anymore. I want to be the man she thought I was, the man she offered herself to. Not the one who turned her away.