The Teacher (2 page)

****

I put my car in park
, peering out at the building in shock. I wish I could say it was because I'd ignored the voice in my head that sung in unison with Alicia's, saying I was crazy for doing anything except deleting Chance's text, but it had little to do with my lapse in judgment and a lot to do with
Chance’s
place.

When we met, he lived in a studio apartment a couple of miles from the university in the affectionately coined 'Hipster's Quarter'. We spent hours out on his stoop, watching bearded guys in suspenders, girls in head to toe vintage minus their chunky eye glasses, and a wide variety of soccer moms frequenting the yoga place
across the street
that became ground zero for drum circles after dark. There was a quiet charm about it
;
about
his simple studio nestled between college and the two piece suit mentality downtown.

There was no in between about his apartment building now. It was all brick and metal like e
very other building that lined 18
th
street
. Just like every other building downtown.

I killed the engine but went no further, apprehension gluin
g me to my seat. Since I saw Chance
perched on the edge of the desk
two weeks ago,
all these old feel
ings made falling
back in his arms was as effortless as breathing. I couldn't even hold onto m
y hate and anger when t
he spark
s between us engulfe
d everything else. But seei
ng this place was odd.
Foreign.
It was a reminder that time passed and in all of those minutes, days, and years, the brooding guy that was all about less is more now lived in a building that reeked of excess.

"What the hell are you doing, Cass?" I said, my hollow condemnation echoing around me.

My phone rattled in my purse and the way I lurched to it, knowing it was him, was all the answer I needed.

I can see u. Do I need 2 come down there?

Nope
, I plunked out. There were so many things I w
anted to say. Feelings coursed
through me like wildfire, keeping me locked in the car at a safe distance. I knew I should drive away. Hell, I shouldn't have come at all.

My phone flashed angrily in the dark.
Don't make me come down there.

The undercurrent of his words sent a shiver down my spine.
Would he really come down here and
drag me back to his apartment kicking and screaming?

I shivered again, but it was hea
t that rushed over me at the thought
of his hands on me
. Heat
simmered in that part of me that didn't know better.
The part that starved for him.

I stepped out of the car and shut the door, putting one foot in front of the other, barely glancing
at traffic
before I jaywalked to the sidewalk in front of his building. I hadn't been
thinking when I told him yes and it wouldn't do me any good now. Not when I'd already made up my mind.

I snickered as I cycled through the revolving door (a revolving door?
Really?!)
but
my bemusement shifted to awe when I took in the lobby. It was a beautiful and resonant, the lighting soft and romantic. Instead of hoity
toity
furnishings there were warm, rattan armchairs that begged for one to curl up with a good book.

"Ahem."

I whirled to face the interruption and my heart jumped to my throat. I could tell Chance had just hopped out of the shower from the dewy gloss of his skin. His shaggy hair was slicked back, drawing the eye to his strong jawline. But it was the shirt he wore that took my breath away. It was probably black once upon a time, but years of love and washing and drying turned it a deep gray. The neck of it was stretched out, speckled with the white cotton peeking out. The blocked, white acrylic letters spelled out 'Ramones' despite the c
racks weaving through
, like tiny cuts slicing through any attempt at forgetting what happened between us. Even though
his arms were down, I could feel the airy holes in the armpit;
feel the warmth of it against my skin and falling into his spicy scent. And then I
was back there, seeing him in
the shirt he'd worn the day we met, the shirt I'd pulled on many a morning while I burned bacon and made eggs w
ith bits of shell scrambled in—and
the shirt he was wrapped in as that bitch's mouth was wrapped around his cock.

I felt the tears burning in my throat but I swallowed them, taking a step backward. His face creased in confusion but he glanced down and when he looked back up, his eyes were pained.

"Cass-"

"This was a mistake," I cut in tersely. I turned to go but he caught my arm and spun me back toward him. I crashed into a wall of him--muscle, spicy warmth and memories.

I looked down, away from those bronze flecked eyes but he forced my gaze to his own.

"I need you to look at me and know that I'm sorry, Cassandra." His eyes searched mine intently, not letting me hide. Making sure I heard every word. "I have no right to ask for your forgiveness, but I can't do this fence stuff. I need you to
at least try to
accept my apology."

I
wrenched my chin from his hold,
but I didn't look away.

"And
if you can't, I'll let you go,” he continued, staring at me intently. “
I swear it."

I expected to see some quiet sign that he’d never truly let me go—an inflection in his voice, twitch beneath his eye, fingers crossed. But he’d do it. If I told him to leave me alone, he’d never talk to me outside of school.

It would be a fate worse than death.

My lip trembled along with my resolve and any niggling desire to hurt him. I wasn't ready to forgive him, but I was ready to try.

I uncrossed my arms and gestured at the expansive lobby, doubly so since we were the only ones except for a half asleep se
c
urity guard behind a desk on th
e other side of the room.
"Moving on up, huh?"

He
smiled,
his shoulders relaxing. "Something
like
that." He held out his hand. "Wait until you see the apartment."

I glanced at his hand, a white
flag fluttering in the wind. I took a breath and
accepted it, following him to the elevator. Just holding his hand was enough to make me burn red as a tomato and when my eyes flickered over to him and I saw he was watching me, I was glad it was only a few seconds before we were on his floor.

He released my hand to open the door and I quickly swiped my palms over my jeans as I stepped over the threshold.

The small smile on my face bloomed to one that took over everything else. His old apartment had been full of black and white shots of all of the places he wanted to visit: Big Ben, the Eiffel Tower, monasteries, and museums. Now, his apartment wa
s a museum with photographs in
t
echnicolor
and framed instead of tacked up with push pins.

“You did it,” I said softly, the happiness bittersweet because I’d always hoped we could do it together. “Everything you said you would do.”

He ste
pped up beside me, a smirk at his
lips. “You sound surprised.”

“Well, when I saw your address, I was expecting some swanky penthou
se
setup.”

“Complete with overpriced furniture and Van Gogh originals?” he joked. “I’d like to think I’ve grown in
the
three years we’ve been apart, but some things are the same.” He gestured toward the living room area.

I turned and gasped when I saw the Beast staring back at me. The Beast was a futon he’d found on Craigslist that I’d been
u
nlucky enough to help him move. I hated him with every passing moment as we lugged the monstrous thing from the bed of his F-150 and tried to squeeze it through
his tiny door frame.

I ran my hand along the back of it, remembering movie nights, cram sessions, cuddling, making love…

I barely even noticed the shiny LCD affixed to the wall or the sleek glass coffee table, gravitating to the futon and sighing as I sunk onto the chair, feeling the familiar dips and contours.

“Pretty much everything else here was new.” He let out a small chuckle. “Cou
ldn’t let the futon go
though
.”

I followed him with my eyes as he came over and plopped down beside me. “Remember when we
finally got this damn thing through the door?”

“W
e dropped
it
and we were sure we’d done some sort of structural damage?”
he grinned