After Tonight Read online

  “Hey, I think you’ve got a text or something,” I call out as I grab it.

  And then I look at the screen.

  J. D. Fenton: Yo Asher—where you at?

  For a second, I can’t move. After the incident with J. D. in the teachers’ lounge, I’d thought that Smith had written him off—at the very least, that he’d realized J. D. was the kind of person who hurt people. That he was the kind of person who would hurt me. And the realization that it didn’t change a thing makes my blood boil.

  I grab my pillow and hug it tightly to my chest. I try to think of something to say. Smith turns back around to face me, now fully dressed. I just stare at him and he frowns.

  “What’s up?

  “I—I looked at the text,” I stutter.

  “Uh . . . okay . . .”

  I hand him the phone and he peers down at it. Then something like realization blooms across his face. I blink at him and he pushes a hand back through his hair.

  “Hyacinth . . .”

  “Is he the friend you’re going to see?” I ask quietly.

  “Yes,” he says, shoving both hands in his pockets, “but it isn’t what you think.”

  I close my eyes and feel a flush coast over my skin—my mostly, completely naked skin, blocked from his view by a pillow alone.

  “Then explain it to me.”

  There’s a long pause. When I open my eyes and look at Smith again, he’s staring down at the floor.

  “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

  I swallow hard.

  “Why would you want to spend time with someone who threatened me?” I ask, practically spitting the words at him. Smith doesn’t meet my gaze.

  I lick my lips, trying my damnedest to think of something else to say. But before I can respond, he moves forward. Standing barely a foot from the bed he leans down again to look into my eyes.

  “I need you to trust me—this . . . there’s a reason for this.”

  My lips part and I exhale an angry breath. “How could there possibly be a reason you’d want to spend time with someone who hurt me?”

  “Cyn, listen.”

  “No.”

  This time, I’m not waiting for someone to let me down. I won’t do this again. I won’t fall for someone only to find out that I’m not important enough to them, that they’d sacrifice our relationship—or whatever this is.

  “I want you to leave,” I say slowly, evenly. My voice is measured and steady, despite the strength of emotions rushing through me.

  For a long moment, Smith doesn’t move. When he finally does, he presses his lips to my forehead and I close my eyes again. I don’t open them when I feel him pull away or even when I hear his footsteps moving back toward the door. I only open them when I know he’s gone, when the front door has been opened and closed behind him and I hear him descending the wooden stairs outside. The thunder and lightning from last night have ceased and it feels like a metaphor, as though his leaving my life means the danger and electricity disappear along with him.

  When I open my eyes a minute later, they’re filled with tears. The last time I cried before meeting Smith Asher was when my father moved to Holly Fields. Now that I’ve shed this many tears for Smith, I guess I realize what I’ve known all along—that saying good-bye to people I care about can bring me to my knees quicker than anything else.

  I lie back, and, despite it being morning, I pray for sleep. The kind of sleep that won’t bring me visions of Smith and his smile and his touch back into my mind. I wish for the blankness that comes with a dreamless slumber. I can’t think of anything more sad and less hopeful than wanting to stop dreaming.

  Well, except maybe the sound of Smith’s truck engine roaring to life in the parking lot, then disappearing as he leaves my life for good.

  ***

  I don’t think I really believed he’d dropped out until he doesn’t show up to school on Monday.

  And Tuesday.

  And Wednesday.

  By Thursday, I’m absolutely miserable, thinking I’ve ruined some man’s life by forcing him to abandon his education.

  Jeremy, however, doesn’t seem to notice my general down-in-the-dumps attitude. He brings me coffee on Tuesday morning, and, at lunch duty, he chatters on about things that feel completely irrelevant—a vacation he’s taking with his college buddies to Colorado, a bike he’s been looking at buying for month. Just stuff that feels ridiculously unimportant and like the furthest thing from what I want to be hearing about.

  Then again, it does distract me from thinking about Smith—so, there’s that.

  “Are you chaperoning the game tomorrow night?” Jeremy asks on Thursday as we leave the cafeteria. I shake my head.

  “I wasn’t planning on it—I’ve got a couple weeks left of student teaching, and I need to start getting my portfolio together to turn in to my advisor.”

  “Aw, come on.” He elbows me gently. “It’s the play-offs. The students are so excited about it. And it’s probably the last event you’ll get to attend as a student teacher.”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “Hey, I’ll even drive you,” he offers. “I’ll pick you up at six, we can grab something quick to eat, then we’ll be at the game by seven. Faculty have they’re own section, so we don’t have to worry about seats.”

  I frown. “If we’re chaperoning, why do we need seats?”

  Jeremy shrugs. “They call it chaperoning, but really I think it’s just so the staff can get into games for free.”

  I let my eyes slide over the room of students, most of whom are talking and laughing and acting seemingly carefree. It would be nice to feel that way again. It would be nice to do something fun.

  “Alright,” I say. “I’ll go.”

  “Great—anywhere you want to eat? There’s a good brick oven pizza place that just opened up.”

  I shrug. “That’s fine.” Maybe it’s a dick move to let him buy me dinner. At this point, the distraction and the company alone are enough for me to accept his invitation.

  Jeremy starts talking about his favorite kinds of pizza and how his old hometown had the best meatball subs, and I try exceptionally hard to pay attention, to laugh at the right spots and nod at others. I ignore the niggling fact that conversations shouldn’t be so high-maintenance.

  Unfortunately, my lack of social skills follows me all day, even to dinner at Holly Fields. As we eat, Dad rambles on about how glad he is that my student teaching is almost over, and I can only manage to chew and swallow.

  “Princess, all I’m saying is that I’ll feel a lot safer when you’re out of a school that requires police officers on campus.”

  “Gary, I think she likes it there,” Rocky drawls, stirring a spoon through his mashed potatoes. “Give the girl a break.”

  “Please,” Dad snorts. He holds his fork up and points at me. “This girl’s too good to be associating with criminals.”

  Finally, I manage to speak up.

  “Daddy, they aren’t criminals—most of them are just kids. In fact, I’ve seen many of them really flourish in the last few months—you’d be surprised. You should give them a little more credit.”

  “Well, whatever,” he sort of grunts. “I’ll just be glad when you’re out of there.”

  After dinner, I walk Dad back to his room and watch a half hour of the History Channel while he gets his blood sugar measured by one of the nurses. Once I’m sure he’s settled for the night, I slip out and let the door shut behind me with a quiet click.

  “Cyn?”

  I turn to see Wyatt wheeling his way down the hall. He smiles up at me, fiddling with the handbrake on his wheelchair as he comes to a stop.

  “You leaving?” he asks. I nod.

  “Yeah—Dad needed some blood work done tonight and you know how he feels about needles.”

  Wyatt laughs. “Did he squeal like a little girl again?”

  “Nah—it wasn’t that bad. Shots are worse.”

  He shakes his head, still chuckling.
/>
  “Listen, I was wondering if we could chat for a minute.” I glance at the clock on the wall. It’s already past nine and I need to wake up tomorrow at five a.m. Still, when I look back at Wyatt, there’s something about his expression that makes me think whatever he has to say to me is important.

  “Sure,” I finally say. “What’s going on?”

  “Let’s go sit.”

  He takes his time moving his hands to the wheel guards and pushing himself along the hallway. I walk slowly, a step or two behind him, and watch his arms as they flex and straiten with each rotation of the wheel. His biceps are huge now, although his arms were always pretty muscular—probably from drumming. He’s made so much progress in the last few months. It’s amazing to watch how much physical therapy can actually do.

  Wyatt turns into one of the common areas, a living room-like set up with couches and a TV. A few people are sitting on one side of the room, playing cards, but the rest of the space is empty. He wheels over to an armchair and gestures for me to sit.

  “So, I need to ask you a favor,” he says when I’m seated.

  “Oh—okay, shoot.”

  He lifts a hand to his lap, flexes his fingers, then clenches them. He seems to take his time formulating the words he wants to say.

  “I want to get out of here.”

  My brow furrows. “Like—tonight? You want me to take you out?”

  He shakes his head. “No, I mean move out of here. Permanently.”

  I blink at him.

  “What do the doctors say about that?”

  Wyatt lets out a hard, choppy exhale.

  “They say I’m physically doing very well, but they’re still concerned about the brain swelling and what could happen if I were alone and there was some kind of flare up or something. They don’t want me to leave for at least another six months. Maybe longer.”

  He reaches up now to run a hand through his hair.

  “I can’t stay here,” he says, so softly that I almost don’t hear the words. I shift forward and reach out to take his hand.

  “Wy, I don’t know what I can possibly do to help you. I’m sorry.”

  “Well, that’s where my favor comes in.” He looks down at his lap, at our clasped hands, then back up at me. “I need a tutor.”

  I blink at him. “A tutor? For what?”

  “Maybe tutor isn’t the right word—I need someone to . . . assist me. At the time of the accident, I was about halfway through my fall semester at community college and I didn’t get to finish my classes. I want to complete the course work, but I’m going to need someone to help me.”

  “Okay,” I say slowly. “So, what exactly would you need me to do?”

  “Mostly it would be as a liaison between me and the college. I don’t want the doctors to know I’m doing this. My plan is to finish the classes by the end of the summer and prove to them that my brain is perfectly capable of completing college courses, so it can do the daily tasks required if I were living on my own.”

  “So, I’d need to go see your professors, get the course work, that kind of stuff?”

  He nods. “Right. Then, I’d need you to help me with some of the logistics. Submitting assignments, but also typing them. My typing is still shaky and I hate those dictation programs—saying words like ‘comma’ and ‘space’ out loud is just fucking weird.”

  I grin at that—I hate those programs, too.

  “Listen, I’ll pay you if you can do this for me. I just need your help. I don’t know who else I can ask.”

  I bite my lip. “When would you want this started? It sort of sounds like you’re on a deadline.”

  “Immediately. Well, actually, yesterday—or last week—or a month ago, depending on when you ask me.”

  I shake my head. “Shit. I’d like to help, but I have the end of my student teaching and my portfolio presentation to put together. Not to mention, I’ve got to write a twenty-five-page thesis paper before graduation to finish off my spring credits.”

  Wyatt nods, but he looks completely crestfallen. “I understand—don’t worry about it.”

  “Wait.” I sit upright, then smile. “Carson.”

  “Who?”

  “Carson—my best friend. She’s a private tutor—for high school kids, mostly, but some college students now, too. I’ll bet she could help you. She . . . pushed graduation back a semester, so I think she’ll be able to start right away. I’ll have to talk to her about it, obviously, but it should work out.”

  Wyatt’s eyes light up.

  “You think she’d be up for it?”

  “Yeah. I really do. I’ll talk to her tonight and have her give you a call.”

  “That would be great, Cyn. Thank you—so much. Seriously.”

  I squeeze his hand before letting go. “I want to see you happy, Wyatt.”

  “I want to be happy, Cyn,” he says softly.

  I give him a rueful smile.

  “Don’t we all.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Eyes Wide Shut

  On a regular day, the gymnasium at the Franklin School smells a little like rubber and a lot like sweat. Tonight, there isn’t even a hint of the rubber scent—there are far too many bodies packed into this place, and I’m feeling claustrophobic already.

  All around me, fans are stomping their feet on the old wooden bleachers and sending out brief but horrifyingly loud air-horn blasts—all of it reminders of why I don’t go to sporting events.

  “Having fun?”

  Jeremy grins over at me and I force myself to smile back. I don’t know what I was thinking coming here tonight. Sure, I got out of the house. Sure, I’m being social with my colleagues. Sure, I ate some pretty decent brick-oven pizza.

  But the noise in here is deafening and it’s bothering me a lot more than I thought it would. I need a break. I consider making an excuse to go out to the car, then I remember Jeremy drove me here.

  “I’m going to run back to my classroom,” I sort of yell into his ear. “I left my flash drive and I need it for this weekend.”

  I wind my way down the over-full bleachers and make it to the floor, where there are dozens of people pressed up along the sides of the gym. I hurry past the opposing school’s marching band, which is just beginning to cue up their version of “Crazy Train.” Once I make it out into the hall and beyond the locker rooms, the pounding in my head begins to lessen a bit. The dim lighting helps a little, too.

  I unlock my classroom door and slip inside. I’m probably not supposed to be here when school is technically closed, but I can’t help but revel a little in the complete quiet. At least until my gaze falls on Smith’s empty desk in the back of the room.

  I could have asked Officer Rains about him—it wouldn’t be unheard of, considering he’s on my class roster. I just couldn’t muster up the courage. Besides, it isn’t really shocking news when a kid from Franklin stopped attending. If anything, it’s routine.

  For a few minutes, I just sit at my desk, thinking about Smith and wishing I wasn’t. I should probably head back to the gym, but the silence is so much better than the din and discord of the game.

  I feel bad that I told Jeremy I’d come at all. Because he’s still clearly interested in dating me.

  But the truth is that I came to the game hoping that Smith might show up.

  And the truth is that I’m disappointed that he hasn’t.

  Which is the exact moment when I glance out the window and see Smith’s truck parked in the faculty parking lot.

  He came for me. I just know it.

  I don’t put a lot of thought into my next actions because, really, I haven’t exactly been putting a lot of thought into anything lately. In fact, it isn’t until I’ve made it out of my classroom and to the closest exit and out into the crisp night that I realize I’ve probably locked myself out of the school. I hesitate for half a second, then look out at Smith’s truck.

  Fuck it.

  As I get closer, I can see that the truck is parked next to
a familiar-looking red Mustang. I see the driver’s side door of the truck pop open, and Smith climbs out. This is the first time I’ve seen him since our night together last weekend and I feel my heart sort of seize up as he shuts the door, then turns to lean against it. A part of me—a really big part of me—wants to run toward him. Instead, I watch from the darkness as the driver climbs out of the Mustang.

  And then everything inside me—my breath, my blood, my heart—freezes.

  J. D. Fenton seems even bigger and broader than I remember. Now, he walks toward Smith and they bump fists. J. D. is grinning and I feel a slimy sensation travel through me.

  “You got what I asked for?” Smith is asking.

  J. D. digs a plastic bag out of his back pocket and hands it to him.

  “Told you I’d come through, man. You need more, you know where to find me.”

  Smith nods, then unrolls the bag and examines the contents. From the little I can see at this distance, I know for sure it’s not pot—not unless they’re growing marijuana in the shape of little white pills.

  A wave of fury washes over me, hot and thick—less like water and more like lava. Before I can fully consider my actions, I stomp out onto the asphalt. They both look up at me with identical expressions of surprise. Then J. D.’s morphs into a sneer.

  “What the fuck is she doing here?” he snarls at Smith.

  As I approach, I realize that J. D. is intoxicated or high or both. He’s sort of stumbling as he sidles closer, and his eyes are bloodshot. Smith glares at me and I steel myself for his irritation, prepared to hand it right back to him on a fucking silver platter. What I’m not prepared for is the look in his eyes—the dark blue is as piercing as always, but this time his gaze is filled less with anger and more with something else. Something like panic.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” I snap at him. I motion to J. D. with one hand. “You think buying drugs is a good choice for you?”

  Smith takes a step closer to me. His teeth are clenched together in a tight smile.

  “Go the fuck back inside,” he growls. “Now.”

  I glance over at J. D., who is swaying a bit, but still half smirking at me. I can feel my anger flare up, and I take a few steps toward him.