After Tonight Read online

  Which is when I realize exactly what a week of detention means: me and Smith, alone in a room for thirty minutes at a time. For five days straight, not counting today.

  I drop my head in my hands.

  The hits just keep on coming and, apparently, I’m the one throwing some of the punches at myself. You’d think I’d learn to duck, at least.

  Chapter Seven

  Punishments

  “So, what’s this total tragic emergency you’re complaining about?” Carson asks, flopping down on the couch next to me.

  I sigh, tucking my legs up underneath me. The sweatpants and T-shirt I’m rocking aren’t doing my appearance any favors, but when I got home, I just had to change out of my school clothes. I felt like I needed to leave everything “teacher-related” in a pile on my closet floor.

  “So, do you remember the guy I met at Cave?”

  Carson raises an eyebrow. “Um, duh. Of course I remember him. I saw him carry your drunk ass through a club and out to my Jeep, then up three flights of stairs. Hell, the dude practically tucked you in and kissed you good night. It was pretty fucking hot, actually. You play a great ‘damsel in distress.’”

  I snort. “Yeah, I’ll have to remember that for next time I make a total idiot of myself.”

  She reaches for the bag of chips on the coffee table and digs inside. “So, what about him? Did you see him again or something?”

  I close my eyes and let my head drop back against the couch.

  “He’s in my class.”

  Carson doesn’t say anything. When I open my eyes and look over at her, she’s playing with the remote.

  “Did you hear what I said?” I ask impatiently.

  She glances at me, then shrugs. “Huh? Oh, yeah—you’re taking the same class. Dude, so what? I mean, there are a lot of graduate students in Baltimore, Cyn. It’s a coincidence, but it’s not unheard of.”

  “No.” I shake my head and take a deep, measured breath. “He’s in the class I’m teaching.”

  I think it takes her a second to get it. When it hits, though, the horror on her face is unmistakable.

  “Wait. The sexy guy from the bar is in high school? How the fuck is that even possible?”

  “He’s only twenty. He never got his diploma and he’s finishing up his last few credits.”

  “But—I mean, he’s at the Juvie Junkyard, Cyn . . .”

  I rub my eyes with the heels of my hands. “I know.”

  Carson seems speechless, which is pretty amazing. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen that happen before.

  “Well,” she finally says once she’s regained her ability to talk, “that . . . sort of sucks—but I don’t think it’s as bad as you think it is.”

  I stare at her.

  “How is it not as bad as I think it is? Oh, let me guess”—I snort—“it’s worse.”

  She frowns. “No. I mean, look at the facts. He’s twenty, not seventeen. He’s in a class you’re teaching, but you’re still a student teacher. You aren’t employed by the school.”

  “And your point is?”

  She raises her eyebrows. “My point is that no one’s breaking any laws here. I know that’s what you’re thinking—the whole ‘teacher sleeping with her student’ scenario.”

  “I didn’t sleep with him,” I mutter.

  “So, it’s even less of an issue.” She stops and cocks an eyebrow. “Unless you’re telling me you want to sleep with him.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Hyacinth.” Carson’s eyes are narrowed into her practically X-ray, “I can see right through your bullshit” vision. I palm the back of my neck, feeling uncomfortable.

  “Okay, there’s an attraction,” I admit. “And that’s why this whole thing is a problem. I don’t want to leave my position—hell, Smith practically dared me to stay. But I don’t know how I’m supposed to go there five days a week and see him for an hour a day and not just . . .”

  “Tear his clothes off?”

  “Something like that.” I shake my head. “And not just act on . . . whatever this is.”

  “Chemistry.” Carson nods knowingly. “It’s hard when you’ve got it with someone you shouldn’t.”

  I throw up my hands.

  “So, what do I do? Do I tell my principal that I need him transferred out of my class? Because then I’ll have to explain why. Or do I attempt to suck it up for an entire semester and hope to God no one finds out about one random night at one random bar that just so happened to involve a not-so-random guy?”

  Carson hops up from the couch and rummages through her purse, then comes back with a bag of Milano cookies.

  “I was saving these for an emergency,” she says. “I think this qualifies.”

  “See! It is an emergency.” I sigh. “I really don’t know what to do.”

  She sits back down next to me and grabs my shoulders, turning my body toward her.

  “Listen to me,” she says. “You are the strongest person I’ve ever met and you’ve been through more shit in the last few years than anyone I know. Your dad’s accident, Brent leaving you . . .”

  “Those two things have nothing to do with each other,” I grumble, crossing my arms. Carson gives an exasperated sigh.

  “Look, your dad is thriving. You know that. You’ve seen it—hell, I’ve seen it and I’ve only been to Holly Fields once. I know that it’s hard that he doesn’t need you, but you don’t always have to be needed.”

  That gets my back up a little. “I don’t need to be needed,” I argue. “I just . . . like to be useful.”

  Carson shakes her head. “Yeah, but not when it is at your own expense. Think about the way Brent treated you—you stayed in all the time, waiting for him to get home from class or the hospital. You looked at graduate schools near the medical schools he’d applied to. We all saw the bridal magazines, Cyn.”

  I swallow, then look down at my hands. Those weren’t meant to be public knowledge, but Brent had found them one night when Carson and Rainey were over, and effectively humiliated me by making it abundantly clear that we weren’t getting married. Not just “now” or “anytime soon,” but at all. Apparently, he didn’t believe in marriage, which was news to me.

  “Look, Brent was a dick. We all knew it and now you know it, too. But you managed to get through a breakup of epic proportions, move your dad into assisted living, and still keep a 3.8 GPA on top of all of it. You are the definition of a fighter. You can’t bail out now. If you don’t get another position, it could change your graduation date and your whole future. It’s not worth it to risk that, right?”

  I consider her words, then shake my head. “No, you’re right. It’s not worth it.”

  “Exactly.” She crosses her arms resolutely. “So, here’s what we’re going to do . . .”

  Carson isn’t one for harebrained schemes—that’s more Rainey’s domain. But, since she’s gone home to Virginia for a few days, it’s just the two of us coming up with a way for me to keep my position and my sanity. All weekend, we map out my course of action, writing and rewriting different approaches for different situations involving me, Smith Asher, and my unfortunately illogical libido.

  “He said he wasn’t going to tell anyone about the bar, right?” she asks as she scribbles some notes in a spiral.

  I nod. “Right.” She bites her lip and jots down a few more lines. “So, in reality, this is something both of you are technically going to ignore.”

  “Technically, yes.”

  “That is what your mind wants to do. But, of course, your body seems to want something else—namely, his body on top of yours.”

  “I never said that.”

  Carson snorts. “Didn’t have to. I’ve never seen you this hot and bothered before. This guy’s got your number for sure.”

  She glances down at her notebook, then back up at me.

  “So, what I think you should do,” she continues, “is have a contingency plan. Something to throw him off if he hits on you or proposi
tions you.”

  I frown. “Couldn’t I just report him?”

  She eyes me. “I mean—you could . . . but it’s sort of bullshit.”

  “Why?” I frown. She cocks an eyebrow.

  “Because he didn’t report you, Cyn.”

  I sigh. “Yeah. I guess you’re right. Fine, what do you have in mind?” Carson shoves a hand back through her short hair, and it spikes up in all directions.

  “Let’s role-play. You’re Smith and I’m you. Say something sexy to me.”

  I blink at her. “Like what?”

  “I don’t know—something that gets your panties wet.”

  “Carson!”

  She groans. “Come on—you know what I mean. Something that is clearly an attempt to catch your interest. Sexually speaking.”

  I took a deep breath then closed my eyes.

  “Um . . . how about, ‘Damn, you look hot today.’”

  “Seriously?”

  My eyes fly open and Carson is shaking her head again. “What!?”

  “You can do better than that.”

  I cross my arms. “Fine—what about, ‘Hey, sexy—let’s go take a ride in my truck and I’ll give you a night you’ll never forget.’”

  Carson’s eyes widen, then she collapses into giggles. I can feel my face reddening as I jump to my feet.

  “Forget it, I’ll figure this out on my own.”

  “No—no.” She grabs the hem of my shirt. “No, I’m sorry. It just sounded funny when you said it. Say it again.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “No, come on, Cyn. I’m sorry. I’m an ass—say it again. I promise I won’t laugh.”

  I glance at the clock, then back at Carson. Then I sigh.

  “Hey, sexy,” I sort of grumble. “Let’s go take a ride in my truck and I’ll give you a night you’ll never forget.”

  Carson stands up and gets right up in my face. She pokes a finger into my shoulder, hard.

  “Ow!”

  “Listen to me, Smith Asher,” she says, her eyes narrowed into slits, “you and I had nothing but one night that’s ancient history. Forget it ever happened and, if you can’t do that, transfer to another class.”

  I step back, blinking. “That’s pretty good.”

  Except that night wasn’t ancient history.

  I keep reliving it in my memory.

  I mean, it wasn’t just the physical attraction, which was clearly potent—it was also the little moments where he was . . . well, sweet. Where we joked and laughed. There were times I could imagine enjoying his company in a million places other than in bed. And I can’t help but think about that. Again and again and again.

  “I wonder if I can talk to him about transferring classes anyway,” I muse. I hadn’t considered that before.

  “You could do that.” Carson nods. “Is there a class for him to switch to?”

  I shrug. “There are a few morning sections of senior English besides mine. I don’t think it would be too big of a deal.”

  “Well, then do that first,” she says, closing her spiral. “And if that doesn’t work, take the high road. Act like he doesn’t affect you at all. And, for God’s sake, don’t be alone with him.”

  “Right.”

  Don’t be alone with him.

  Except tomorrow, and every day next week, for detention.

  ***

  In the end, I decide to have Smith come after school as scheduled. Once he’s there, I’ll ask him to switch classes—and then I’ll go on with my position and he’ll get his diploma and everything will be perfect.

  Case closed.

  But, all the confidence I’d mustered, the bravado I’d felt coursing through me, disappears when Smith walks through my door after school for detention. He’s changed his clothes since this morning—now, he’s wearing a Wizards jersey over a white T-shirt and mesh shorts, and he looks freshly showered. He also looks absolutely scrumptious.

  Dammit.

  “Miss Hendricks,” he drawls, his gaze locking on mine. “I’m here for detention.”

  I give him a sharp nod, then motion to a desk at the back of the room.

  “You can sit there and work on whatever you have with you.”

  He sort of smirks. “I don’t have anything with me.”

  “Grab a book, then.” I gesture to a shelf with a few dozen copies of Hamlet and a handful of other books.

  “Not much of a punishment,” he quips, but he heads to the back of the room and grabs a copy of The Catcher in the Rye. Once he’s seated, I force myself to look down at my desk at the writing diagnostics I’m reading.

  I just need to make it a half hour. Thirty minutes without talking.

  I only make it two.

  “I think you should transfer classes,” I blurt out.

  I can’t look at him as I say it, but, once it’s out there, I steel myself and glance up. He’s leaning forward now, both elbows on his desk and the book open between them. My gaze locks in on his arms, and I want to close my eyes and savor the memory of how they felt wrapped around me. But, unlike the night we met, his shoulders are tense and I watch his throat working as he swallows. Slowly, he closes the book in front of him and stands.

  I feel my heart begin to pound and I want to smack myself. Why did I have to say something now? I should have waited until we were on our way out or something—then I wouldn’t be stuck in this room with him, alone, making excuses for myself.

  “Why do you think I should transfer classes?” he finally asks as he gets closer.

  His voice is deep and low, and I just stare at him as he grabs a chair and drags it up in front of me. He flips it around backward, straddles it, and sits down. Now, our eyes are at the same level, and a half smile tugs at the left side of his mouth.

  “Because,” I say, frustrated. “I just feel like it would be better if you weren’t in this class.”

  “Why?”

  “What do you mean ‘why’?” I practically growl.

  “Why does it matter if I’m in your class or not?”

  I clench my jaw and take a long, slow breath. When I let it out, I splay my hands wide on the table, palms up. Maybe appealing to his sense of morality might work.

  “I just don’t think it’s right that I be responsible for your record here. I don’t want to give you any special treatment or anything. It wouldn’t be fair.”

  Smith’s smile kicks up into a wide grin.

  “Are you saying you want to give me special treatment?”

  I groan, shaking my head. “Listen, I’m just trying to make this easier for both of us.”

  He crosses his arms and leans back in his chair.

  “Wow,” he says, shaking his head.

  “Wow what?”

  “I just didn’t expect you’d be a quitter.”

  I blink at him.

  “I’m not a quitter. In fact, I’m the opposite—I’m saying you should switch out of the class and move to one where you’re . . .” I trail off, faltering. Smith’s got both brows raised high on his forehead now.

  “Better suited,” I finish lamely.

  He gives an incredulous snort. “That’s a cop-out.”

  “It is nothing of the kind,” I sniff. “I’m attempting to accommodate us both in the best possible way.”

  Smith leans toward me again and I meet his gaze with an annoyed glare.

  “No, you’re not. You’re trying to escape.”

  I scoff at him. “I’m not trying to escape anything.”

  “Bullshit.”

  I narrow my eyes.

  “You. Can’t. Cuss. At. A. Teacher,” I say in evenly measured tones.

  His gaze flashes with something like irritation. “Do you think you’re going to like all of your students all the time? Sometimes you’ll have to teach someone who you can’t stand. Other times you’ll have the kind of students that every teacher dreams of. You can’t discriminate.”

  “Please.” I cross my arms, too. “I don’t need a lecture from you.”
>
  “Maybe not—but you’re getting one. You think I’ve liked all my teachers? You think students want to deal with the same shit over and over again from the same middle-class, college-educated, out-of-touch women—because, let’s face it, it’s mostly women in your shoes.”

  I swallow hard, clenching my fists over and over again. I try to calm my expression and I’m 99.9 percent sure I’m utterly failing at that task.

  “Look,” Smith says, “I’m not transferring. I like your class. I like you. If I have to sit through an English class, I want it to be yours.”

  His voice is low. More like the voice I heard in my ear at Cave when he was removing my shirt and getting his hands all over my body. Before I can stop him, he reaches out and tilts my face up. I meet his deep blue gaze, which now is filled with concern. It takes me a second too long to push his hand away.

  “Don’t do that,” I mumble, grabbing a stack of papers and pointlessly shuffling them. “Just go. Consider your detention served.”

  He doesn’t move. Instead, he sits there, stock-still, watching me.

  “Just go,” I repeat quietly.

  I turn away from him and face the computer. After a minute of my pretending to ignore him, Smith finally stands up. I feel a simultaneous jolt of relief and disappointment. It’s like everything inside of me is in a constant state of disagreement lately.

  Slowly, he comes around the side of my desk and squats, forcing me to look at him

  “Believe it or not, I’m not trying to make your life hard,” he says, his tone measured. ”But making me disappear from your class isn’t going to solve all your problems. You need to face them instead.”

  He’s annoyed, but so am I, and the tension between us feels like it could snap at any second. I don’t know what to say to that, so I don’t say anything—instead, I wait for him to stand up and walk away. When the door clicks shut, the first of my tears manages to escape, making a run for it down my cheek and landing on the keyboard below.

  ***

  I take a few minutes to pull myself together.

  Okay. I try to pull myself together. I use all the usual tricks. I inhale slowly through my nose. I exhale slowly out my mouth. I pace slowly around the room. Then I not so slowly walk straight to the main office.