School Ties (10 page)

Chapter Eight

Erin

Graduation. It's bittersweet as a faculty member to watch the kids stand up and receive their diplomas. Most of whom I've taught, seen while I'm on duty down at Turner, or sat with over twice-weekly formal dinners in the dining hall. I know them all by name. It's not hard when there are seventy-five of them.

They don't wear caps and gowns, but gray slacks and their navy blazers with the Hawthorn crest embroidered on the breast pocket. Nor do the faculty don academic regalia. Thankfully. I'd be sweltering in this heat. It's bad enough in the skirt suit I've put on for the occasion. The boys file up one by one to accept their diplomas from the Headmaster, and I'm surprised by the tears that prick at my eyes. The boys receive their diplomas in the manner they've lived the rest of their Hawthorn Hill careers, the class clown as obvious as the valedictorian.

They all look happy. All except Shep. His jaw is tight when he accepts the leather folio and a firm handshake from Headmaster Wilson, and he doesn't look out into the audience or pump his fist when he has tangible proof he's a graduate under his arm. My applause is more than polite for him, which it has been for all of “my” seniors, but perhaps even a titch louder for Shep. Am I allowed to think of him as Shep now? How many times do I have to tell myself to not think of him at all?

But it's nicer to think of him than the other thoughts that are swimming around my head.

Will didn't come home last night.

He's sitting beside me, showered and shaved, dressed in the suit I'd taken to the cleaners to be ready for today. He's sitting beside me as if nothing's happened. As if we woke up in the same bed this morning, as if we're an established faculty couple who've been sitting beside each other at graduations for years, and will continue to sit next to each other until one of us drops dead.

The last boy takes the stage to get his diploma, and when he stands with the rest of his class, the crowd erupts. The cheers, whistles and general insanity is good cover for Will leaning over and saying, while still in the middle of a round of applause, “We need to talk.”

“Yes, we do.”

“Your classroom?”

“Fine.”

We sit while the Headmaster makes his last remarks and when he's finished, the crowd disperses like a dandelion. Will and I get blown apart on waves of conversation and congratulations. It takes me half an hour to make my way through the swarms of families and boys milling about. I've met most of the parents before, and I make pleasant chit-chat while my heart is hammering.

My pulse pounds against my skull, my ribs, my wrists, the backs of my knees while I plaster a smile on my face and make inane conversation. Small talk isn't easy for me under the best of circumstances. Parents' Weekend and visit days leave me wrung out and exhausted, and the strain of imagining what Will wants to talk about is making it worse. The more time I have to worry about this, the more freaked out I get. By the time we've glad-handed half the crowd and sneak away to my basement classroom, I'm light-headed with anxiety. When we're inside, Will pulls the door closed until it latches.

I have a view of the swarms of be-suited gentlemen and sundressed women and girls who look out of place here. There shouldn't be so many of them fluttering around, their voices too high-pitched to be bouncing off the brick and ivy-covered walls. I stare at them, trying to reconcile their presence, but I shouldn't try too hard. They'll be gone in a few hours and then I'll be back to the minority, even when all the boys have left.

Will's cleared his throat, expecting to draw my attention. I don't turn. I'm going to hang on to any scrap of control I have over this situation, so I ignore his guttural plea. I've been standing at the window, watching the celebration, but my legs are leaden. It might be a good idea to sit down. I drag myself over to the chair behind my desk and drop onto the wood, warmed by the sun filtering through the window and worn by generations of math teachers who've come before me. The terrible ergonomics are a point of pride.

“You wanted to talk?” My voice has detached itself from my body. It's doing a pretty good impression of someone who doesn't give a care.

“Erin, I . . .”

Will's got a big enough ego that it's rare for him to sound genuinely contrite. It's usually in a way that screams
I'm apologizing because I know you think I've done something wrong and it'll be easier for me to smooth this over and not deal with you being pissed off anymore if I pretend it's rational.
But there's a cold streak of genuine remorse that sets off a chain reaction through my body.

“I've been . . .”

“You've been what?” The bottom's dropped out of my stomach. I can't believe this is happening. The diamond on my finger glints in the sun and shines a mocking beam right into my eye. “You've been
what
, Will?”

The coward looks at the floor. “When I said that Lana and I were over, that was . . . less than the entire truth.”

Oh? Tell me more.
At my lack of audible response, he looks up like a dog expecting to be met with a steel-toe. Except I'm not the kicking type. I'm the kicked.

I should be glad. He's been honest with me. A lot of men would've carved another notch on their belts, zipped their lips along with their flies, and hoped their wife would never know. It's not the first time Will's carved this particular notch. Does it even count as a separate betrayal? At this point it's the reopening of an existing wound. Do I want to keep walking around with this sore that refuses to heal?

I should muster a “Screw you” or a “We're over” or something brave and pithy that will make him sorry he
thought
of a woman other than me, never mind had sex with her. I hook the low heels of my shoes over the rung at the bottom of my chair and pull as hard as I can, exerting the only force I have control over until my thighs shake with strain and I have to let go.

“Okay.”

He looks at me like I've recited the Gettysburg Address or some equal non sequitur. I should yell. I should do something else. Someone with more self-respect would punch him in the face. But I'm worn out and what energy I have left shouldn't be wasted on reactionary jibes at the man who promised to love and honor me and has done everything but. The boys who worked so hard for me and say their shy and earnest thank-yous, or who swing me around in exuberant and slightly mortifying hugs, they're who deserve any feelings I can muster.

“Later.”

“Okay. Angel, I'm—”

I close my eyes and shake my head, heavy with disappointment in the both of us. “Don't.”

When I open them again, Will nods and heads for the door. I want to throw a piece of chalk at the spot at the crown of his head where his hair is thinning, point out his vanity and flaws in a petty cat scratch of bewildered rage he'd brush off like a fly.

When the door latches behind him, the tears slip from my eyes. I wrench my ring from my finger, leaving red marks, and fling it across the classroom. It makes a satisfying clink as it bounces off a window and skitters who knows where over the carpet. Despite knowing this is probably best for all involved, I can't help feeling shitty. He may not have been perfect, but he'd been another brick in the wall of my life that I'd built.

Now it's crumbling. And I've gone and thrown a two-carat diamond across a room. I scramble to my knees and go in search of the stupid shiny bauble. I'd told him it was too much, but he'd insisted. I'll return it, if this is the end, despite it being well within my rights to keep. If I can find it. I don't want his money, or really his parents' money. I'm on hands and knees, butt in the air, sinuses thick and burning with tears forced forward by gravity, reaching under a radiator for the trinket, when there's a knock at my door.

I'm so startled I forget I'm cowering under a desk and slam my head hard against it in my effort to be upright.

“Son of a—”

I crumple to the ground, a mess of snot and wrinkled summer-weight wool. Tears of pain join the pity party in my eyes. This is too much.

In a second, dark gray trouser-covered knees appear in my field of vision.

“Ms. Brewster? Are you okay?”

Shep. Of course it's Shep. This day should get a lot worse. My eyes travel up to his face while he lays a hand on my shoulder.

What's called for here is to sniff, extract myself from under the desk as gracefully as possible, stand up, brush myself off and assure him,
Of course, Mr. Shepherd. I dropped my ring and it rolled under the radiator. You surprised me. Congratulations and best of luck at Northwestern. Good day.

But what comes out is “No,” as I burst into tears. Most teenage boys would stutter and back away, possibly offer some tissues at arm's length while looking around desperately for someone else,
anyone
else, to please do something with this crying woman. But it's not Jeremiah or Caldwell who's kneeling beside me. It's Shep.

I bury my head in my hands as weeping racks my body. I can't stop the flood, but Shep is undeterred, his hand resting on my arm. My tears come hard and fast, hot moisture rolling down my cheeks, off my nose. One unfortunate drop streams into the hollow of my ear.

When I gather up the reins of my outburst, Shep is still on his knees beside me, stroking my arm with long, firm passes. I shouldn't be enjoying this as much as I am, so I jumpstart the rational part of my brain. I cannot, cannot lose this job. I can't leave here. Especially now. If Will and I are getting a divorce. Are we getting a divorce?

I don't refuse when Shep offers me a hand. I take it. It's callused from long hours wielding a lacrosse stick, and warm. He helps me sit up, laying his free hand on the top of my head to urge me out from under the desk without banging my head again. God help me, I lean into his touch instead of away like I should, wishing his fingers would curl in my hair and hold firm.

“Erin?”

He's said my name twice before but the way it rolls off his tongue like he's said it a million times imprints itself in my memory. Ignoring the low glow in my belly, I extract myself from his grasp and wipe the tears from my cheeks with my hands.

“I'm sorry, Mr. Shepherd. Please forgive my . . . lack of decorum.” The understatement of the year colors my cheeks, and I hope he can't feel the heat radiating off of me. A shallow line forms between his brows. I want to rub it out with my thumb. Nothing should mar his skin, especially not wrinkles from dealing with his crackpot teacher. “Shouldn't you be out celebrating?”

“I have to go. My parents want to get home tonight.”

He has that tight look on his face as he looks down at the carpet, the one he gets when he thinks about home, his family. He's disappointed and he'd rather stay to hang out with his friends and go to the wild off-campus party that'll be happening later. The faculty pretend not to know about it, but we do. But he's a dutiful, respectful son and he's not going to argue. What he's not saying is that his dad probably has to work at the feed mill early tomorrow morning. No time to take vacation days to let your son go to some outrageous, alcohol-fueled party with his aristocratic friends.

“I wanted to say good-bye, though. And thank you.”

His dark blue eyes have swept up to my face. I wish we could say the words we really want to say.

“It was my pleasure.” My face flames with the truth behind my words. It was my pleasure to see him every day, his easy, solid manner an anchor in the sea of volatile testosterone, his handsome features a pleasant place to rest my eyes. His very existence proof that there are good men in this world. “I'll miss you.”

My confession flips a switch. “I'll miss you, too.”

He kneels up and sets a foot flat on the floor. Instead of standing, he leans forward and presses a kiss against my lips as he slips his hand into my hair.

I'm startled, but his fingers sculpt around my skull and brook no argument. My eyes go from wide-open to slackly closed as his mouth meets mine. This feels right in a way kissing Will or my boyfriends never did. But my pliancy is shattered by how not right it is to be making out with one of my students. Under a desk. In my classroom.

I wrench myself away and drag oxygen into my lungs as if it will save me.

“Shep, I—”

“I should go.”

No. Don't. Please?
That's what my crumpled-up face says but my brain intercedes before the thought makes it out of my mouth. “Yeah.”

Because if you don't, I'll throw myself into your arms and never leave.
He stands and, always the consummate gentleman, offers me a hand. Though I'm wary of what his firm grasp will make me want, I take it, half-desperate for his touch and half-determined to act like nothing's amiss. If he offered me a hand up from my seat on the grass watching a soccer game, I would, I
have
, accepted it.

He supports my weight as I come to my feet, wobbly-kneed and shaky. I haven't let go of him, don't want to, so I turn it into the world's most awkward handshake.

“Good luck at Northwestern. Let us know how you're doing.”

He flinches at my use of the plural. I'm a jerk.
Me
, I plead in my head where it's safe to,
let
me
know how you're doing.
Tell me you miss me
.

We stand there for what feels both like hours and milliseconds, our hands clasped tight. I want another kiss, but in full view of the window, families and faculty milling around not so far away, this “handshake” is suspect. I loosen my fingers as the uneasy thought about what someone like Uncle Rett might think if he happened upon us worms into my brain.

Though it rips my heart in two, I don't call him Shep as I step back.

“Good-bye, Mr. Shepherd.”

“Bye, Ms. Brewster.”