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And I’m their only child…Savannah Olivia Sullivan.
S.O.S. It’s fitting, really. The international distress signal.
I’m a hot mess.
So, yes—I know right from wrong. But to me, life isn’t black and white. There’s a whole hell of a lot of gray, and I’m perpetually stuck in it.
Deep breaths.
You got this.
Leaning against a cool metal locker just outside my classroom, I give myself an internal pep talk.
My last class of the day is giving me an ulcer, I swear.
Sighing, I release a rush of unsteady air before turning to open the old wooden door that’s probably been opened by every Sullivan to pass through the halls of our town’s small high school.
Plastering a smile on my face, I enter. My Louis Vuittons that cost way more than my measly salary could ever afford click across the tiled floor. Just another reminder that I don’t belong here, in this place where everyone knows everyone, and nothing ever changes. I should be in New York City or LA—somewhere bigger, better.
Heck, I probably shouldn’t even be a teacher. Yet the job opportunities for women in this community are slim. A vast array of choices wasn’t a luxury I had when choosing a career path.
“Buenos días, clase!” I greet the students with a wide smile, wiping my palms against my gray pencil skirt. I ignore the dark brown eyes that I know are staring at me from a desk in the first row. My acute awareness of him never lessens.
“Buenos días, Señora Sullivan,” they chant back with less enthusiasm.
To say my father wasn’t pleased when I chose to become a Spanish teacher is an understatement. But as a seventeen-year-old fresh out of high school, something about the language of love called to me. Additionally, it’s required for every student who graduates from this high school to take a year of foreign language. And seeing that the only foreign language offered is Spanish, I have pretty good job security.
I begin passing out the pop quiz I warned the students about yesterday amidst a collection of obnoxious groans. Surely, I wasn’t this whiny when I was in high school? I hope Mr. Breyers, my principal, doesn’t choose this moment to give me my final evaluation for my first year of teaching. I will probably be knocked a few points under the “fostering a joy of learning” category.
I’ve tried everything I can think of to help my students enjoy this class, but despite all my efforts, the majority of them continue to act like spoiled little assholes. Can I say that about students? Eh, probably not. But it’s true regardless. I would have never been so disrespectful to my teachers. I get that most of them couldn’t care less about learning this language, but they could pretend. I’m their teacher, and by extension, that should earn me respect.
And now…at the ripe old age of twenty-two…I’ve turned into my mother.
The hilarity of that thought brings a smile to my face.
“I’m happy to see you, too,” a deep voice says from the desk where I just absentmindedly placed a quiz.
My smile instantly morphs into a scowl. I ignore the comment and take a step toward the desk behind him. His hand darts out to grab my wrist, and a small gasp rushes out. My gaze darts from my wrist to his face and back again. I can’t allow my focus to linger on his features too long. His chocolate brown eyes, long dark lashes, and wide smile suck me in every time. And the day-old scruff that creates a delicious shadow across his skin…I can’t even acknowledge that.
Closing my eyes, I steel the nerve to say something to him…something “teacherly,” whatever that could be. But before I speak, he lets me go. I continue down the last row, stack of quizzes in hand, without a backward glance. What an ass.
The students hand in their completed quizzes. Then in this day of technological advances where most students are taught using iPads, Smart boards, and PowerPoint presentations…I use actual chalk to write verb conjunctions on the blackboard. As I talk to myself in front of the class, answering my own questions that none of my students seem to know the answer to, I can feel his stare on my back. After eight months of it, I’ve gotten pretty good at ignoring him. When I do turn toward the students, I focus on those in the back.
When the bell rings, most students have rushed out of the door before I can finish saying, “Have a nice weekend.”
Plopping into my desk chair, I let out a groan as my head falls back to face the ceiling.
“Don’t worry, their disinterest stems from their loathing of the actual subject more than their dislike of you.”
I scoff and allow my gaze to meet his. “Thanks for that, Jackson,” I say with a roll of my eyes. “Just go.”
“Have I told you lately how insanely beautiful you are?”
I scan the room nervously.
“It’s just you and me, babe.” His sexy lips turn up into a smile.
“Stop it,” I huff out.
