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“At least it wasn’t more serious,” Jen says.
I shrug. “Yes, but it makes me anxious, not knowing what caused it. We can treat an infection, but if we don’t know what it is, it could come back again.”
“Silver lining.” Jen slides off the table and wraps her arms around my waist. “Your dad is okay, and you got to go to a hockey game and sit with a hottie. Will you see him again?”
Not unless I see him again on a televised game.
Even if I’d considered a casual hookup when, or if, he came to town, it was a bad idea. Casual sex is all well and good, but not when you actually have feelings for someone. And okay, I might not have capital F feelings yet, but they’re pretty much standing in my front yard, peering into my windows, and trying to catch me doing something embarrassing. They are circling the foundation, scoping out the best window to crack open. They are playing ding dong ditch and hoping at some point I’ll open the door and let them knock me flat as they bulldoze into my space. Insta-love is only a thing in romance novels. But instant chemistry that lays down the building blocks for more? Totally a thing.
I had a good night with Erik, both at the game and afterward. I enjoyed our time together. He made me laugh, smile, forget that I was only there because Dad couldn’t be. Hockey has always been one of the few things that Dad and I don’t see eye to eye on, and yet I’d gone for him and met Erik. The way Dad carried on, you’d think he had gift-wrapped Erik just for me. It just sucks that the gift needed to be returned.
“Our lives aren’t exactly compatible,” I say. “Plus, he’s already back in Chicago and we never even talked about if he was coming back.”
“He has family here,” Jen points out.
“Family that used to all live there. Maybe he holds down the fort.” I shrug. “It’s fine. It was a fun experience and now we’ll both move on with our lives and meet other people.”
“So that’s it,” Jen says, “You’re back to being strangers? Not going to visit, not going to write?”
“Write?” Sometimes I swear Jen was born in the wrong decade.
“Text, you know what I mean.” She straightens the collar of her blouse with her nose high in the air.
“He hasn’t texted yet,” I say and honesty makes me add, “Because I told him I didn’t know if I wanted him to.”
“Well, that seems like an oversight on your part.” My friend and coworker might be a romantic, but she’s usually sensible. Levelheaded.
“Why?” I ask. “What’s the point in continuing anything when we can’t date?”
“Because you obviously want him to text you.” Jen says, which is annoying as hell because she’s right. I want Erik to text me. Maybe if he did, it would be some proof that we are in this strange ball of emotion together.
“And he hasn’t.”
“Because he’s being respectful, you ungrateful wench.” Jen checks her watch. “My planning period is just about over, but this conversation isn’t.” She smooths invisible wrinkles out of her skirt and runs a hand over her shiny hair. She looks perfect and approachable and nowhere near the existential mess that I am.
I set the paint down on the counter that runs around the edge of my classroom, smiling and waving as Jen heads to the door. I have three more classes this afternoon and then I can go home and drown myself in a romance novel and pretend real men don’t even exist.
“Hey Quinn,” Jen calls from the doorway.Her smile is understanding and supportive and everything I know I don’t deserve, not when this is all my own damn fault. “You can always text him. It’s easier to be just friends over the phone.”
“It hurts,” I say, meaning the ache that’s taken up residence behind my sternum and between my thighs.
“Exactly,” Jen says. “It already hurts. It’ll hurt when it ends, but it hurts now too. So why not have some of the good parts too?”
The door snicks closed behind her, and I turn back to my prep. I have a million plastic bottles to fill with paint for our paint pouring projects. I unscrew the top of the black, hold the bottle tight in my left hand and lift the paint can with my right. It seeps out in shining ribbons, falling into the neck of the bottle. I fill it about halfway and then move to the next one.
The game was significantly more fun than I’d expected. The after had been even better.
Paint oozes over my hand and down onto the counter, shocking me with how cold it is. I sigh, put everything down, and reach for a rag to wipe up the mess. I toss the paint-stained cloth into the large ceramic sink and reach for a clean one to wipe my hands. There’s a large spot of dark, wet color on my chest, but at least tempera paint is washable and I always wear an apron. The new rag is rough against my skin as I scrub off as much as I can. I’ll wash the rest later.
Erik’s cheek had been rough under my palm when I cupped it in my hand. Rougher still when he’d rubbed it across the sensitive skin of my stomach and the inner surface of my thighs.
I drop the rag, bend to pick it up, and slam my head into the tiny overhang from the counter. I barely avoid cursing—sound travels in the old building and knowing my luck Kelly’s third graders will already be lined up outside my door—and I rub at the spot on the crown of my head, remembering too late that I’m still covered in paint.
I don’t have time to dig one of the small self-portrait mirrors out of the supply closet, so I have to grab a fresh rag and hope the paint isn’t that noticeable. It would have been better if I’d spilled orange. At least that would have blended in with my hair. I’m definitely going to get comments from the students, but I have more bottles to fill before they file into my room. If he were here, Graham would have led the pack in teasing. That kid had had an eye roll never before seen in nature.
Erik had been good with kids. His whole job involved working with pediatric patients dealt an incredibly lousy hand.
I reach for the blue paint and promptly stub my foot against the drawers that hold extra paper. My big toe pulses with white hot pain. Stubbed appendages always hurt way worse than they have a right to. No one likes stubbed toes, but I can’t help but wonder if Erik misses them.
