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At my attitude, he raises his eyebrows. “You kissed me and then stormed out of the room,” he says, being far more direct than I expect. “Don’t try to bullshit me, Gabriela. You forget I know all your tells.”
I narrow my eyes, my instincts kicking in.
“Well, I hate to break it to you, Bishop, but a lot has changed over the years. I’m a very different person now than I was when you knew me. So as much as you might have known me then, you don’t anymore.”
Then I shut the door in his face. I stand there, listening, making sure I know when he’s gone. I hear him moving through the house, out to the living room, maybe gathering his stuff.
But then I hear the scratch of the record player, and I crack my door, my heart thudding when the music begins to play on low.
Our favorite song. Believe.
He switches off the lights and leaves through the front door, and not until I hear his tires rolling down the drive do I let my tears fall.
“This is looking really great, Helene,” I say, crouching down to observe her movements as she carefully evens out her walls.
“Thanks,” she says, her voice quiet and her eyes laser sharp on her project.
“It looks like you’re pressing more with your outside hand. You want to keep that pressure really even, until you’re ready to bubble outward. You’ll have an easier time controlling your progress.”
Helene nods, her eyes never moving away. I see the way she shifts her left hand just slightly where it rests against the outside of her vase, and she begins moving her inside hand upward again, stroking along the interior and slowly evening out the walls.
“Perfect. Great adjustments.”
Standing, I look around the room, taking in the varying success levels of each student’s vase. Alexa’s is a little too short and wide but still looking fairly even. Nina’s is a lot taller but looks like it’s about to spin out at any second. And Johnny is still making things that look remarkably phallic to the point that I’m actually a little impressed.
We’ve finally tipped into November, which puts us more than halfway through the semester. The students are starting to look more confident and more capable than they did during those first few weeks.
It makes me proud to see how much they’ve improved. I might not be the most amazing instructor in the world, but I don’t half-ass it, and I think it’s made a difference.
When we end class for the day, I spend some time cleaning up, my mind lost in a fog of misshapen thoughts. I should be thinking about all the work things I need to get done when I get home, or about preparing for the art show that’s looming around the corner.
Instead, all I can think about—all I’ve been able to think about since it happened this past weekend—is that kiss.
It has plagued my thoughts. Fucked with my work schedule. More than a few clay mugs have ended up in the bin over my lack of focus.
I wanted to kiss him. I wanted to remember what it felt like to be in his arms. I wanted to go back in time, at least for a while. Forget the pain.
It was everything I remembered and yet not the same at all.
The stubble on his face bit at my skin. The muscles under my hands were firmer and more defined. The control he wielded with a few simple movements set the blood in my veins on fire.
But then I came back to myself, and so did the heartache.
“Knock, knock.”
My head flies up, and for a beat, I assume it’s Bishop stopping by my classroom, but it’s Sam at the door, and I give him a friendly smile, trying to ignore the disappointment I feel.
It’s my own fault. Bishop asked me if I wanted to meet today to put together our notes for Principal Cohen, and I said no. He’s not the kind of guy to just ignore me and show up anyway.
I usually appreciate that, but every once in a while, I wish he were.
“Hey there, Ms. Ventura,” Sam says, grinning at me.
I shake my head. “You ever gonna call me Gabriela again?”
“Nah. Ms. Ventura suits you.”
He steps fully into the classroom, letting the heavy door shut behind him. Then his eyes scan the room.
