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Fitted jeans. And yep, that’s America’s ass all right, though I’m only seeing its profile right now.
That damned see-through T-shirt. Wholesome, all-American good looks, topped off by warm brown eyes.
Brown eyes currently full of humor. Drew’s clearly trying not to laugh.
“Everything okay?” he asks. I erase the text as fast as I can, setting my phone down as I pick up the coffee cup.
“Great,” I mutter, choking on my drink. Drew laughs as I splutter and try to basically drown myself.
In my defense, I didn’t know it was Drew, but Jesus. Did he swap bodies or something? Maybe my bangs were somehow attached to my good sense.
It’s not like I didn’t know my friend is good-looking. He can be downright beautiful sometimes. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.
I take another sip of coffee and strive to bring my brain back online.
“Caught me off guard,” I say. “Thanks for the coffee.”
“You’re welcome,” he says, taking the seat across from mine. He stares at me a minute, long enough I can feel my cheeks warm.
“What?”
Drew taps his fingers on the table. “You want to talk about it?”
“No!” I set the cup down so hard, coffee sloshes out over my shoes. “I mean, what are you talking about? Talk about what?”
Drew just points to his hair.
Oh. Right.
“Oh, that,” I say, mopping up my mess. “That would be the last vestige of my relationship with Peter going down the drain. Or in the trash can, in this case.”
Drew’s expression hardens.
“What happened?”
2
Drew
“Mr. Hicks, my name is Anthony Olstein with the Calaveras County School District. I’m calling regarding your application for the middle school science teacher position.” The brisk tone of voice is par for the course in my experience with the public education system. Experience that is pretty far in the past. Experience that definitely does not include applying for any jobs with the local school district.
“We’d like to bring you in for an interview,” continues Mr. Olstein without waiting for my response. “We’ve got to get this position filled pronto, considering the academic year is already underway.”
“Mr. Olstein,” I say. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I have not applied for the position you’re talking about. I haven’t applied for a teaching position anywhere.” Not in the last six years, but he doesn’t need to know that.
My father, on the other hand, has submitted no fewer than ten applications for open teacher positions this summer. In my name.
“Sorry for your trouble. Thanks for calling,” I say and hang up before he loses any more time on me.
I used to take more time explaining. The first few times it happened, I even went on the interviews. I’ve learned not to waste anybody’s time like that anymore, least of all my own.
Dad’s getting pushier about jobs, that’s for sure. It’s second only to my lack of a committed relationship on his list of things wrong with my life. I wonder—not for the first time—if my family has an actual list they consult when I’m not around.
Doesn’t matter to him that I tried—I really did. I spent two soul-sucking years teaching basic biology to middle-class suburban teenagers. Nobody goes into education planning to strike it rich, but I made enough to pay my bills. It wasn’t like I was putting my life at stake every day, unless you count death by spitballs and eyerolling.
For those two years I could do no wrong in my parents’ eyes; even coming out as bisexual barely caused a blip. But two years of teaching in a school was enough to give me ulcers, and my chosen profession was already starting to more closely resemble a terminal illness. The last day of the year, I walked down to the principal’s office and let her know I wouldn’t be back in the fall.
Leaving the building that day was the greatest physical relief I’ve ever experienced. I practically flew my car home.
