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I wanted him to kiss me. To kiss me hard and soft all at once, a kiss that’d assure me that I wasn’t crazy for discovering what I’d just discovered on this tattered sofa in this tiny apartment.
That I was in love with my student.
I’d tried to convince myself that it was just sex. It wasn’t. It was pizza nights and laughing under my cheap, itchy blanket and nicknaming each other stupid names. I was Little Ballerina, while he was Giraffe Tongue, for reasons that gave me countless orgasms.
It was watching Tarantino movies and stealing breathless kisses at school, two thieves of pleasure, begging to confess their crime. I was spellbound, desperate, and possessed. And I knew with certainty that once he graduated and moved away for college, the blow would be just as hard as my subway accident.
Dancing was my life.
But Jaime? Jaime is my life, I realized.
He took a swig of the tequila, screwed the top back on, and jerked me into him, holding the back of my neck to bring my lips to his.
“Ask me.” His alcohol-fumed breath oozed into my mouth.
“Truth or dare?”
“Truth. And it’s gonna be ugly. Buckle up.” He let me go, pushing away, his eyes fluttering shut. Frustration and hurt radiated from his face, and he slouched on the couch, looking almost defeated. This was not the Jaime I knew. The devil with the panty-dropping smile.
Worry gnawed at my gut.
“The first time I saw you,” he began, “I wanted to slap my name on your ass, let everyone know that I was going to be the only guy to tap that shit. You looked like a princess, Mel. An insanely hot princess with a perfect posture and unruly curls.” He smirked. “’Course, acting on it was out of the question. A fantasy. Then I came home that first day of my senior year, and Mom wouldn’t shut up about you. Melody this and Melody that. How bad you were at your job, how you were gonna ruin Mr. Pitterman’s legacy, blah blah, bullshit blah. She hated your guts. Gave you the job only because he croaked so suddenly.”
He was telling me things that I already knew, but it didn’t make them any less painful. The previous Lit teacher had died of a heart attack two days before school started. Principal Followhill had needed to act fast.
“You became a favorite topic at our dinner table. She loathed your ass.” Jaime took a sip, wincing from the bite of the tequila. “You were pretty and young and completely unimpressed by her power and the status and stinking money that runs our fucked-up little town.” He spoke with his eyes squeezed shut. Embarrassed, probably for the first time in his life. “You were a good teacher. That’s why I never gave you shit. It wasn’t your fault we were a bunch of privileged assholes.”
I placed my hand on his arm. He drank some more.
Your pain is mine, and I want to shoulder it, because I can. Because that’s what I do. I carry my pain all the time. Let me take away yours, my touch begged him.
“I told Mom to shut her trap numerous times. Not because I wanted to defend you but because gossiping about you was feeding a monster inside me. Talking about you only made it harder for me to ignore you. So fucking hot…” He nodded his head and bit his full lip, eyes still closed. “When I heard how you had to drop out of Julliard, I wanted to die for you. I had a feeling teaching wasn’t your calling. I kept thinking about eighteen-year-old you. My age. Your heart broken by bad luck, shattered by an accident that’d left more than a physical scar.”
I shifted on my small couch. It felt smaller with every word he said. My gaze traveled down to my hands. I was flattered. I was horrified. But most of all, I was confused. “You were thinking about me for the whole year?”
He snorted a sad laugh.
“More than thinking. Six weeks after school started, I had a huge fight with my mom. Coach Rowland was giving Trent shit about breaking his ankle. Like he planned to get hurt and fuck-up his whole football future. We finally stood up for Trent against Coach, but Mom defended Rowland. My fight with her left me so frustrated I gave in to my weakness for you. I followed you to your apartment, tried to steal a private peek through your bedroom window. I don’t know why I did that. It was like drinking fucking Emergen-C. I just wanted to take the edge off.”
Jaime opened his eyes, his blues challenging me. “You were the perfect sin to commit, Melody. Begging to be taken. Untouched by the rest of Todos Santos’s posing and entitlement. I got hooked. From that day on, I followed you everywhere like an eager puppy. To the supermarket, the gas station…the fucking park every morning before practice, where I watched you doing yoga positions and tried not to rub a quick one out behind a tree. I followed you on blind dates, and when I realized you’d never met the idiots before, I also found your dating account and opened a profile under a fake name just so I could stalk you better.”
