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I’m by the dresser and he’s still by the door.
In fact he’s blocking the door.
Like he did back at his office.
He’s leaning against it, his arms folded across his chest and his thighs almost sprawled.
And since the space is empty except for the two of us and is extremely well lit, I notice, for the first time ever, that his clothes are different.
Except for that one time last year when I saw him in a suit, I’ve only ever seen him in coach-ly things: workout t-shirts and pants, hoodies.
But tonight he’s wearing jeans.
Navy blue like his eyes, and a dark gray sweater with sleeves pushed up to his elbows and exposing his strong arms, dusted with dark hairs. But the thing that has my full attention is the white shirt that he has on underneath.
I can only see the collar — straight and starched — peeking out from under the rounded neck of the sweater.
But that’s enough.
That’s enough to make him look so… mature.
So authoritative and older.
Good and responsible.
And so I can’t take it anymore.
I can’t take this heavy silence.
Clenching my thighs together where his name is buzzing, I say, “H-how was your break?”
He was in the process of looking me over, going from the top of my head to the bottom of my feet.
Because, well, my clothes are different too.
Except for that one time that he saw me in a ball gown — which he doesn’t remember; though I did remind him of that night under that tree, before break — he’s only seen me in my school uniform. This is the first time that he’s seeing me in something that I actually love wearing: a pink, maxi-length dress.
It’s sleeveless, with a V neck and an uneven thready hem. And purple flowers that are scattered all over. That I, myself, have painted on, like I did with my parka.
But that’s not all.
I’m wearing other things too.
And before I distracted him with my words, he had his eyes on one such thing.
My arm bracelet. Silver with trailing, tinkling chains.
“I like your sweater,” I say when he doesn’t respond to my friendly question. “Callie’s Christmas present, right? I know. She was knitting it at school.” Then because he still doesn’t choose to say anything and keeps staring at me, I go on, “Remember that white hat that I always have on? She made that too. Also the sweater. That pink one.”
Nothing.
He doesn’t respond to that either so I have to continue, swallowing first. “I like jewelry. Lots of it.” I shrug and when I do, there’s a tinkling produced by the two necklaces that I’m wearing and my arm bracelets. Plus the other three bracelets around my wrists. “As you can see. And hear. And since we’re not allowed to wear jewelry at school, I tend to go all out when I can.”
I do.
Plus my mom doesn’t like my taste in jewelry very much and the fact that I get it from thrift stores mostly, so that’s another incentive to wear a lot of it when I can. Especially during my outings from St. Mary’s.
Since he’s still choosing to hold his silence, I don’t stop talking. “And of course, drawing on my body.”
Because that’s the other thing he was staring at before I started talking.
The flowers around my elbows and shoulders.
I have other art on my body as well, under my clothes. Like his name.
Which thank God he can’t see right now.
“I’m into self-decorating. And I know what you’re thinking. You’re —”
“You do?” he says at last.
My lips part at his voice.
Low and deep as ever.
My favorite.
“Yes,” I reply.
He tilts his head to the side. “So what is it? What am I thinking,” he pauses before adding, “Bronwyn.”
He does that, doesn’t he?
Takes a pause before saying my name.
I’m not sure why. Maybe to intimidate me.
But it only makes me want to hear my name from him even more.
“Uh, you’re thinking that if she’s into self-decorating, then why not tattoos? But the thing about tattoos is that they’re permanent. I mean, when you’re not getting a temporary one. But I like to think of my body as my canvas. So I love drawing things. On it.”
His features change during my explanation.
His eyes get darker. His jaw gets harsher, and even though I don’t know what it means, the pulsing in my thighs — and between them — gets more intense too.
That ticking pulse skips a beat when he slowly shakes his head in response. “Try again.”
And again I clench my thighs, staring at his set-in-stone features. “Uh, you’re thinking” — I lick my lips — “what am I doing here. At this bar.”
His shining eyes narrow. “Bingo.”
Shit.
Damn it.
It’s not as if I didn’t know that he was thinking that.
Of course I knew.
Because before anything else, he’s my teacher. My coach.
And he’s caught me again.
