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“Keychains?”
“Yep, you and Callie are officially relationship goals.” He makes the hashtag sign with his fingers. “Congratulations.”
Then he cracks up.
“Great—thanks.”
Darpenter . . . sounds like a chemical you use to strip off paint.
“It could’ve been worse, D. Could’ve been . . . Carret.” He reconsiders, “Carret’s kind of cute, actually.”
I give him the finger.
“So it’s official then?” My best friend asks, sobering slightly. “You guys are giving it another shot? I’ve lost my wingman?”
All this time, all these years, when it comes to dating I’ve been fixated on keeping my life my own—keeping it uncomplicated and drama-free. But it’s different with Callie—so easy to slip into that steady groove because we mesh . . . seamlessly fit together. We always did. She knows me, she gets me—and there’s not a single thing about her that I don’t adore.
My life is still simple, still easy . . . but it’s just so much better with her in it.
“Yeah, man. I mean . . . it’s Callie, you know?”
And I don’t need to say anything else. Dean gets me too.
“I’m happy for you. I hope it works out . . .” Then he snickers, “. . . Gallie.”
Dickhead.
~ ~ ~
“You’re the only person I know who doesn’t eat fruit to be healthy, but actually enjoys it.”
It’s kind of nuts the things you find attractive about someone when you’re really into them. Callie was always a fruit salad kind of girl, even when we were kids. Right now, we’re in The Cave, the teachers’ lounge, as our classes attend a first period anti-drug assembly in the auditorium. And she’s popping giant, radioactive-sized green grapes in her mouth. Watching her slip them between her gorgeous pouty lips is turning me on something fierce.
She giggles, shrugging. “Fruit is good.” She holds one out to me. “Want one?”
My eyes dart between the grape and her mouth.
“No . . . I just want to keep watching you eat them.”
Her pretty green eyes narrow wickedly. She takes the next grape and gives it a nice, slow lick and I can’t help but picture her doing the same to my balls. Then she closes her eyes, gives a little hungry moan before making a lovely, wide O with her mouth and popping the big round grape through her luscious lips.
I smother a groan. Looks like a trip to the faculty bathroom for some “private time” is in my future. Jesus, how old am I again?
“Get a room, you two,” Donna Merkle teases as she sits down at the table next to Callie. And then I catch her staring at Jerry’s ass as he pours himself a cup of coffee across the room. They’ve been markedly less vicious with each other during the staff meetings, though they still hate-fuck each other with their eyes.
It’s not an uncommon thing for relationships to develop between teachers—no matter how weird or incompatible it may look from the outside. It’s like costars on a movie set or soldiers on deployment—we’re all stuck in this building together for hours a day, and only other teachers really understand what it’s like. Things are bound to happen. And something is definitely happening with Merkle and Jerry. Callie sees it too.
“You and Jerry first, Donna.”
“Leaving now,” Merkle says, rising. And Jerry’s eyes follow her right out the door.
I lean forward, resting my elbows on the table.
“So, you’re coming over tonight after the game, right?”
Callie’s parents have made some good progress on the recovery front. The hospital bed has been taken down—they’re using walkers and crutches to get around now. They still need Callie to do any heavy lifting, but their progress has given her just a bit more time out of the house . . . and over at mine.
“Definitely.” She nods. “Can’t mess with a streak.”
God damn, she’s perfect.
We’ve won every game since mine and Callie’s first night together, and I have no doubt we’ll win again tonight. Her pussy is my gorgeous good-luck charm and I make damn sure I give that beauty the gratitude and worship it deserves.
~ ~ ~
Later that day, in third period, Miss McCarthy comes on the loudspeaker and announces the nominations for homecoming queen, who will be crowned next week. When she reads Simone Porchesky’s name, Nancy and Skylar and more than half the rest of the class bust a gut laughing.
Nancy shrieks and grabs her phone. “OMG, Simone is up for homecoming queen! Hilarious!”
I know Simone—she’s in Callie’s theater class. Blue hair, piercings, tattoos—she’s designing the sets and the costumes for Callie’s play.
“Why is that hilarious?” I ask.
But my gut curdles with the suspicion that I already know why.
“It’s a joke,” Nancy tells me. “A bunch of us got together and put her name in as a joke. I posted about it but I didn’t actually think she’d really get nominated! This is amazing.”
