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I just want to help. Surely that's a good thing, right?
“What happened?” I ask, sitting down on the bed as she sits as well, nursing her own drink. I drink when she does, unconsciously mimicking her.
“I just needed someone to talk to,” she replies, which makes my frown deepen. “I can’t stop thinking about what happened. I keep seeing him, I keep imagining it was worse than it was. What if he-he…” Her eyes flash and she sucks her lower lip into her mouth.
“But he didn’t and you’re safe,” I tell her. Leaning forward, I take her hand. “Are you sleeping?” I ask. Then I cringe, realizing how inappropriate that sounds.
“Not very well,” she confesses. “Every time I close my eyes, I’m back there in the park…I'm so happy you came to my rescue, Mr. Reed. It's more than anyone has done for me in a long time. You’re a good man.”
That settles me a little. Iama good guy, doing right by a poor, disadvantaged girl. My thoughts are just thoughts, and I can control them. But even as I think that I take another drink, aware that I shouldn't get drunk around her. The last thing I should be doing is letting my guard down because I’m afraid of what might happen if I do.
“You’re always asking about me,” she says. “What about you?”
Her question catches me off guard, but I go with it. Maybe she’ll trust me more if I share a little bit about my life. I doubt it’s easy to talk to someone if you think they have everything under control and their life is great. While I’m sure I give that impression, nothing could be further from the truth.
“You know my daughter?”
Chloe nods, her eyes lighting up.
“I love her more than anything.” I take another drink, before staring into the amber-coloured liquor to gather my thoughts. It’s harder to say this aloud than I thought it would be. It’s one thing to know what’s going on, but to admit it to another person makes it feel so much more real. “My wife…she’s divorcing me and trying to move my daughter halfway across the world.”
She jolts, and I glance at her stunned expression.
“Really? Why would she want to do that?”
“Because our marriage is terrible,” I hear myself confessing. “She hates me, her family hates me, and I’ve never been good enough for any of them. We loved each other in the beginning, but that’s faded over the years. We haven’t had sex in God knows how long…” Totally inappropriate topic of conversation with a student, but the words pour out of me before I can stop them. “She finally asked for a divorce that day after I took you home and told me she was taking our daughter. She wants her freedom, so she’s going to do everything she can to steal my daughter away from me.”
“That’s terrible.” Chloe inhales, still coming to terms with what I’m saying. “It’s not my fault, is it?” she adds quietly. “That you guys are having trouble?”
I shake my head and laugh. “God, no. Not at all. I think she suggested I drive you home just to give her another reason to berate me in front of her family.”
Chloe shakes her head, amazed. “She did that to you?”
I nod. “She practically accused me of sleeping with you, right there in front of her family.”
“Wow, what a bitch,” she marvels. “I mean, I can’t lie, it’s not like I haven’t thought about it, but just the idea that you’d ever cross the line with me is ridiculous.”
My ears prick up. She’s thought about us together?
God, that turns me on way more than it should. Even though my marriage has been rocky for years, I’ve never considered a relationship with another person, let alone a student.
Self-satisfying to nameless, faceless, naked women on the internet is as far as I’d ever let myself go, because indulging in porn isn’t cheating. Everyone does it whether they want to admit it or not. But my marriage is over and opening up to Chloe and listening to her tell me she’s thought about us together, it’s hard not to read into it, even though I know I fucking shouldn’t.
What does she think about?
Kissing me?
Touching me?
Letting me fuck her in ways boys her age could only dream of doing?
Fuck, I need to get my shit together.
I shift, desperately trying to gain control of my thoughts, but it’s hard when she’s looking at me the way she is. Her eyes don’t leave mine, framed by her obnoxiously long lashes. Her lips part into the slightest grin, making me wonder what thoughts she has rolling around in her dirty little mind. My cock twitches at the thought and I shift, trying unsuccessfully to hide how aroused I am.
Fuck. I need to stop this and fast, before I do or say something that I know I will regret.
“We shouldn’t be talking about this.” I stand up and put my glass down, aware I have only drunk a little bit of it. I feel a sense of satisfaction. Obviously, I’m not an alcoholic—an alcoholic would be compelled to finish their drink. I’m not, because I’m in control. Just like I’m in control of this situation.
