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CJ: Oh you know . . . I rode this stationary bike to Brooklyn and back, uphill both ways, and basically bit my nails to the quick in an epic stress fest.
Graham: You’re not a nail-biter. Also, impressive cardio, Ceej.
CJ: You’re right. I’m not normally a nail-biter. But I’m clearly not walking the straight and narrow path today. I’ve been worried that I overstepped and now you think I’m a crazy person . . .
Graham: Not any crazier than I thought you were yesterday.
I groan as I tug my buds out of my ears. Crazy. He’s confirmed that he thinks I’m crazy. I watch my sex ed plans go up in flames, fueled by the tinder of Graham’s and my forever damaged relationship. Biting my lip, I text—
CJ: I ruined our friendship, didn’t I?
Graham: No. Of course not.
CJ: You’re sure?
Graham: I’m sure. I’m glad you were honest with me. And that you trusted me enough to share something so personal.
CJ: Even though I held you hostage with my demands?
Graham: You’re a tough negotiator beneath that sweet exterior. But I’ve always known you were made of steel and sugar.
My lips press together. Steel and sugar. That’s not necessarily a bad combo, is it?
Graham: Seriously, you could never ruin our friendship. No matter what schemes you hatch up in your squirrel brain.
I wince, my stomach cratering. Embarrassment washes over me. My shoulders sag. He can deny it all he wants, but he clearly thinks I’m storing up psycho for the winter.
But before I can type something sufficiently relaxed-sounding to hide my shame, my phone pings again.
Graham: Meet me at Patio West at nine p.m. tomorrow. Be ready for lesson one.
“Holy shit,” I murmur, hand coming to cover my mouth. “Holy, holy, holy shit!” My hands are shaking so badly with excitement that it takes three tries to tap out my reply—See you there—and hit send.
Resisting the urge to thrust my arms into the air in a V for victory, I start pedaling, but inside I’m not cycling. I’m soaring, flying so high I can’t wipe the stupid grin off my face or keep giddy laughter from bubbling at my lips.
I’m finally going to lose it, the one thing I for sure don’t want to keep.
Goodbye, V card.
6
Graham
“Were you ever so fired up to go to school that you were practically bouncing off the walls?” I toss the question at my running buddy, Campbell, the next morning.
He gives me the side-eye as we run along the Hudson River Greenway. “No. And neither were you. Where is my friend Graham, and what have you done with him?”
“There must have been some class you liked. Hell, you’re a teacher now.” Well, he’s a teacher and a rock star. The dude is unfairly talented. He plays a gazillion instruments, fronted a popular band, and now teaches music. Oh, and he was also a teen heartthrob.
The fucker.
As we cruise along the path, he arches a skeptical brow. “Okay, fess up. What’s this class you’re salivating over? Have you taken up knitting? Canning peaches? Or are you finally going to learn how to take your shoe-tying skills to the next level?”
“Hey, don’t mock that last one. It’s hard to get the bow just right.”
He laughs. “I’d say I have faith in you, but . . .”
“That’d be a lie.”
“A bald-faced one.”
“Anyway, a friend asked me for help with something. I’ll be the teacher. To say I’m excited would be an understatement.”
He claps me on the back. “Ah, so it’s a class in telling time. I always knew you’d finally learn. But to share the skill with others? That's a beautiful gift.”
I flip him the bird.
He grins. “So what’s this class, then?”
I shake my head and mime zipping my lips. It’s not my secret to tell. “Something awesome.”
“Gossip tease,” he says. I laugh.
We finish and I head home to change and shower. Then I take off for work, where my focus powers me through the morning.
It’s only ten, and I’ve already solved a thorny supply issue with the production department halfway around the world and answered all pressing emails from business partners.
That’s what a good old-fashioned five a.m. alarm and the prospect of taking care of my other favorite kind of business after-hours has done for me.
Add in a breakfast meeting with my finance team at the Parker Meridien that went swimmingly, and I’d like to bottle this energy and take a hit whenever I’m losing focus.
I return to the office on Fifty-Sixth, stabbing the elevator button for the twenty-fifth floor and whistling a happy tune.
Eleven more hours till school starts.
I’ve never been more excited to go to class.
Then again, I’ve never been this kind of teacher, and I have a feeling I’m going to enjoy every single second of tutoring CJ one-on-one.
As the elevator chugs upward, my phone buzzes with a text. I grab it quickly, in case it’s CJ. But my jaw clenches when I see the name.
