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“No, it’s not,” I confirm, but I don’t offer her more.
Guilt swims in my gut when she grows very animated as she tells me that she went ahead and took her test this morning because she woke up with the confidence to do it by herself.
“I wanted to get through it before the others got down here. Mornings are more than a little distracting.”
“How much would you sneer at me if I told you I was very proud of you?”
“Only a little,” she says with a wide grin.
“Well then I won’t say,” I tell her, giving her my own smile. “What else do you have to work on today?”
“I’ve still been avoiding submitting that English paper.”
I tilt my head to the side as I walk behind her into the den-turned-classroom.
“We talked about this and I went over it last night as you asked me to do in the email. Although English wasn’t my focus of study, I think you did a very good job on the paper.”
“That teacher is a hardass—” She cups her hand over her mouth for the foul language, but her even catching it tells me that she’s making progress.
We both turn to look at Meagan.
“Sorry,” Brielle tells her, earning a gentle smile and nod from the other helper in the room.
The apology is a big step for this young woman, and although she has a long way to go, it shows character that she’s at least trying to be mindful and considerate of others.
“The teacher is hard,” she says when she turns back to me. “I’m afraid I’m going to get a failing grade on it.”
“And what did I tell you about striving for good grades but not letting any single assignment keep you from reaching your goals.”
“I know,” she quickly agrees.
“I commend you for worrying but don’t get behind because you’re concerned. If you’re worried, go back and tweak it. Give it a reread or something, but doing nothing doesn’t get you any closer to graduation. Plus, we also discussed that most of the scholarships don’t have a minimum GPA in order to be awarded them so it doesn’t matter if you have a high B or a low A.”
“It’s like you’re giving me permission to fail.”
I frown. “I’m giving you permission to not be perfect. Strive for perfection if you want to become a surgeon. That’s the type of job that needs you to get it right all the time. An English paper isn’t something you should lose sleep over.”
She nods as she sits down at her computer.
“Now, you have two choices, tweak your paper if you think you can make it better or submit it for grading. The choice is yours.”
I take a step back, letting her make that decision on her own. She doesn’t seem able to make it immediately as she pulls up the paper and begins reading through the entire thing.
I help another student with a simple question before making my way to the window. I don’t know why I expected anything other than seeing Newton, still standing at the curb with his eyes roaming the neighborhood.
I spend the rest of the day helping Brielle who decided after one more read-through that she was ready to move on. She submitted her paper and got started on the next assignment in math as the other sections of her English class won’t open until the paper is graded.
I linger until well after the classroom empties.
My bus doesn’t leave until early evening. There’s no chance I’ll go back to the clubhouse.
Any question I might have had about whether Derrick cared if I left was answered the second he didn’t say a word when I walked out of the clubhouse.
He hasn’t bothered to show his face here. He hasn’t texted or asked me to stay, and I’m foolish for hoping that he would.
I try to remind myself that whatever it is that we had was just an endorphin rush. It was just one of a million hasty decisions that I’ve made in my life. Other than having to listen to the people in town chatter about it, there are no real repercussions.
I had a couple of weeks of great sex, and, despite that ache in my chest, I was the one to walk away.
I didn’t get dumped.
I didn’t jump to conclusions.
I try to convince myself that I’m no worse for wear than I was a couple of weeks ago, but the pain in my chest as I leave the shelter and head back out to the waiting SUV is singing a whole other tune.
Chapter 33
Oracle
“You don’t look like a man who just got good news,” Rocker says, his eyes on me from the driver’s seat.
“Beth bought a bus ticket to go back to Lindell,” I explain, having gotten the text from Newton less than an hour after he left the clubhouse with her.
