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“I bet you didn’t spend your Friday nights going to the library and working on your schoolwork when you were my age,” Ben says, eyebrows raised and a smile playing on his lips.
“You’d lose that bet,” I retort, my own lips curving into a smile. “I stayed on top of my schoolwork and studied. It takes hard work to get where you want to be in life. An education and good grades are your ticket out, Ben. It’s the key to open the doors of opportunity.”
He presses his lips together, his narrowed eyes studying me as if looking for some type of telling sign that I’m full of crap. He isn’t going to find one. My answer was honest. I worked hard to get away from the life I’d been handed. I took school seriously. Of course, I’m not about to share with him how I spent my free time.
“Well, I guess I don’t need to feel bad about you having to bring me here then. Nerds love these kinds of places, right?”
With a tilt of my head, I raise an eyebrow at him. Ben chuckles, unfazed by my stern glare. He has no idea how wrong his statement is. On a normal day, you wouldn’t catch me in the damn public library. I enjoy a good book, but public libraries make me anxious. It could have something to do with all the time I spent in one as a kid, trying to find a warm, safe place to hide away. The public library in Smyth might be nicer than the one in the town I grew up in, but they’re all the same.
This is the last place I want to be, but Ben needed a ride. His useless parents refused to bring him, and he doesn’t have anyone else. I can’t turn my back when a student needs me. They already have too many unreliable people in their lives.
Ben reminds me so much of myself at his age—alone, bitter, afraid. Most of his classmates and teachers perceive him as a troublemaker with a chip on his shoulder. That’s how he landed in my office last year. But he’s a good kid. Students like Ben are often misunderstood.
They’re afraid more than anything. Of their abusive parents and the uncertainty each day brings. A lot of them are worried about things like if someone will notice they’re wearing the same dirty clothes from the day before. That fear, though, is why they act out. Why they’re angry and keep others at a distance.
“If I didn’t want to be here, I wouldn’t be,” I reply, looking him in the eye so he knows I mean what I’m saying. “I don’t want you to think twice about asking for my help. Got it?”
Ben averts his eyes and gives me a curt nod, taking a step forward as the long line moves. The silence that falls between us allows my mind to wander back to the woman who had stolen my attention a few moments ago.
I might not have noticed her at all if it hadn’t been for her son. He was acting out. Yelling, jumping, and pulling at his mother. His wild behavior was clearly a cry for attention. Good or bad.
Unlike everyone else in the room, my disdain wasn’t toward the young boy making the commotion. It was reserved for the parent causing his destructive behavior. My opinion about her was settled, and I expected to find the type of person who treats their child as a second thought.
But the picture in my mind was much different than the reality. The boy’s mother hadn’t seemed angry or annoyed as I suspected. Instead, she wore a look of loving concern, her voice and eyes soft as she spoke to him.
The intense sadness in her eyes drew me in, and I found myself unable to look away. Her disapproval of me was evident—eyes narrowed, mouth turned into a frown. It seems I wasn’t the only one making inaccurate assumptions.
The more I watched her, the more flustered she seemed to become. Her shaky hands continuously fidgeted with the ring on her left hand, making the fact that I was checking her out even more inappropriate. I tried to keep from looking when she bent over to pick up the books her son knocked out of her hands, but there was something oddly alluring about her. Right down to the way she kept blushing with embarrassment.
When we finally get to the counter, I glance over to the doors again, as if hoping to find her there. I shake the thought from my head. The fact that my interest was piqued by her to this degree is absurd.
“Did you know that woman or something?” Ben asks, observing me with curiosity as we make our way out of the library.
“What woman?” I draw my brows together, pretending to have no clue what he’s talking about.
He laughs and shakes his head, clearly not buying my act. “The one you were staring at a minute ago. Ya know, the one who put that dorky ass smile on your face. The same one who—”
“I got it,” I clip. “And watch your language. There are kids around.” I gesture to the young boy a few feet ahead of us. Ben looks at the boy, then back at me, smiling apologetically as he shrugs. “No, we don’t know each other. She seemed a little flustered, and I smiled to be polite.”
He studies me the way he had earlier, his mouth twisted to the side. “It sure looked like you were checking her out, Mr. B.” Chuckling again, he rubs his hands together. “You don’t seem like the type of guy who’d be interested in MILFs, though.”
“Dude,” I scold, unsuccessfully keeping my own laughter at bay.
He isn’t wrong. She was nothing like the women I usually date. If you could even call what I do dating. I like to have fun, in and out of the bedroom, but I have no desire for anything outside of that. A long-term commitment is not in my future. Getting involved with women who have children is not an option. And I sure as hell don’t get mixed up with married women.
