School Ties Read online

  I hesitate. If she’s that sick, should I wake her up? I should let her rest. But odds are she hasn’t done anything about being so ill, and this doesn’t seem like something you can sleep off. So I run the backs of my knuckles against her fevered cheek, hot to the touch, until her lids lift and her big brown eyes, glassy and reluctant, look back.

  Erin

  “Shep.”

  It comes out a whisper, so I clear my sore throat, making me choke.

  “Shh, lamb. Take it easy.”

  He’s stroking my face, pushing sticky strands of hair off my forehead. And he’s called me lamb. I don’t know where that came from, but it slides off his tongue like he’s said it ten thousand times before. It is such a comfort. A flush of warmth spreads through my body—not the fevered burning I’ve felt since last night, but a pleasant rush.

  I should sit up, send him away, express my protest at him waltzing in here when he’s done his damnedest to keep me at arm’s length since he’s been here, but his cool gentle touch convinces me otherwise. I want him to touch me this way forever. Besides, I’m not confident I could sit up without passing out. So fluttery blinking it is, like some Victorian-era lady whose unspecified illness keeps her abed.

  His voice is soft and his forehead pinched in concern. “Have you gotten out of bed today?”

  I shake my head, feeling like my skull might become detached from my body and roll off the pillow, settling under the bed. “No.”

  He frowns and I look at the clock. It’s two in the afternoon. “I’m going to get you some water. Do you have a thermometer?”

  “Bathroom.” Will was a bit of a hypochondriac, always certain he had whatever bug was making its way around the boys, so we’d had three all told. He left me the old-school glass-and-mercury one when he’d moved out.

  Shep brushes a hand over my forehead one more time. Though he’ll be gone a few minutes at most, I want to cry. Come back, please. I fall half asleep while he’s gone. He has to rouse me again, calling me out of my sickness with his low voice and his weight making the side of my bed dip. Shep is technically in my bed. The thought makes my heart stutter, and not in the fevered palpitations that had scared me half to death in the middle of the night.

  “Open up, lamb. Let’s take your temperature and then you can have some water.”

  I open my mouth, suddenly conscious I probably have worse than morning breath, but before I can fret too much, he’s sliding the glass and metal under my tongue. When it’s as far back as it will go, I close my mouth and my eyes, shivering when his hand rests cool on the hot skin of my neck. He leaves it there until the temperatures even out and then it’s a warm, heavy, comforting weight.

  “Time’s up,” he says, stroking me. Then he takes the thermometer from between my lips. I crack my lids to see him squint at the tiny numbers in the glow of the lamp he’s turned on. The crease between his brows deepens. “I’ll be right back.”

  Shep

  A hundred and three? That can’t be good. Normal’s ninety-eight point six, right? A hundred and three?

  I don’t want to scare her, though, so I pet her a few more times before I get up and walk out, the whole time a panicky voice in the back of my head scrambling all over itself, freaking the fuck out. A hundred and fucking three? In the living room, I pace and fumble my phone. I have to scroll through my contacts three times before I find the number I’m looking for. After a ring, she answers and I cut her off, not giving her a chance for hellos.

  “Mrs. Wilson? I mean, Tilly?”

  “Yes, Shep—”

  “I’m with Erin. She’s got a fever of a hundred and three. Do I need to take her to the ER?”

  There’s a pause on the other end. What’s taking so long? This should be simple: yes or no. Mrs. Wilson was the school nurse for twenty years. She’s dealt with more fevers, real and fabricated, than you could shake a rank jockstrap at.

  “Probably not,” she says cautiously, “but I can come take a look at her.”

  “Would you? I don’t want to—”

  “Of course. Erin’s like a granddaughter to me. And if Kent knew she was sick and I didn’t check on her, I’d have a very unhappy ghost on my hands. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  “Thanks, Mrs.— Tilly, I appreciate it.”

  That’s a weight off my shoulders. But Mrs. Wilson’s said “probably.” What if she’s—

  No, can’t think that way. I shove the phone in my pocket and head back to Erin’s room, where she’s lying with her eyes closed.

  I sit on the side of her bed and stroke her cheek until she opens her eyes.

  “Your Aunt Tilly’s going to come over. In the meantime, you should have some water. Can you roll over?”

  She struggles onto her side with my help. I was glad but surprised to find a bendy straw in her kitchen, but the place is like a kindergartner’s dream house: a drawer full of straws, another of cookie cutters, and a shelf full of glasses with colorful cheery animals. I brought her an orange owl. I thought it looked the happiest.

  She sips listlessly and I urge her to have more, prodding her until the whole glass is gone. Her skin tone’s evened out, some of the red in her cheeks leaking into the cream of the rest of her face. It makes things seem less dire. I get her another glass and when she’s made it halfway through, there’s a knock at the door. I excuse myself to find a rosy-cheeked Mrs. Wilson on the threshold.

  Shedding her snow-caked boots and coat, she bustles her way past me to Erin’s bedroom, leaving me to trail behind her like some useless puppy dog.

  She starts fussing over Erin and I stand helplessly by the door until Mrs. Wilson verbally shoos me out. “Could you give us a few minutes, Mr. Shepherd?”

  It’s been a while since anyone on staff called me Mr. Shepherd. They’re good about not treating me like a student, but it still kicks me back into a guilty feeling, like maybe I’m not supposed to be here. I wander out to the living room and take a seat, bouncing my heel off the threadbare carpet.

  I try calling Caleb to take my mind off Erin while Mrs. Wilson is taking care of her, but no one picks up. Later. I’ll try again later. I’ve been calling three times a week since Caleb told me he wasn’t going to pass two of his classes, and it’s paid off. For his semester report card, Caleb had managed to pull Cs in math and science, and gotten his English and social studies up to Bs.

  It was such a relief for so little effort on my part. Call the kid a few times a week, give him some accountability from someone whose opinion he gives a crap about, add a shit ton of work on his end and there you have it: passing grades. It’s not like it was a chore for me. Caleb’s a goofy kid. He makes me laugh in a way most other people can’t.

  In a few minutes that feel like forever, Mrs. Wilson comes out. I search her face for worry but don’t find any.

  “You’re right about the fever, but she doesn’t have any other symptoms that worry me. It’s probably a virus, and the only way to get rid of that is to rest. I gave her some aspirin and had her drink some more water. She just needs to sleep it off.”

  I’ve been nodding this whole time as if my acknowledgment will make anything better. But Erin’s going to be okay and the vise around my ribs loosens.

  “What can I do?”

  “You don’t need to do anything. You can go home.”

  Leave her? I don’t think so. I’ve already left her too many times when she needed me. I’m not going to fuck this one up, too.

  “That’s not happening, so what can I do?”

  The side of Mrs. Wilson’s mouth quirks up along with her eyebrows, giving the impression that the other side of her mouth has had its puppet string snipped. Her expression is impish, reminding me of Mordecai of all people. That is the only thing Mordecai and the Headmaster’s wife will ever have in common.

  “If that’s the case, try to keep her comfortable. M
ostly you can let her sleep, but when she wakes up, she can have more aspirin and more water. Regulate her temperature as best you can; put a blanket on her if she gets chilled or get a cool cloth if she’s too warm. You can ask if she wants something to eat, but don’t be surprised if she says no. That’s it.”

  “Okay.”

  I thank Mrs. Wilson and she gives me a funny look on her way out the door, as if she knows this isn’t just one colleague looking after another. She’s not wrong. I go back to Erin’s room, pluck a book from her shelf and dump myself in the chair by her bed until she needs me again.

  • • •

  Twenty-four hours, half a dozen animal glasses complete with colored bendy straws, and a small mountain of wet washcloths later, Erin wakes with a small, sleepy “Mmm.”

  I get up from the chair that will have my ass permanently imprinted in the seat and drop onto the side of her bed. Even in the dim light she looks better, and her skin isn’t hot but warm to the touch. Before I can stop myself, the smile breaks across my face and the words are out of my mouth. “There’s my pretty baby.”

  She dips her head and her eyes go wide and shy, not meeting my gaze. We both blush.

  I clear my throat and drop my hand from her face. I don’t think I’m imagining the frown tugging at her mouth when I’m not touching her anymore.

  “Are you feeling better?”

  “Yes, much, thank you.”

  We stare at each other until her frown deepens and she looks away again. “Thanks for taking care of me, but you can go.”

  Her words wedge themselves under my rib cage and poke at my heart. She doesn’t want me here?

  “Hey, Erin. Look at me.”

  Her eyes roll reluctantly to mine. In them I see all the times I’ve hurt her, every time I’ve let her down. She doesn’t trust me, and I don’t blame her. I don’t blame her, but I want that to not be true anymore. I want to be the man she thought I was, the man she offered herself to. Not the one who turned her away.

  I do something I haven’t done for a long time. I get down on my knees and take her hand in mine, press my forehead into her knuckles.

  “I’m sorry. I was trying to protect you and instead I hurt you. I’m not the guy you knew four years ago and I didn’t think you’d want who I am now. But that’s not for me to decide. I want you as much as I ever did. More. So if you want to get to know me, I’m going to stop being so fucking stupid and let you. Then you can decide.”

  Erin

  Shep is honest-to-god on his knees, holding his forehead to my hand. I feel better, but still woozy. The thrill of the opportunity being offered to me—to get to know Shep, peel back those onion layers and uncover what’s inside the man himself—it makes the bluebird of happiness that’s been nesting in my chest since I opened my eyes to his face explode into a burst of ecstatic feathers. That’s all I ever wanted—a chance.

  So I squeeze his hand and lay the other on top of his head, a strange benediction that ends when he lifts his gaze to meet mine. My fingers slip through his dark hair, landing limp on the bed.

  “I’d like that.”

  He smiles. Though it had made me feel oddly childlike, I hope against hope he’ll call me his pretty baby again. Instead he says, “Me, too, lamb,” and that’s just as good. He stays with me overnight again, always there when I wake with whatever I need: a glass of water, a cool washcloth for my pulse points, a strong arm around my waist to help me down the hall to my bathroom, and bowls of broth when I can stomach them.

  I haven’t felt this cared for . . . ever. When Tilly comes to check on me the day after, she has a sly look on her face.

  “Say it, Aunt Tilly.”

  I’m sitting up, propped against some pillows, and she’s got a couple of fingers at my wrist to take my pulse. It’s slower and steadier since the last time I saw her.

  “Hmm?” Her dark brown eyes flicker up to mine and she looks at me, innocence personified. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You’ve got something to say, so out with it.”

  She sighs as if I’ve asked her to reveal top-secret information, but then she smiles, taking her fingertips from my wrist. “Pulse is much better. You’re much better.”

  I narrow my eyes. “Seriously.”

  “I remember how he used to look at you, Erin. And of course there was nothing to do about it when he was a student. I know nothing happened between the two of you when he was. But he’s not a student anymore. For the past four months, I’ve watched you two fumble around this nonsense like two incredibly incompetent jugglers. So maybe it’s time to give it a try.”

  “You— You think this is okay? I want to be with him, so much. But I’m worried what everyone’s going to say. I mean, he was my student, and after Will—”

  She lays a hand on my shoulder and it silences me. I hadn’t honestly thought all that much about the repercussions of being with Shep because the obstacles had seemed so insurmountable. But now it seems like it might be happening.

  “Did you know that when Uncle Rett and I got married, it would’ve been illegal in sixteen states? I’m not so impressed when it comes to what other people have to say about love.”

  I’d forgotten about that. It seems so ridiculous that anyone could not want them to be together just because they don’t have the same color skin. They’re so perfect for each other, their love practically drips off them. They’re so sweet it’s almost sickening. Almost. Aunt Tilly gives my shoulder another squeeze and smiles.

  “It’s not going to be easy. There’s going to be talk. It could get ugly. I’m not saying that to scare you off, but I want you to know what you’re heading into. You’ve got the softest heart, Erin. It’s been bruised enough for one lifetime. I hate to see it get hurt any more, but I think you’re meant to be together and the sooner you all give up and give in, the better off you’ll be.

  “Zach Shepherd is crazy about you. He made me promise to wait here until he got back so you wouldn’t be alone. So don’t mess this up, all right? I believe the universe is a benevolent place, but even she only gives so many chances.”

  Oh my. What am I supposed to say to that? I have no faint clue so I let her fuss over me until I hear the door to my apartment open and shut. That’ll be Shep. As if to answer my unspoken question, his broad shoulders fill my doorway and we smile at each other.

  Shy, knowing smiles.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Shep

  The next day, Erin looks a million times better. She’s gotten out of bed, washed her hair. I even heard her humming in the shower. She’s gotten dressed, too, in those stretchy pants that fold over at the waist and the sweatshirt that will never not make me remember her dancing.

  She made us oatmeal this morning and we sat across the table from each other, having some ridiculous stilted conversation about our classes and department gossip. Word has it Dan might be leaving in the spring, which would open up the department Chair. I told her she should try for it. She’d shaken her head and waved her hands. “I can’t. I have a hard enough time managing the boys, never mind you people.”

  But now the dishes are washed and put away and we’re standing in her kitchen, not knowing what do to with ourselves. We’re supposed to talk. I want to talk to her, but I don’t know where to start. Besides, she looks tired.

  “Do you want to go back to sleep? I know you’re feeling better but you should take it easy.”

  She presses her lips between her teeth and looks at me through her lashes. “I thought . . . I thought we could talk first. You said you’d let me know you. I want to know you.”

  “I did say that, didn’t I?” Anxiety flits in my stomach. What if after I’ve told her, she never wants to talk to me again? But, what if she does? It’s a risk I’ve promised her I’d take. I steer her to the couch and sit on one side. I expect her to take the other, but she sits close, tucking up her f
eet and tugging down a blanket from the back of the couch to wrap herself in. It’s like story time, but this is no fairy tale. But because I think it will make her laugh, I begin, “A long time ago . . .”

  I’m right. Her eyes light up and she giggles. “How long ago?”

  “About four years ago. In a land far, far away . . .”

  “Called Evanston?”

  I grin but narrow my eyes. “Hush, you, or you won’t get your story.”

  She covers her mouth with both hands before she lowers them into her lap. “I promise I’ll be good. No more interrupting.”

  Is it wrong I get a little hard from hearing her promise to be good? This is going to be rougher than I thought.

  I tell her about the night I met Mordecai. Erin’s a fantastic audience for a story. Her eyes go wide and her hands clutch the blanket during the anxious parts. She claps, a tiny thrilled motion, before she laces her fingers together to keep from interrupting as she’s promised when I tell her how I stepped in. I try not to make a big deal out of it—it wasn’t courageous or anything—but her eyes glow with something like hero worship and damn if it doesn’t make me feel good. Really fucking good.

  “So, that’s how I met Mordecai. And started working at his club.”

  “What kind of club? Another strip club?” Her eyes have gone round and curious, and I take a hard swallow. If only. She hadn’t blinked when I said we went to the strip club. She’s worked with adolescent boys long enough not to be shocked by that.

  “No. It was a fetish club. A BDSM club. Does that mean anything to you?” I talk slowly, not knowing how she might react. Erin’s this mass of contradictions; so smart and so in control in the classroom but sometimes so innocent and naïve. Which end of the spectrum is kink going to fall under?

  She flushes bright red. “Yes, I know what that is.”

  I can’t tell if she’s embarrassed or horrified or uncomfortable or what. She’s usually so easy to read. But her fingers twisting in her lap could mean any number of things. “We don’t have to talk about this—”