Page 19 of The Write Place

It feels like his eyes are tunneling holes into my very soul. “Someday, Mac, you’re going to realize exactly how much I enjoy staring at you all day.” I can feel the tips of my ears go pink as my eyes widen. “But not today. Today, the plan is to stare at you until you tell me what you thought of what you heard.”

My eyes flick toward the open doorway and back to him. “You can’t say stuff like that here, Daniel.” My voice is almost a whisper.

He does not change his volume at all, and for a minute, I feel like I imagined his words. “Stuff like what? Like me valuing your opinion about a meeting with a student?”

“No,” I hiss, still keeping my voice low. “Stuff like you telling me you like staring at me all day. That’s not on the table. We work together now.”

“One,” he ticks this off on his finger, “we are not actually working together. I’m watching you work. And two,” he ticks off another finger, “I am getting the distinct impression from you that it very much is on the table.”

I walk over to my door and close it fully, then turn back to him, my hand still on the door handle. “How are you possibly getting that impression?” I demand.

He starts ticking off items on his fingers again, and his self-assurance is really starting to piss me off. “Well, for starters, you kissed me. Then, you shared some really personal stuff with me despite the rule I suspect you made for yourself to not let me into your life more than necessary. You recommended a book that’s basically erotica. Then, you said you trusted me to give feedback to one of your students. And, if I’m not mistaken, you make a tiny little gasping noise every time I’m close enough to touch you.”

He is entirely too confident that he is correct, but I feel too unbalanced to respond immediately. Once I collect myself, I frown at him incredulously. “You may not work here, Daniel, but I do. You can’t say this stuff to me at my place of employment. I have a job to do.” I’m finding it’s an effort to be totally furious with him, though, because he’s not exactly wrong. But that doesn’t change the fact that I need to find a way to work while I know he’s thinking these things about me.

He leans back in his chair, his palms raised in surrender. “Okay, sure. Message received. I’m very sorry.” He doesn’t seem at all sorry, and I scoff at him and go back to my computer, but I can feel now my entire face is red, and I can’t really concentrate on what is in front of me. I try to take a few steadying breaths without being obvious.

After a minute or so of silence, he asks quietly and mischievously, “I can’t say it here, but can I say it elsewhere?”

“It’s not appropriate!” I exclaim, without hesitation. He raises an eyebrow and smirks.

“That’s not a no,” he observes.

I shake my head in disbelief, but I can’t help but laugh. “Honestly, stop,” I say, but it’s hard to be committed to it when I’m laughing. A corner of his mouth turns up and I shoot him a glare, even though I know it lacks conviction.

“I’m glad you told Isabel what you did.” I change the subject, and he lets me. “Her voice is important, and we should hear more of it in the literary world.”

His smile now is full of pride, and I’m not sure if he’s proud of himself or of her. Maybe both. “She’s got an excellent start. I hope she pursues it.”

“Me too,” I say. “Thanks for taking the time to talk to her.” He nods and tilts his head down to his notebook. He takes a breath as if to say something, then thinks better of it, then takes another breath again. “I assume you heard the stuff about my college experience?” His voice is almost inaudible, and he is staring at his desk as if he could burn a hole in it.

“I did,” I admit, waiting for him to go on. It takes him a moment, and he still doesn’t look at me.

“Does that…” he trails off, then starts again. “Do you think that matters?”

I have never believed everyone would benefit from a college education, and I’m not sure why Daniel would assume I would. He also doesn’t know that I already know about this because I have devoured every single one of his books and know the public version of his life story. Yet, for a second time, I’m noticing he really seems to care about my opinion.

“Why would it?” I ask gently. His head snaps up to me, a little nervousness showing in his gray-blue eyes. I tilt my head, infusing as much truth into my voice as possible. “You’re not any less intelligent or successful because you didn’t go to college.” His expression is grateful, and his shoulders square a little as if he’s regained some confidence. He silently turns back to his notebook.

I open my mouth to speak again, but the bell rings, the students file in, and the day begins. All day, I can’t shake the feeling that there is more to this man sitting in the back of my classroom, and I also can’t shake my curiosity.

Chapter 8

It’s pasta night, which is one of my favorite nights of the month. Jenny and I kept up the tradition from our high school cross country days, and even though now it’s just the two of us and it’s only once a month, Friday pasta and wine at my kitchen table is much more my scene than Friday at Tony’s.

Jenny shows up in sweatpants and a tank top, somehow looking as put-together as she did earlier today in her spirit shirt and a matching flowy skirt. I am wearing my classic oversized hoodie and hot pink short shorts, my red hair trying desperately to escape from my slanted messy bun. I already have the pasta cooking on the stove, and Jenny carries in a tray of her famous meatballs. She pops them in the oven to keep warm and grabs the glass of wine I’ve already poured for her from the kitchen counter, flopping down on my couch with a sigh. We are a well-oiled machine on pasta night, and I take a lot of comfort in the routine.

“Is Danny Boy coming tonight?” she teases. I cringe.

I cringe. “I don’t love that nickname.”

“I bet he won’t either, which is why I think I might mix it up from my traditional ‘Evans.’”

I shake my head in disbelief. “Why are you trying to irritate him?” I drain the pasta, put it back in the pot, and cover it to keep it warm. I grab my own glass of wine and join her on the couch.

“Well, it was because he lied to you, but now it’s more because I’m bored and it’s something to do. Plus, he’s hot and I can’t flirt with him so…” she trails off as if the ending of that sentence is obvious.

“Why can’t you flirt with him?”