Page 7 of Embracing the Beat
“Worked construction every summer through college. It might surprise you what I can do with my hands.” The innuendo hangs between us. What the hell is wrong with me?
“Oh.”
“Well, I’m gonna get back to sleep. First day of school tomorrow—today,” I correct. “So, if I don’t see you in the morning, I’ll see you after school.”
I reach up, passing the strap of the bag back to her. An electrical current zips from her hand to mine at the accidental brush of our fingers. I’m too aware of the way her lips part and the light breath that escapes between us.
“Good night, Mikey.” I use her childhood nickname to remind myself of who she is. What she is.
Off limits.
“’Night, West,” she says quietly.
I shuffle to my bedroom at the other end of the hall and glance back to find her leaning against her door, watching me. I give her a little wave, and she jumps, disappearing into her room.
Her bedroom door shuts a fraction of a second after mine does, and I release the breath I was holding.
Sleep. I need sleep.
??????
“Good morning, everyone. How about we all grab a seat and get started?” The chorus of groans at my announcement is followed by the shuffle of bodies and bags as twenty-five teenagers move at a snail’s pace.
The first bell of the day has rung, and summer is officially over. I should be happy to be here. It’s a new school, a clean slate. But exhaustion still tugs at my muscles with stiff fingers, and a fuzzy haze hovers around the edges of my brain despite the three cups of coffee I mainlined before rushing out of the house.
My plan as I first drifted off to sleep had been to get to school early. But that plan had not included a middle-of-the-night wake-up call by a sexy blonde.
We talked about this.
Not sexy. Mike is like a little sister to me.
Get it through your head. No, not that head.
I would fit right in with one of the hormone-driven teenagers staring at me sleepily.
Pull it together, dude. You have a job to do.
I’d stumbled into the kitchen after the sun came up. Once more, she was in front of the coffeepot, the edges of a t-shirt grazing her thighs. I’m ashamed—okay, not really—that my gaze had lingered a little longer on the tan, toned legs under the t-shirt that was shorter than was good for my sanity.
Job. Kids. Teach. Say something.
“Good morning,” I repeat. “For those of you who don’t know me—and since I’m new to the school, that would be all of you—” I laugh at my own joke, and the kids groan. “My name is Mr. Abbott. Welcome to American History.”
The routine takes over and thoughts of Mikey fade to the back of my mind, though they don’t leave my brain completely. She haunts me in second period World History with a group of gangly freshmen who remind me of the Mikey I used to know. During my third hour planning period, the noticeable absence of Axe body spray allows my thoughts to easily drift to her.
Finally, lunch lets me interact with other adults. My department head introduces me to the other teacher in the history department.
“Welcome to Ridgeview,” my coworker Mary says with a warm smile. She teaches World History and the honors program classes while Phil takes on AP classes and Pennsylvania Past, Present, and Future.
“Thank you. Have you been here long?”
“Fifteen years,” she shares. “But Phil’s been here for twenty-five.”
I turn to my department head. “Twenty-five?”
He nods. “As of today.”
“Congratulations.”
