Page 35 of The Write Place

“Okay. Not tonight,” and then his lips are on mine again, his hand moving instead to my waist. We continue kissing for what feels like not nearly enough time before he pulls away again, studying me, our breathing a little ragged.

“Mac.” My name on his lips sounds more like a prayer. “You’re unbelievable.”

I can feel the heat rising to my face, and I fight all of my instincts telling me to look away from him and deny it.

A cool breeze blows, and I shudder. It drags me painfully back to reality, and I can tell Daniel feels it, too. He traces his thumb lightly along my cheekbone, and he looks like he is going to truly regret the next thing he’s going to say.

“Okay.” He smiles softly. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah.” I still have barely enough breath to speak. “Tomorrow.”

He backs away, putting his hands in his pockets and stepping down off the porch. I watch him walk back to his car and get in before I open my front door and step inside, closing it behind me. I hear his car pull out of the driveway as I lean my head back against the door and take the first deep breath I’ve been able to take all night. Then I pull my phone out and text Jenny.

I think I’m in trouble.

Chapter 15

The next morning, I stop by the counselor’s office to see Mrs. Levy to ask how everything went with Haze. She tells me she was able to talk with them about healthy ways to grieve the end of a relationship and that they left feeling better. I make a mental note to keep an eye on Haze for a while, thank her, and leave.

When I get to my classroom to see the door propped open as usual, I take a deep breath and hold it for a second before letting it out through puffed cheeks. I steel myself and walk through the door to find Daniel, dressed well as always, furiously typing something on his phone. He looks up quickly when he sees me, as if he’s been caught doing something he’s not supposed to. I laugh uncomfortably.

“Hey.” I give an awkward wave as I walk toward my desk as casually as I can.

“Hey,” he responds, putting his phone face-down on his desk.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt.” I indicate his phone as I put my backpack on the ground next to my chair.

“What? Oh. No. I was just…” he trails off and rubs the back of his neck with his hand. I frown. Great, I think. Things just got awkward.

He sighs as if making up his mind. “I was texting a friend. About you.”

I stand still, caught off-guard. He was sitting here, texting a friend about me? About what happened last night? Should I be flattered? I’m pretty sure I should be flattered. I should say something about this or about last night, but what comes out of my mouth is: “You have friends?”

He laughs heartily, and I feel my cheeks heat. “Yes, I have friends,” he says between laughter. “Why would you ask that?”

I plop heavily in my chair, hiding my face behind my computer monitor. “You never talk about them.”

“Do you think I’m some loner, writerly type who never gets out or talks to anyone unless I have to?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Or maybe I’m secretly a vampire, and any humans I’ve befriended have either become vampires by my hand or have long since died?” He is now laughing at his own jokes. I raise an eyebrow, glaring at him over the monitor.

“Hilarious,” I say without an ounce of humor.

He shakes his head and opens his notebook, grabbing a pen off the desk. He clicks it a few times, as his laughter calms. “His name is Brandon. We’ve been best friends since we were kids. He and his wife have been checking up on me. A lot. I told him about you so he’d leave me alone, but it seems to have had the opposite effect.” He studies his notebook intensely for a few moments, then he says quietly, not looking at me, “He says he’d like to meet you someday.”

As I meet his eyes over my computer monitor, a smile slowly spreads across my face. He peeks up from his notebook and smiles back.

For the rest of the week, I spend a lot of time worrying about how and when things are going to get tricky or complicated between Daniel and me, but things keep going more or less how they always have. We follow the same routine we’ve fallen into over the past few weeks—he gets to school before me, leaves a cup of coffee on my desk, I teach, he writes, and we go home for the day. There’s no doubt the air between us is charged, but he seems to be keeping a respectful distance, letting me work.

On Friday, we are packing up our things, and I watch him without him noticing me. A lock of hair keeps falling out of place over his forehead as he is rummaging through his desk drawers, and he keeps pushing it back by running his hands through his hair. The third or fourth time it falls, I laugh quietly.

He looks up at me, confused. “What?”

“Seems like you might need to secure your hair a little better,” I tease, finding something on my desk to stack.

“Were you watching me?” he asks slowly, dropping his chin to look at me, his eyebrows raised. I decide to take the bait. I meet his gaze.