Rewriting History

“Just a feeling.” She shrugs. “I’ve watched you in class and you’re very quiet—almost sad. Like you are missing someone?” Her blue eyes twinkle and I laugh.

“It’s hard not seeing him whenever I want to,” I say. I’m careful with my wording, because I don’t want to lie to her. “You must miss your family, being so far away.”

“God, no.” She rolls her eyes. “My parents smother me until I can barely breathe. Back in France, I can’t even go to the bathroom without them knowing first.”

I can’t imagine my parents being so strict—or trying to sneak around with Eli if they were. There aren’t too many occasions where I’m thankful Dad is away so much or that Mom’s been working so many double shifts.

Sophia makes eye contact with the cute waiter who clears our empty mugs. We stand up and she leans over and hugs me. I’m surprised, until I remember that’s probably normal where she’s from.

“I’m so glad we’re friends, Jill. And just when I was beginning to think all American teenagers were unfriendly.” She laughs and I snort. That wouldn’t be far from the truth. My mind wanders to Jamie. Perfect example.

“Not all of us are,” I grin. “I’m glad to have met you too.”

We walk outside and I wave her off, and then head home in the opposite direction. I’m daydreaming, lost in my own little world, when my phone rings. Smiling as his name flashes on my screen, I press answer.

“Hey. Sorry I hung up on you before. I was with a friend.”

“The same friend that thinks I’m cute?” he asks and I laugh. He heard that? I wonder what else he overhears. On second thought, I don’t want to know.

“There’s a line, Mr. Anderson, and you’re close to crossing it. Surely one teenager is enough for you?” I joke.

He groans. “Holy shit. I’m that guy.”

“That guy?” I repeat, laughing.

“I’m glad you find this so funny, but I’m a twenty-five-year-old dude who is excited his girlfriend is turning eighteen. I’m teasing you because your teenage friend think I’m cute.” He sighs dramatically. “I’m that guy.”

“You’re excited about my birthday?” I repeat.

“Not the point, but yeah. Aren’t you?” he asks, his voice husky.

I grin. He has no idea how much I’m looking forward to tomorrow.

“I honestly can’t wait.”

Chapter Eight

Eli

What the fuck have I gotten myself into?

When Jill reminded me that I’m ‘that guy,’ I kind of freaked out. Because it made me realize just how much I’m risking on this relationship. I’ve spent so much time and directed so much anger into making sure I don’t repeat what my father did, and what do I do? Go and sleep with a fucking student.

I’m sure if the secret ever got out and I was put up against a panel, I could argue that we knew each other before I was her teacher. In fact, I could prove it. But it still makes no difference as to how the education board would see it, or how Mom would see me become the person I said I’d never be.

There lies another problem: how I’m going to explain this to Mom, I have no idea. I can hide it for a while, but eventually, if it does go somewhere, people are going to find out. I can’t see Mom being supportive of Jill after what Dad put her through, let alone understanding my position.

Neither Mom nor Dad ever sat down with me and explained what happened all those years ago. The information I have on his affair I’d pieced together myself. I laugh, because it’s funny that despite my years of ignoring my father, neither of them thought it a good idea to tell me everything that happened.

I need answers. My feelings toward Dad, this whole thing with Jill—I’m not going to be able to move past it all until I know exactly what happened back then. Picking up the phone, I hesitate. Do I call Mom or Dad?

Mom would be easier to talk to, but I don’t wa

nt to bring up bad memories for her. Even though she’s moved on and put it all behind her, she’s in a good place now. On the other hand, I’m not sure I can deal with whatever Dad has to say without wanting to punch the shit out of him.

“Eli.” The fatigue evident through his voice takes me by surprise, and a wave of guilt hits me. Should we be having this conversation when he’s clearly not well?

“Dad, hi.” I hesitate, debating whether or not to continue. He’s not stupid, though; he knows something is wrong by the simple fact that I called him. We haven’t spoken outside of necessity for years.