Rewriting History

“Shit,” he curses. His eyes drop. I go to move closer to him, but he stops me. “Stay there for a second. I may as well tell you what’s going on now.”

My stomach drops as I wait for him to speak. Why did I insist on playing this stupid game and asking that question?

“I should’ve just told you this the other day. I have no idea why I didn’t.” He shakes his head and my anxiety soars. “Dad isn’t doing so well. His heart is playing up. He had minor surgery, and the doctors thought that he would bounce back in no time, but . . .” He swallows, raising his head, his eyes meeting mine. “Last week after you and I were in the office . . .” He flushes. “. . . Galleu asked to speak to us both. Apparently Dad needs more surgery, and he’ll be off for the rest of the year.”

Sighing, his eyes meet mine, full of sadness and regret.

“That means I’m going to be teaching Senior History, not Junior.” He looks outside. “It’s only five months until you graduate, but after break is over . . . I can’t be your teacher and your boyfriend. Not until you finish.”

My eyes widen as sadness plunges through me, which is soon replaced with anger. I’m done with him making all the rules about us. I’m in this relationship as much as he is. He doesn’t get to decide everything. That’s not fair.

“No! That’s not happening. Why do you keep doing this to me?” Thoughts begin to whirl in my head. I’m stressed, and I can’t think straight.

Why can’t someone give us a fucking break?

I need to get away from him.

I can’t think when he’s this close to me. I get to my feet and run to the bathroom, closing the door behind me. I turn on the tap and splash water over my face, trying to stem my tears. I can’t stand the thought of not being with him, and I’m angry that he’s so quick to put us on hold.

How much different is it being my teacher for a few weeks as opposed to a few months?

He’s becoming my world. He’s not just a distraction or a crush. I can be myself around him. We can’t just be friends. We’ve already proven that it won’t fucking work, and I can’t believe he’s doing this…again.

I walk back into the room. Eli has put his clothes back on and he’s putting more wood in the fireplace.

“Eli, I can’t be away from you but I can’t sit in a classroom with you knowing I can’t be with you. I don’t think I can go through it again.” My voice breaks as the tears threaten to fall again.

“Shh. Let’s worry about this after break, okay?”

I nod, but only because I hope I can change his mind by then. I hope I can make him see sense. But I know his concern is as much for me as it is himself. He wants to protect me, and I get that.

It’s one of the things I love about him.

Chapter Fourteen

Jill

The warm feather blanket weighs my body into the bed as I wake up on Christmas morning—one of my favorite days of the year, apart from my birthday. The windows are covered in shards of ice as snow floats from the overcast sky. If there’s any day you want to wake up to snow, it’s Christmas Day. Reaching to turn off the alarm, I see that my phone is showing two messages.

Eli: Merry Xmas pretty lady. Can’t wait to see you this afternoon

Alice: Why is Santa Claus always so happy? Because he knows where all the naughty girls live. Hoe Hoe Hoe :p Bet you’ll be getting spoiled today. Merry Xmas Jillybean xxx

I laugh and crawl out of the warmness of my bed. She cracks me up, that girl. She certainly knows how to make this pretty lady smile. Eli’s text warms me. The fact that he’s already thinking about me so early in the day makes me giddy. Am I the first thing he thinks of when he wakes up?

I text them both back, reach for my robe, and make my way downstairs.

The house is warm and eerily silent apart from the Christmas music playing faintly through my phone. I’m sitting in the kitchen with a mug of hot coffee, the usual anticipation I feel on Christmas morning racing through my veins.

When I was little, one Christmas morning I woke Mom in the middle of the night by tickling her feet as she slept in bed. She screamed, and both she and Dad jumped out of bed naked, which was a terrifying sight for a six-year-old. All I wanted was my presents. I’d been sitting in the living room for hours, waiting for them to get up.

Mom worked last night so I decide to start prepping breakfast and let her sleep—as much as I’d love to jump on her to get the day started. And open my presents. I’m cooking the bacon and eggs when she walks into the kitchen, smiling even though she looks tired.

“Merry Christmas, baby,” she says, wrapping her arms around me.

“Thanks, Mom. Merry Christmas to you too. Have you heard from Dad?” I ask.

She nods. “He called late last night at work. He’ll speak to you later.” I nod and hand her a glass of juice. Holidays are especially hard when Dad can’t get home, but we do the best we can.