Teacher's Pet

I loved being the one who got to give him that. It was sort of dumb to think he would never have in his life if it wasn't for me. This was one vacation out of his whole life, but so much had changed for him already. It felt like this was him starting over, and I was getting to be with him as he did.

We were out on the beach, on board the excursion catamaran that was going to take us on a day-long ride around the bay, stopping at various snorkel sites where we could explore the reefs.

Some of the other guests were on the trip in the boat, and Nate was relaxed the whole time, talking to them, laughing, and making conversation. This was a new man. Sitting next to him, feeling him hold my hand when I slid it into his, I felt like I was getting the guy he was when he was relaxed, happy, and sober.

I loved the change I had seen in him, not because it made me happy per se, but because he laughed so much easier and felt so much freer — like he was getting what he had come to Lanai to get.

The water was pretty warm since it was summer. I had worried a little that maybe he would be the type that didn't like open water or didn't like swimming, but he wasn't. The only thing I regretted about choosing snorkeling was that we couldn't talk at the same time as being under water.

It was beautiful, of course, as I had predicted. He stayed close to me the entire time, asking how I liked it and making sure I was having a good time, like I wasn't the one who had brought him out today. It felt like a date. We had been out on them before, but both times had been a little more private. The dinner we had in the city was just us, he had rented out an entire restaurant, and the time at my house we were with Keno and Makani, two of my closest friends.

It felt like we were going public, sort of. It was dumb. I had never done this with anyone before. I didn't know if I was supposed to be feeling this giddy and happy with him, but I was, and I didn't want it to stop. He would hold my hand or put his arm around me, kiss me. I hoped that meant it wasn't just me who was feeling like this. I didn't want to jump to any conclusions, but I didn't have a lot of other options to call this besides love.

It was only around four in the afternoon when we sailed back to the dock. We had spent the day together, and I still didn't want it to end. He had held my hand helping me off the catamaran and still hadn't let go. We walked slowly on the beach, fingers laced together.

"Did you want to do anything this evening?" I asked him.

"There's more?"

"There's your suite or my house," I suggested, inviting him over.

"Your place is closer. Did I leave anything behind the last time I was over?" he asked.

I smiled to myself. The only reason why he would ask something like that was if he was planning on staying the night. We walked the short stretch to my house and took turns under the shower. He was standing with a towel wrapped around his waist at my small bookshelf, looking at something when I came out of the shower.

"Abby?" he said. I was grabbing some clothes out of my closet.

"Hmm?"

"What the hell?" he said. I turned and saw him holding a CD. His CD. Well, his band's CD. Their first independent record. He didn't really sound mad, just surprised. "You didn't tell me you were a fan."

"You didn't need to hear that from me. I'm sure people always tell you they listen to your stuff," I said, pulling a tank top and shorts on.

"I would have actually wanted to know. Why didn't you tell me?" he asked. I walked over to him with a pair of his underwear that had gotten left here during one of his visits.

"Would that have changed the way that you spoke to me?"

"Probably," he said honestly.

"That was why. I didn't want you to care that I was a fan. You were on vacation. You didn't need to have to watch your back and be paranoid about what I wanted whenever I would speak to you or if I would try to steal your stuff and sell it on eBay."

"What's your favorite track?" he asked. I smirked looking up at him.

"They were all a little blah. Not really my thing," I said, dismissively. He laughed, sensing that I was making fun of him.

"As long as you like this record more than the second one, you're good," he said, sitting on my bed. I joined him.

"What's wrong with the second one?"

"Did you listen to it?" he asked. I nodded.

"Didn't it sound a little off to you?"

"It sounded different," I supplied.

"That was because it was our first with a major label. What they don't tell you when you work with them is that they care more about the money than the records they're making. They make music that they can sell. They produced the hell out of our sound. They rewrote lyrics, chopped up tracks, and changed the music. They did a hack job on my songs."

"That's why you left?"