The Player Next Door

“How about a game of Jenga?” I holler, a pathetic, last-ditch effort to get Shane to come back, stop being so damn chivalrous, and fuck me. My, how our roles have reversed.

His laughter carries through the quiet night as I watch him disappear inside his house.

Twenty-Two

“So?” Becca pokes her head into my classroom minutes before the first bell rings, as I’m quickly scribbling the day’s agenda and reminders on the whiteboard. “How are things going with Shane?” She sounds giddy.

“Fine.”

“Just fine?”

I attempt a coy smile but it quickly morphs into a goofy grin, her excitement contagious. “It’s really good.” Shane’s work schedule, his time with Cody, and helping to coach the Panthers football team means we’ve only managed to see each other a handful of times since the night of the drive-in two weeks ago.

But every time has left me falling harder for the guy who once hurt me so badly.

She steps into my classroom and pushes my door closed. “Have you two”—she waggles her eyebrows—“you know, yet?”

I laugh at her subtlety. It’s a far cry from the daily “Fucked yet?” texts from Justine that I wake up to. “We’re taking things slow.” We’ve gone out for dinner and drinks at Route Sixty-Six, lingering beneath heaters on the patio until closing. We went for a jog one morning, but I’m too out of shape to keep pace with him and I hate that he has to slow his tempo for me. We replaced my fire extinguisher and purchased new electrical outlet covers; I’ve never enjoyed a trip to the hardware store like I do when he’s there.

But Shane wasn’t kidding about his firm resolve to take things physically slowly. I steal every opportunity to touch him—a leg brush beneath the table, a finger-skate across the arm, a warm palm against his chest—and he seems to welcome it. But he kisses me good night on my porch and doesn’t come inside. It’s like he knows that stepping across the threshold is an instant guarantee that his clothes will come off in under five minutes. He wouldn’t be wrong, if I have any choice in the matter.

That’s not to say we haven’t lost control. Last weekend, when he climbed down the ladder after checking my gutters for refuse, I cornered him beside my garden shed to thank him with a lip-lock that I hope our neighbors didn’t witness. And two nights ago, when he parked his truck in his driveway after we returned home from dinner, a single kiss escalated into me straddling his lap and grinding against him until we couldn’t hold out any longer. We both came within seconds of our hands getting involved.

I can’t remember the last time I dated a guy who held out sex, let alone this firmly. That it’s Shane Beckett of all guys—notorious for hookups and flings back in the day—is almost laughable. Is this how frustrated he was when we were seventeen and I staunchly held him at bay? Is this payback?

I wonder about that sometimes, late at night, while I’m thinking about him and touching myself.

A knuckle raps on the door, a moment before it creaks open and Wendy pokes her head in. She’s in her usual ensemble—black knee-length skirt, collared blouse—today’s is a powder pink. “Knock, knock—oh, Becca! I’m sorry to interrupt. I didn’t see you standing over here.”

“That’s okay. I should get back to my class. The bell is about to ring, anyway.” As if on cue, the loud buzz ricochets through the building. Soon, the kids corralled outside will be entering. Becca winks at me. “Talk to you later.”

“Enjoy your morning.”

Wendy smiles at me, but it’s not her usual wide beam. She hesitates, checking the doorway. “Listen, Scarlet, would you mind stopping by my office during first recess?”

Disquiet trickles down my spine. Her tone is telling me this isn’t a friendly “how has your first month been” check-in. I’m getting called into the principal’s office because there’s something wrong. “Sure.” I can’t hide the wariness from my voice. “Can you tell me what this is about? Is there an issue with a student? Or a parent?”

“Just a little chat.” Again, that tight, uneasy smile. “See you then.”

On instinct, I poke my head out to watch Wendy stride toward the office, her worn heels clicking. Is this about Shane? Has she somehow heard about my relationship with him? Truthfully, I’ve been toying with the idea of telling her for the past few days. She’s my boss and she pulled strings to get me this job. But it’s still far too early. We’ve only been on a few dates. We’re not sleeping together.

My attention is drawn to the opposite entrance where kids plow through the door in what is supposed to be an orderly fashion but always makes me imagine a herd of squealing piglets, only with backpacks and attitude.