“It’s not Friday,” Boen mutters, adjusting his bag so that it’s between him and Rusty, who sits at my feet and waits eagerly for Boen to acknowledge him.
“It’s Monday. Are you part of the population that doesn’t like Mondays?”
“I have no issues with any of the days of the week.” Boen looks me square in the eye and something weird happens to my breath. Like, one moment I have plenty of air pumping through my lungs, and then, all of a sudden, it’s gone.
Why haven’t I noticed how good looking he is? That fine head of hair and eyes that look like a Macintosh toffee and the most perfect nose I’ve ever seen.
It’s good to focus on the nose because then I won’t stare at his mouth. His bottom lip is full and juts out, just asking to be nibbled.
Why am I noticing this?
I rear back and blink; once, twice, and try really hard not to think about nibbling. “Well, you seem sort of uptight.”
He bunches a fist on his hip. “I’ve spoken to you three times since I moved in, and in every conversation, you’ve said that I’m tense, need to relax, or that I’m uptight. I’m none of these things, and I would appreciate if you would stop commenting on it.”
Oh. Wow. He’s even better looking when he’s fired up. I bite my own lip to stop the smile. “Huh. Pressed the wrong button, didn’t I?”
“I have no buttons, nor do I want you to press them.”
“Too bad, because I’mverygood at pressing buttons. Have a good day,Boen.” I push out his name with emphasis and walk away, adding an extra swing to my step in case he’s watching.
And then I want to turn around and watch him watch me.
Boen
Even with the dog permanently attached to her, I find myself watching for Rachel.
I linger by the door as I lock up in the mornings, in case she’s coming back from another walk. I adjust my desk in the living room to give me a better view in case Rachel comes home when I’m there. I even check the backyard one night when I get up to pee in the night in case she’s having another ritualistic fire.
As the days go by without another run-in, my class seems more preoccupied with the idea of love than I’m distracted by thoughts of Rachel.
They think I should be the guinea pig.
“When’s the next date, Mr. C?” Bryce calls Wednesday morning.
“No plans,” I tell him without looking up. I had stopped the lecture on oxidation and reduction to give them time to work on their lab assignment, which most of the class is doing.
“You strike out once, you gotta get right back into the batting box,” he insists.
“I don’t play baseball.” My attention is on the pile of tests from my grade eleven class. Have I not taught them anything? Marks range from the mid-fifties to seventy-five, and not one reached the eighties. Was the test too difficult? Did I miss a component in the curriculum, or not spend enough time on it?
“It’s not about baseball. It’s a—what’s that called?” Bryce asks Amal.
“An analogy,” she supplies.
“It’s an analogy,” Bryce repeats. “You can’t give up.”
“What happened on the date?” Kaylie asks, pushing aside her lab to focus on me. “Anything exciting?” The way her voice drawls along the word suggests exactly what excitement she’s referring to.
“I’d like to remind you that you should be learning the details of the oxidation process, not your teacher’s sex life.”
That was not the smart thing to say.
“Sex?” Steven gasps. “Are we talking about sex?”
“No, we’re—”
“We! There’s a we!” Bryce gurgles.
