Page 12 of Sexting the Single Pakhan

“No, thank you.” His tone is firm for a six-year-old. “I’ll do it on my own.”

I nod slowly. “Okay. You know where to find me if you change your mind.”

I stand, brushing my hands on my skirt, and walk back to my desk. The phone is still face-down. I hesitate, then flip it over.

No new messages.

I stare at the blank screen for a long moment, then open our chat thread. My thumb hovers over the delete option.

These past few days I’ve let my desires take over. I let myself get swept up in the heat, the thrill, the way he makes me feel wanted in a way I’ve never felt before. But I’m a teacher. He’s a parent. There are rules for a reason. If this ever got out… I could lose everything I’ve worked so hard for.

I press delete. The entire conversation disappears. I let out a shaky exhale. From now on, it’s strictly professional. I set the phone down and look back at Alexei, still alone, trying to solve the puzzle. I’m going to help him, the way I’m supposed to.

I make it through the rest of the school day on caffeine, keeping my mind busy with lesson plans, attendance sheets, reading groups, math centers, wiping noses, tying shoelaces, praising finger paintings, but with all of these I can’t seem to keep Leonid out of my head.

Every time his face flashes behind my eyes I grit my teeth and refocus on the child in front of me. By dismissal, I’m exhausted from the mental tug-of-war, but I’ve managed to keep my phone face-down in my desk drawer.

It’s Friday, so that means freedom. I leave school with a small, tired smile, already dreaming of sleeping in tomorrow, no alarm. The drive home is mercifully uneventful. By the time I unlock my apartment door, the tension in my shoulders has loosened just a fraction.

I kick off my shoes, drop my bag, and head straight for the kitchen to make dinner. I decide on pasta. Part of the new year’s resolution I made in a fit of post-holiday optimism was: cook more, order takeout less, actually nourish myself instead of living on granola bars and coffee.

Big mistake.

The sauce is too salty, the noodles overcooked, and the garlic is somehow both burnt and underdone at the same time. If my ancestors could taste this, they’d revoke my Italian citizenship on the spot.

I take one bite, wince, take another out of sheer stubbornness, then push the bowl away. It’s a good thing I’m eating alone. No witnesses to this crime against pasta.

I stare at the TV, some old episode of The Real Housewives of New Jersey playing on low volume. Why didn’t I just order takeout? I could be eating pad thai right now instead of this salt bomb that’s probably going to spike my blood pressure into the stratosphere.

I can’t cook to save my life. Growing up, Mom never taught me how to cook. We never had that mother and daughter bonding time. There was no bonding time at all. We were too busy trying to stay small, stay quiet, stay out of my stepfather’s way. The less we were noticed, the less chance we had of getting hit.

I sigh, get up and scrape the rest of the pasta into the trash, then open the fridge. Options are slim. A half-eaten pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream stares back at me, along with a package of double-chocolate cookies.

I grab both, a spoon, and flop back onto the couch, scooping a spoonful of ice cream into my mouth. Screw healthy. I’ll get back on my resolutions tomorrow.

I’m halfway through the pint when my phone buzzes on the coffee table. My heart does a stupid, traitorous flip when I see the name displayed on the screen. Leonid.

I stare at the screen for a full minute, spoon frozen halfway to my mouth. Ice cream drips onto my thigh. I wipe it off absently, then finally pick up the phone.

Leonid Volkov: What are you doing next weekend?

My pulse kicks up. I swallow.

Me: Why?

His reply is almost instant.

Leonid Volkov: How would you like to come with me to Paris for the weekend?

My breath catches. Paris. With him, a whole weekend. Why? I highlight my previous message, the one about needing to talk about Alexei, and send it again for emphasis.

Me: We need to meet to talk about your son. And we need to keep this professional.

The three dots appear, then:

Leonid Volkov: Relax, Ms. Harper. I’m not asking for anything else. I’ll be in Paris next weekend for business. It’s the only time next week when I’ll have more than a few free hours. If you come with me, we can finally sit down in person and talk about Alexei properly.

I stare at the screen, thumb frozen over the keyboard, the glow of the phone lighting up my face in the dim apartment. What game is he playing?