Getting Schooled

  "Is it coming back to you now, Callie?" Garrett teases hotly.

  He spears me with his tongue, over and over. He swivels his mouth, sucking on my clit, fucking me with his fingers.

  Until I'm gasping, agreeing to anything--everything.

  "Yes . . . yes . . . yes . . ."

  And I shatter, break into a thousand points of pleasure. And when I'm boneless--possibly dead--Garrett kisses my pubic bone and glides up my body, all self-satisfied smirking.

  "That's what I thought."

  ~

  After that . . . things get wild. We go through three more condoms before the night is over.

  And Garrett was right--we are better at it now.

  I ride him with a boldness I didn't possess when we were young. I roll my hips and scrape my nails down his back--making him beg, groan with pleasure.

  He puts me on my hands and knees and pounds into me from behind--rougher than he ever dared when we were teenagers. He pulls on my hips, tangles his hand in my hair, and whispers dark, dirty promises and filthy words.

  The last time is slow and unhurried. Chest to chest, entwined, we sink into each other, come together, and lose ourselves in each other's eyes. Afterwards, Garrett envelops me in the tender safety of his arms, buries his face in my hair, and we fall into sated, exhausted sleep.

  ~

  I open my eyes to the sound of inhaling and exhaling--a light, serrated rumble--breathing that's not my own. It's not your grandpa's, blow the roof off the house kind of snore, but more of a nice, rolling reverberation.

  Huh--grown-up Garrett snores. That's new.

  I like it. Manly but also cute.

  He lies on his back with me tucked against his side, my head on his chest, his arm across my back.

  And we're not alone.

  On his other arm, with his nose in the crook of Garrett's neck . . . is Snoopy, his eyes closed in peaceful, puppy slumber. Sunlight streams through the window, and I take a second to glance around the bedroom--I wasn't exactly interested in the decor last night. It's a nice room. Like the rest of the house, it reminds me of Garrett--neat, simple--all bachelor blues and beiges.

  I also soak up the chance to look at Garrett while he sleeps. His strong jaw, his relaxed brow, so handsome--a filthy-mouthed Greek god. My eyes drop to the dark hair that dusts his chest, and the trail below his belly button that dips beneath the sheet--coarse and devastatingly masculine. I really like that too.

  I shift slightly, stretching gently without disturbing the other occupants of the bed. I'm sore all over--my arms, my thighs, slightly aching between my legs--my muscles overworked from being so thoroughly well-used. And I can't stop grinning.

  But . . . if my students hadn't chased me off Facebook, I would definitely be changing my relationship status to "it's complicated."

  Is it fucking ever.

  Over the years when I imagined running into Garrett again--because everybody imagines running into their ex--I always thought he'd be married. To a supermodel, with kids--half a dozen boys, on his way to populating his own football team. And the image always came with a heaping helping of heartache. But he was a catch. I knew that. He was too amazing to not get scooped up by some lucky, undeserving bitch.

  I figured he'd be off-limits. No longer mine.

  But here we are.

  This wasn't part of the plan--not what I thought would happen when I came home weeks ago. But I'm not sorry about it--not even a little.

  I just have to figure out what to do. How this works when I go back to San Diego.

  If it works.

  Or maybe . . . maybe I'm getting ahead of my boobs here. I look around the room again--a single man's room, through and through, and not by accident. Does Garrett even want it to work? Sure, we've been talking, texting, humping like dust bunnies in the janitor's closet . . . but we haven't talked about a future. About what happens when I go back to my real life . . . and he stays here. Maybe it's just a hookup of convenience? Temporary, like a vacation hookup--the kind that was fun but forgettable as soon as you leave the island.

  Jesus, I'm having my very own morning-after Oprah "ah-hah" moment.

  It was easy not to think about it before last night. To keep it light, flirty--to just go with getting to know Garrett again. But here, now, lying beside him with nothing between us but warm sheets . . . shit just got real.

  I ache when I look at him. Ache to stay, ache for him to follow . . . ache to keep whatever this is between us long after the end of the school year. But does he want that too? And if he does . . . what does that even look like with Garrett in New Jersey and me in California?

  Ugh . . . I need coffee. This is too much thinking without coffee.

  I shimmy down the bed, under the sheets, and out the bottom. I scoop Garrett's T-shirt up from the floor, but before I put it on . . . I smell it. Inhale deeply, practically snorting the cotton up my nostrils.

  Then I open my eyes . . . to find Snoopy staring at me. He tilts his head, in that doggie way, that says--Girl, what the hell are you doing?

  "Don't judge me," I tell him softly, then slip the shirt over my head.

  Snoopy hops down off the bed, his little nails clacking on the hardwood floor. And Garrett shifts, mumbling, throwing his arm up over his head before settling back into slumber.

  And God . . . even his armpit hair is arousing.

  I look down at Snoopy. "Okay, you're right . . . I have issues. Come on."

  I scoop him up because Garrett said his legs aren't great and he has trouble with the stairs, and I carry him down to the kitchen. I let Snoopy out the back door, leaving it open, the cool morning air blowing on my legs and up Garrett's shirt--giving me goose bumps. I fill the stainless steel coffeemaker with water and grounds and get it brewing. I check my phone, to make sure I didn't miss any texts or calls from my parents.

  By the time Snoopy returns and I pour a scoop of dry dog food from the bin into the corner bowl with his name on it, the coffee is ready. I pour myself a steaming cup, blowing gently, and gaze out the kitchen window at the golden, shining streaks of sunlight rising up on the lake and the flock of five geese in V formation flying through the morning gray sky--honking like cranky commuters in rush hour traffic.

  And the whole time, one thought runs through my mind and one feeling thrums through my heart--over and over again: It would be so easy to get used to this.

  I turn around to grab a mug for Garrett--and then I scream.

  "Holy shit!"

  Because I've seen one too many Children of the Corn-like horror films in my day, and there's a pair of big brown eyes staring at me just above the counter, on the other side of the center island.

  They're Spencer's--Garrett's five-year-old nephew's eyes.

  "Hi!"

  I press my hand to my chest as my brain conveys this information and calls off the impending heart attack.

  "Hi."

  "You're Uncle Garrett's friend, right?"

  "That's right. I'm Callie. We met the other day at your house."

  "Yeah. Dad's sorry he almost chopped the house down." He shrugs. "Adults lose it sometimes; it's no one's fault."

  "That's true." I grin.

  Until he peers around the counter and his little brow furrows.

  "Why don't you have pants on?"

  I almost tell him adults lose their pants sometimes too--but I'm afraid that could lead down the wrong road. So I slap my forehead instead.

  "I forgot to put them on!" I hook my thumb over my shoulder. "I'm gonna go do that now."

  Then I pull Garrett's T-shirt down to make sure I'm covered and I scoot out of the kitchen. Right into Connor Daniels's path, with his two other boys behind him.

  "Hey, Callie." His eyes graze downward, taking in my bare bottom half. He rubs his neck bashfully. "Sorry."

  "No worries!" I scurry past them, boobs jiggling because I'm not wearing a bra either. Yikes.

  Garrett's walking out of his bedroom--shirtless with black sweatpants hanging low and d
elicious on his hips--as I make a dive into it.

  I can hear him talking to his brother and nephews downstairs as I search for my clothes.

  "Sorry, Gar--I got called into the hospital and Mom wasn't feeling so hot."

  "What's wrong with Mom?" Garrett asks.

  "Just that cold that's going around, but I wanted to let her rest. Can the boys hang with you today?"

  "Yeah, no problem."

  "Can we go fishing?" Brayden asks excitedly.

  "Sure, buddy."

  "Your girlfriend has a nice ass." The older one--Aaron--comments.

  "Watch it," Garrett warns.

  "You would prefer I said her ass wasn't nice?" the teenager asks.

  "I'd prefer we leave her ass out of the conversation altogether."

  The opening and closing of cabinets and drawers fills the pause in conversation. Then I hear Garrett's voice again. "Get yourself some cereal, I'll be right back."

  I'm sitting on the edge of the bed, just hooking my bra, when the bedroom door opens. Garrett walks straight to me and climbs onto the bed--onto me--pushing me back, straddling my waist, keeping his weight on his knees, holding my wrists loosely above my head and gazing down into my eyes.

  "Hi."

  "Hi."

  He leans down and kisses me, sucking at my bottom lip. "You taste like coffee."

  He tastes like mint and smells like . . . home.

  "I made a pot."

  He leans back, watching me, eyes trailing over my face.

  "Stop freaking out, Callie."

  "I'm not freaking out."

  "I can hear you freaking out, from here." He tilts his head, his dark hair falling into his eyes. It's not a cute-tilt, like Snoopy. It's a sexy, hot-tilt . . . a manly-tilt. "The question is, why?"

  I swallow and lift my chin and just . . . put it all out there.

  "Am I Cancun?"

  Garrett laughs. "What?"

  "Am I that girl in Cancun . . . the one you do shots with, and go to clubs with, and have sex on the beach with . . . and then never see or think about ever again?"

  He squints at me. "What the hell are you talking about? Were you drinking something else besides coffee?"

  I shake my head and sigh.

  "I'm not staying in Lakeside, Garrett."

  A shadow falls over his features. "I know that."

  "I have a life. A whole life in San Diego that I plan to get back to."

  "I know that too." He reaches out, tracing my bottom lip with his thumb. "But for this year, your life is here."

  "And what happens when I go back to San Diego?"

  "I . . . don't know. But I know I want to figure it out. And we will, Cal, we'll figure it out."

  Those are good answers. I like those answers. But I have to know, I want us to be clear--no misunderstandings or mistakes.

  "What is this to you . . . what are we doing? What do you want?"

  Garrett smiles that easy smile that makes me want to lick every single inch of his skin.

  "This is . . . you and me . . . the reboot. We'll talk and laugh, and fuck until we can't move and probably fight at some point too. And we'll . . . be."

  I reach for him. He releases my arms and rolls us to the side, my hands around his neck, my leg draped across his hip. "As for what I want . . . I want you, Callie. For as long as you're here, for as long as you'll let me have you. I want all of you."

  Chapter Fifteen

  Garrett

  On Monday, I start picking Callie up in the morning, so we can drive to school together. I don't know why I didn't think of it before--all those post-fantastic-screwing endorphins pumping through my bloodstream must be giving me brilliant ideas. Although no one sees us pull into the parking lot or walk in together, by midmorning talk around the school hallways is already rampant. It's like the kids can smell the attraction on us--nosy little bloodhounds. They whisper and point, and by Tuesday they ask me about it, because privacy and personal boundaries mean nothing to them.

  Are you and Miss Carpenter hooking up?

  Is Miss Carpenter your OTP?

  Miss Carpenter's hot, Coach. You gotta lock that down. Give a chick a mile and she'll take the whole nine inches from somebody else, you know what I'm saying?

  OMG, Coach D! You and Miss Carpenter should totally go to prom! It's sooooo cute when old people date!

  OTP is One True Pair, by the way . . . and I hate myself for knowing that.

  By Wednesday, they invent one of those celebrity, name-mashing nicknames for us. "Darpenter," Dean tells me, barely managing to keep a straight face.

  I sit back in my office chair. "You're screwing with me."

  He's pulled some pretty twisted practical jokes in the past.

  He holds up his empty hands. "Afraid not. Kelly Simmons told me it's all over the girls' bathrooms and Merkle said two of her art kids engraved it on keychains."

  "Keychains?"

  "Yep, you and Callie are officially relationship goals." He makes the hashtag sign with his fingers. "Congratulations."

  Then he cracks up.

  "Great--thanks."

  Darpenter . . . sounds like a chemical you use to strip off paint.

  "It could've been worse, D. Could've been . . . Carret." He reconsiders, "Carret's kind of cute, actually."

  I give him the finger.

  "So it's official then?" My best friend asks, sobering slightly. "You guys are giving it another shot? I've lost my wingman?"

  All this time, all these years, when it comes to dating I've been fixated on keeping my life my own--keeping it uncomplicated and drama-free. But it's different with Callie--so easy to slip into that steady groove because we mesh . . . seamlessly fit together. We always did. She knows me, she gets me--and there's not a single thing about her that I don't adore.

  My life is still simple, still easy . . . but it's just so much better with her in it.

  "Yeah, man. I mean . . . it's Callie, you know?"

  And I don't need to say anything else. Dean gets me too.

  "I'm happy for you. I hope it works out . . ." Then he snickers, ". . . Gallie."

  Dickhead.

  ~

  "You're the only person I know who doesn't eat fruit to be healthy, but actually enjoys it."

  It's kind of nuts the things you find attractive about someone when you're really into them. Callie was always a fruit salad kind of girl, even when we were kids. Right now, we're in The Cave, the teachers' lounge, as our classes attend a first period anti-drug assembly in the auditorium. And she's popping giant, radioactive-sized green grapes in her mouth. Watching her slip them between her gorgeous pouty lips is turning me on something fierce.

  She giggles, shrugging. "Fruit is good." She holds one out to me. "Want one?"

  My eyes dart between the grape and her mouth.

  "No . . . I just want to keep watching you eat them."

  Her pretty green eyes narrow wickedly. She takes the next grape and gives it a nice, slow lick and I can't help but picture her doing the same to my balls. Then she closes her eyes, gives a little hungry moan before making a lovely, wide O with her mouth and popping the big round grape through her luscious lips.

  I smother a groan. Looks like a trip to the faculty bathroom for some "private time" is in my future. Jesus, how old am I again?

  "Get a room, you two," Donna Merkle teases as she sits down at the table next to Callie. And then I catch her staring at Jerry's ass as he pours himself a cup of coffee across the room. They've been markedly less vicious with each other during the staff meetings, though they still hate-fuck each other with their eyes.

  It's not an uncommon thing for relationships to develop between teachers--no matter how weird or incompatible it may look from the outside. It's like costars on a movie set or soldiers on deployment--we're all stuck in this building together for hours a day, and only other teachers really understand what it's like. Things are bound to happen. And something is definitely happening with Merkle and Jerry. Callie sees it too.
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  "You and Jerry first, Donna."

  "Leaving now," Merkle says, rising. And Jerry's eyes follow her right out the door.

  I lean forward, resting my elbows on the table.

  "So, you're coming over tonight after the game, right?"

  Callie's parents have made some good progress on the recovery front. The hospital bed has been taken down--they're using walkers and crutches to get around now. They still need Callie to do any heavy lifting, but their progress has given her just a bit more time out of the house . . . and over at mine.

  "Definitely." She nods. "Can't mess with a streak."

  God damn, she's perfect.

  We've won every game since mine and Callie's first night together, and I have no doubt we'll win again tonight. Her pussy is my gorgeous good-luck charm and I make damn sure I give that beauty the gratitude and worship it deserves.

  ~

  Later that day, in third period, Miss McCarthy comes on the loudspeaker and announces the nominations for homecoming queen, who will be crowned next week. When she reads Simone Porchesky's name, Nancy and Skylar and more than half the rest of the class bust a gut laughing.

  Nancy shrieks and grabs her phone. "OMG, Simone is up for homecoming queen! Hilarious!"

  I know Simone--she's in Callie's theater class. Blue hair, piercings, tattoos--she's designing the sets and the costumes for Callie's play.

  "Why is that hilarious?" I ask.

  But my gut curdles with the suspicion that I already know why.

  "It's a joke," Nancy tells me. "A bunch of us got together and put her name in as a joke. I posted about it but I didn't actually think she'd really get nominated! This is amazing."

  I think about that scene from The Breakfast Club, where Andy the jock talks about the humiliation the kid whose ass cheeks he taped together must've felt. I think about Callie, and the care and affection she feels for her students--how hearing about this is going to crush a piece of her.

  And I think about Simone, just a girl trying to figure herself out--and the isolation and embarrassment and the fucking hurt she's going to feel. Because kids know when you're laughing with them, even if they don't see it. They know when they're a punchline. And it's soul shattering.

  "Why would you do that?"

  Nancy shrugs. "I don't know."

  I believe her--and it's horrifying. That she would inflict this kind of cruelty on someone else without any real reason at all.