Secret Lucidity Read online

  Covering my severed heart with his hand, he presses down on skin and bone, saying, “Everything you’re thinking is a lie. You need to start listening to this.” I beat into his palm a little harder, a little louder. “This pain won’t last forever. And I’ll tell you that you’re not alone again and again until you believe it, because I’m here with you.”

  “You’ll push me away again.”

  “I didn’t want to.”

  “But you did.”

  “You scare me. This,” he says, pressing against my heart again, “scares me. If anyone ever found out—”

  “They won’t.”

  “They could,” he insists, and I know he’s right. “But no matter how wrong people might perceive this—us—to be, and no matter the risk of them finding out—I want it. I can’t stop thinking about you. Since the day I first saw you . . .” His head drops to mine, and with his eyes closed, he adds, “Tell me you feel it too.”

  Moving my hands to his face, I pull his lips to mine and kiss him, and he free falls into me, kissing me back. His hand drags from my heart to my breast, cupping me gently, and for the first time in a long time, I’m able to lose myself in someone else.

  “I feel it too.”

  With my words, he takes me in his arms and we sink deeper beneath the sheets as we step out of the bounds of the law and finally admit we are too weak to fight this any longer. As the storm crashes from all around, we continue to kiss and hold each other until sleep takes us under.

  “HELLO?”

  “Hey, I just left the house and saw your car on the side of the road,” Kroy says. “Is everything okay?”

  Doing what I can to sound as normal as possible, and nothing like a girl who’s in bed next to her teacher, I tell him, “Yeah. I just ran out of gas.”

  “You at home?”

  “Uh-huh. I’m just waking up.”

  “You need me to help you out?”

  “No, I’m fine. I have a gas can in the garage. I just haven’t dealt with it because of the storm,” I say.

  “You sure?”

  “I’m sure. Thanks anyway.”

  “Who was that?” Coach Andrews questions after I set my cell phone down on the nightstand next to his bed.

  Rolling over, I face what felt like a dream last night. But I know it really happened by the way he’s looking at me. There isn’t a single strain of resistance in his gaze.

  “Kroy.”

  “The guy you were hugging yesterday?”

  “Yeah.”

  He tucks a lock of my hair behind my ear. “Is he your boyfriend?”

  “Was. After the accident, things just . . . changed.”

  “And now?”

  Lying face to face, tucked under sheets that smell of him, I grow self-conscious and admit, “And now . . . I barely understand anything anymore.”

  For as long as I was with Kroy, we never spent the night with each other. Last night was the first time I’ve ever slept next to a guy, and the unease of not knowing what to say or what to do colors me in a timidity that I’m unable to hide from him.

  “Don’t do that.”

  “Do what?”

  Pulling me into his arms, he tucks my head under his chin, quelling my discomfort.

  “Be nervous with me.”

  “It’s not that easy.”

  “It is,” he assures without hesitance. “It’s only you and me. Cam and David.”

  “What about tomorrow? What are we then?” I ask because I’m not sure how to go from his bed to his classroom, because this kind of situation doesn’t come with an instruction manual.

  There’s no right when you decide to live in the wrong.

  “We’re what we have to be so that we can have this.”

  Lying in the strong arms of Off Limits, I decide to let go of tomorrow in order to enjoy today. And when we finally abandon the bed, I sit at the bar top and watch as he fixes his coffee.

  “You want a cup?”

  “No,” I respond before turning around in my seat.

  I scan the living room, which sits off the kitchen and is illuminated by the sun’s morning rays. The dark brown hardwood floors contrast the light gray stone of the fireplace that holds the ashes of last night. There’s a hallway off the corner of the kitchen with several doors that must lead to more bedrooms.

  I take in the fixtures and detailing before turning back to him with slight humor to not offend, and say, “This is a pretty nice house for a teacher’s salary.”

  He takes a sip of his coffee before responding with a grin. “Trust fund brat.”

  I can’t help but to laugh. It’s so typical for this town. I’m one as well, but I have no access to it until I’m twenty-four.

  “Still,” I say, “it seems like a lot of space for just you.”

  “It wasn’t supposed to be just me.” He rounds the island and takes a seat next to me, setting his mug down on the granite before explaining, “I was engaged once.”

  “Oh.”

  “It was a long time ago. I bought it for us, but it ended before we had the chance to move in.” He takes another sip of coffee. “It was empty for eight years. I just recently moved in.”

  “Eight years?”

  He nods.

  He looks younger sitting here with his mussed up hair than what he does at school, but I have to ask anyway, “How old are you, Coach?”

  “David,” he corrects, and I feel like an idiot considering what happened last night between us. “I’m thirty-one.”

  I do the math and take a hard swallow.

  Fourteen years separate us, and I suddenly feel so far out of my league with him—a little child trespassing onto forbidden grounds. Grounds I have no business being on, but here I am—on them—because there’s something drawing me to him. It’s a force beyond my strength, magnetic fields that were destined to collide—and we did.

  “Scares the shit out of me too,” he says, reading every one of my thoughts on my face.

  Not wanting to agonize over all the reasons why we shouldn’t be doing what we’re doing, I go back a few steps, asking, “Why did it take you so long to move in?”

  “After we called off the wedding, I had to get the hell out of here, so I finished my last semester of college, got my degree, and then enlisted in the Army.”

  “That’s what you’ve been doing for the past eight years?”

  “Yeah,” he responds, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the countertop. “I was Special Ops. I spent my time on the Psychological Operations Command unit.”

  “That sounds a lot more exciting than being a teacher,” I quip, and he smiles, agreeing. “Why did you come back?”

  His eyes drop from mine, and it takes him a beat before deciding to avoid my question altogether. “You hungry?”

  I shake my head and back off, realizing I’ve struck fissures. I move to stand, and he reaches out for my hand, taking it in his.

  “It isn’t something I—”

  “You don’t have to explain,” I tell him, feeling bad for digging too deep.

  He tugs my hand, urging me to come closer, and when I do, he cups my cheek. With his fingers slipping into my hair, he brushes his thumb over my scar.

  I release a slow breath and turn my head away from his touch.

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing.” I sigh before pulling away and walking into the living room.

  He follows and joins me on the couch, and when his arm drapes over my shoulders, I tell him, “She can barely look at me because of it.”

  “Your mother?”

  I nod. “She used to dress me up like a doll and show me off. I knew my looks made her proud, and I was happy to be her trinket. It’s shallow, I know, but she loved me deeply. It wasn’t her fault she needed to fit in to a certain social standing that our family fell just beneath. I figured it had to stem from her childhood. But it’s not like I wasn’t happy—I was. I mean, what girl doesn’t like being told she’s pretty?” I stop, pausing for a mo
ment before continuing. “But now, not only is her trinket tarnished but it also serves as a reminder of what’s been taken from her.”

  “He was taken from you too.”

  “Not in her eyes, because her pain is the only pain that matters.”

  He lifts my chin up to him, stating, “Your pain matters to me.”

  “Nobody understands.” My voice trembles. “Not even my closest friends.”

  “How could they? They’ve barely even lived yet.”

  “I didn’t use to be like this.”

  “Like what?”

  I gaze up to him, and we’re so close our noses touch. I doubt myself when I look at his perfect face. His only flaw is he’s flawless when I’m so damaged. It’s written across my cheek, it’s written on my stomach, it’s written all over my shredded soul. He couldn’t possibly want this—me—all this baggage of a world crumbling at my feet.

  “Whatever it is you’re thinking . . . stop. Stop feeding yourself reasons why you’re not good enough.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Your eyes are your tell, you know? They make you a terrible liar.” He smirks, crinkling the corners of his eyes before he drops his lips to mine.

  He holds me close, his kiss unmoving, and it’s exactly what I need. His skin against mine. A gentle touch not meant for self-gratification, but rather to soothe and console. My body softens into his, and he scoops me entirely into his arms, cradling me against him. Each touch better than the one before, giving me the affection I’ve been aching for.

  When our lips finally part, his eyes touch mine, blending blue with green, and a thousand filaments of electricity burst inside my chest.

  I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.

  So much so, that when it’s time for him to take me back to my car, my gut twists in dread. The closer we get to my reality, the more I want to reach out and yank the steering wheel to take me back to our secret paradise. The place where I don’t have to wrap my arms around myself only to pretend it’s the touch of someone else, someone who cares enough to want to comfort me. Because that’s what his touch does. It soothes. If only for a moment, it’s enough.

  His hand holds mine as he drives, and before he turns the corner that leads to the entrance of my neighborhood, he brings it to his lips and kisses my knuckles as I watch.

  And then the car stops, and I know it would be stupid to linger in this moment—we both know it.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, and I worry about what tomorrow will feel like when he isn’t David anymore, but rather, Mr. Andrews.

  I nod, hesitant and needy, though I try not to show it.

  “Text me later and let me know you’re okay.”

  “I will.”

  Exchanging his car for mine, I watch him drive away before heading back home myself.

  When I walk into the house, I find my mother in the formal dining room, riffling through the liquor hutch. For a second, my heart stops in fear that she knows I never came home last night.

  But fear settles into well-known annoyance when she sees me. “I need you to go to the store. We’re out of everything.”

  “I just went to the store.”

  She finds her bottle, closes the hutch, and turns to me with a hand on her hip. “Well, go again. Jesus, you act like I’m asking you to go to the moon.”

  She walks into the kitchen, and I trail behind her. “We need to go get your car first.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You don’t remember?”

  She sets the bottle down with a loud clink, lashing out, “Talk in more riddles, why don’t you? As if I have all the time in the world to figure out what the hell you’re trying to elude to.”

  “I met William when he brought you home yesterday. You were passed-out drunk.”

  She straightens, poising herself with a snide look smeared across her face.

  “I hope you remember where he lives, because your car is at his place.”

  “How nice of you to involve yourself in my private business, but I can take care of myself.”

  Fed up with her crap, I roll my eyes and open the fridge to grab a quick snack. Taking a couple pieces of fruit, I close the door while my mother fiddles with her cell phone. As I make my way upstairs, I can hear her crooning, “William, hi.”

  And I just lost my appetite.

  I set the fruit on my dresser, plop down on my bed, and turn on the television. This is my life, rotting away to bad Sunday afternoon television. I flip through the channels before landing on some mindless reality show rerun. Halfway through, I give up and decide that a reread of The Hunger Games would be a better alternative.

  The doorbell rings when the tributes are being chosen, and I carefully open my door to peek downstairs. William is back and I get a whiff of my mother’s perfume. Before I subject myself to seeing something not even acid would burn from my memory, I step back into my room. When I hear the front door close, I know she won’t be returning any time soon.

  I go back to my book, but as I stare at the words, I find myself unable to read. My mind drifts to last night, feeling David’s body pressed against mine, his smell, his taste, waking up in his bed. I close my eyes and relive that moment over and over and over because it was beyond amazing. Goose bumps kiss my skin, and when I open my eyes, I find myself smiling, and it feels so good. I don’t want to think about how this is going to work or worry about when I will be able to be with him again like we were last night. I don’t want the reality of tomorrow to taint the memory of last night.

  As the sun gives way to the moon, I grab my phone and text him.

  Me: Hey . . .

  David: Hey, you. I’ve been worried. How is everything at your house?

  Me: Better now that my mom left.

  David: And when she was there?

  Me: I’d rather not talk about it.

  I kick off my shoes and roll onto my back while I wait for him to text me. My screen dims out, and a few seconds later, comes back to life.

  David: I can smell you on my sheets.

  And that’s all it takes to spark a chemical reaction inside me. He’s an undeniable force I’m not ready to say good night to, so I don’t. Instead of texting him back, I call.

  “What are you doing?” he asks when he answers.

  “Lying in bed. You?”

  “The same.” He releases a deep sigh, and I slip down under my blanket before he adds, “I miss you.”

  In the darkness, I smile again. “I miss you too.”

  And this is where my life forks.

  I WAKE UP THIS MORNING with an avidity I’ve been a stranger to. I had become so used to getting out of bed and having to convince myself not to skip class. Today is different though. When I walk through the doors of Edmond Ridge High, I’m anxious just to be in the same building as him.

  There’s something thrilling about this secret I now hold.

  I purposely go out of my way to pass his classroom after first period. I walk by his door and catch a glimpse of him sitting at his desk. He wears his usual casual attire that most of the other coaches wear as well: athletic pants and an Edmond Ridge sport polo. I barely get a five-second fill before Kroy comes up behind me.

  “You lost?”

  “What?”

  “Why are you on this side of the building? Isn’t your first hour with Mrs. Beasly?”

  “Oh, I just . . . I had to drop off an assignment that I left at home last week,” I tell him.

  We walk together to our next class, and suddenly the thrill dulls. I feel like a total fraud from the lies that are stacking up between us.

  “So how was your weekend?”

  “Good. I didn’t do very much. What about you?”

  “Hung out with Kyle and—” He catches himself before saying her name, but if he was with Kyle, then I know he was with Linze too.

  “You can say her name,” I tell him. “I know Kyle is one of your friends. It’s not like I expect you not to hang out with hi
m because of what’s going on between me and Linz.”

  “I don’t agree with her, just so you know.”

  “I know,” I respond as we walk into class and take our seats.

  The hour fades into the next while I focus on the lecture and take notes as another fifty minutes pass until I’m walking to English Lit. I don’t even realize my nerves until David looks at me when I step into his room. The air in my lungs ripples with uncertainty of how I should act, and I’m wracked with an unsettling fear that everyone can see right through us. So, I duck my head when he greets, “Miss Hale,” with nonchalance as I walk by.

  Suddenly paranoid, I settle in my desk and pull out my notebooks. When I get the nerve to look his way, he’s already talking to another student. I shouldn’t stare, but I do, and the moment I feel the tingles creeping along my skin, I have to look away.

  Oh my God, this is beyond awkward.

  The bell rings, and Linze bounces through the door, announcing loudly in a singsong voice, “Sorry I’m late, Mr. Andrews.”

  She doesn’t even look my way before taking her new seat in the front of the classroom. It’s an odd feeling to be a stranger to my best friend, but one thing life has taught me, is that it’s unpredictable and ever-changing.

  He has us pull out our textbooks, and we follow along as he reads and discusses Shakespeare. I’m only able to digest about half of what he says, because I’m too deep in my thoughts, replaying our phone conversation that went into the early hours of this morning. There hasn’t been enough time between those words and these words he speaks now to draw the line between whatever I am to him outside of school and the student I am now. I’m stuck in the fog.

  Every time our eyes catch, I fall further away from the girl I’m supposed to be and drift closer to the girl I was this weekend. He’s so confident in front of the class, and I wonder if he’s as affected by this as I am.

  Before I know it, the bell rings, and I have no idea what was even discussed. The room fills with chatter and when he walks back to his desk, I shove my books into my bag, wondering if he’ll ask me to stay behind.