The Unrequited Page 6

“So what is it that you’re drinking?” I grab his glass and take a sip.

  His mouth hangs open before he closes it and clears his throat. “A Hemingway. It’s just…a dummy martini.”

  “Sounds boring.” I bat my eyelashes and Dylan almost spits out his drink. I take pity on him and turn toward Emma. Matt is talking to her, but I know she isn’t listening. She is more attuned to what’s going on between me and the love of her life.

  I nudge her with my elbow. “Walk with me to the bar.”

  I don’t wait for her agreement and get up from my seat. I know she’ll follow. We make our way to the bar and I order a purple drink on the menu, then lean against the dark wood.

  “So here’s my plan,” I tell her. She looks sad. “Cheer up. I’m ready to prove you wrong.”

  “By flirting with him?”

  “Yes, among other things.”

  “You know what, I’m just gonna go—”

  “Would you relax? I asked you to trust me.” I give her a meaningful look until she nods. “Okay. So I want you to flirt with Matt, or at least talk to him. I’m going to keep Dylan busy, and I bet you anything he’ll come out of this jealous and totally irritated by me.”

  “I don’t…” She shakes her head.

  “Come on. It’s going to be fun. Besides, he should get a little taste of what you go through every day.”

  She scrunches her nose and thinks it over. My drink is here so I take a sip and watch her. “Don’t you think it’s…vengeful to do that?”

  “Yeah, it is, but if you don’t do anything, he’ll never realize how much he likes you and will miss out on the awesomeness that is you. Now that’s vengeful.” Emma laughs and I steer her to our table. “Think of it as a favor to him, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  As we walk through the crowd, my legs come to a halt. I feel something moving inside me. It spans my chest and my belly, going around to my spine, an urgent, incessant pulse. My gaze jumps to the door and he’s there.

  Thomas. Professor Abrams. My crush.

  Maybe I’m regressing, going back to those precocious years in high school when girls giggle and gossip about their handsome teachers. Back then, everything was invisible to me but Caleb. I never cared enough to look elsewhere or have a life of my own.

  But I’m ready now. I need the control back. I need the normalcy. It’s so ironic that the very unrequitedness that destroyed me is going to keep the pain at bay.

  Thomas strides to the opposite side of the bar and comes to stand beside another man, one who’s shorter than him and dressed in a more formal style.

  I scurry back to the table and take my seat. Emma gives me an admonishing look and I mouth, Sorry. Then I resume flirting with Dylan while Emma talks with Matt.

  We’re a sad pair, Dylan and I. While we’re both talking to each other, our attention is diverted. He keeps glancing toward Emma, who has upped her game and is now laughing at whatever Matt is saying. The move may be cliché, but I’m so proud of her. It’s hard to keep my face straight.

  And me? I can’t help but shift my eyes to Thomas. He is a tall, dark figure leaning—or rather, sprawling—against a wall, away from the crowd gathered around the table. He’s taken his jacket off, leaving him in a plain black t-shirt. It stretches across his sculpted chest when he runs his fingers through the strands of his hair. He takes lazy sips from the beer bottle in his hands, quirking up small smiles as the shorter man beside him talks.

  Just then Emma barks out a loud laugh and Dylan gives up all pretenses of talking to me. “What’s funny?” he grumbles, and I can’t hold back my chuckle.

  My intuition was fucking right. Dylan’s such a moron. Shaking my head, I sneak a glimpse at Thomas. This time, our gazes catch. Tiny blue flames stare at me from across the space and I’m suspended in his attention. I have the straw in my mouth, but I’m not sucking on it. I’m not even drawing breath.

  He found me.

  The thought runs on a loop even when he looks away and turns to the stage. Something tells me he’s thinking of me; I spy the subtle movement of his sharp jaw as he clenches his teeth.

  He hates me.

  A small smile blooms on my lips. I love that he hates me. See, hopeless. I’ve never loved hopelessness so much before.

  I look away when the static of the mic fills the room as Thomas’ friend takes his place on the stage. He announces the commencement of poetry night and introduces Emma.

  I wish her good luck as she walks up on the stage with a piece of paper in her hands.

  “Thank you, Professor Masters, for the lovely introduction.” She laughs, looking giddy and flushed. “And thank you all for having me up here. I’m going to read something I wrote a long time ago. It’s called You, and I hope you enjoy.”

  She looks at the paper once before tucking it back in her jeans pocket. Her gaze falls on Dylan, who sits riveted next to me. She starts with a clear voice and confident demeanor. Her words are simple but filled with longing.

  During the entire narration, she never takes her eyes off Dylan, letting him know the poem is an homage to the love she feels for him. It’s beautiful, and for the first time in my life, I feel like I’ve done something right. I’ve brought them together, made both of them the star of the show, and who doesn’t want to be a star? It’s a dream for everyone, that one moment in the spotlight.

  People are catching on to what Emma is doing. They watch Dylan’s astonished face and Emma’s flushed one, alternatively. Tears brim in my eyes as I witness their love story reaching its peak right in front of me.

  This is what requited love looks like.

  Shimmering. Grinning. Teary-eyed.

  We want it too.

  But I’ll never have that.

  When the poem is done, I notice that Thomas is gone. I look around, but I can’t see him anywhere. I spring up from my seat before the clapping subsides, and no one notices my departure in the midst of love.

  The hallway in the back is littered with people leaning against the brick walls, some fondling their dates, some waiting in the bathroom queue. The industrial lights above are dimmed, lending the narrow passageway an intimacy that begs for illicit touches and grey-tinted, slippery kisses.

  Thomas might have simply left or gone to the bathroom, but my attention is snagged by the rusted maroon door with the exit sign. It stands ajar, bringing in the chilly draft from the outside. I push it open, stepping into the dark, cold alley. The wall opposite is lined with trashcans.

  The cold, stinging air punches my nose and forehead, and I sneeze. Once. Two times. My boots almost slip over the patch of ice on the ground but I manage to keep my balance.

  “Fuck!” I right myself, patting my heavy ensemble of a coat, a scarf, and a beanie.

  “I don’t think you’re old enough to curse.”

  I gasp at the familiar guttural voice. Thomas emerges from beside the fire escape, ringlets of smoke rising from his lips. The yellow light lends him a certain glow. My drunk-on-crush heart jumps in my chest, pounding, pumping my blood furiously.

  Even outside, he’s without his jacket, leaving his elbows and his veiny, hair-dusted forearms exposed. What is it with me and his hands? I can’t stop looking at them. I can’t stop imagining them over mine. As if my lust was waiting for a single glimpse of his magical fingers, it bobs to the surface and I’m thrust back into my dark apartment, in front of the sliding door, watching the snow, playing with myself.

  “You can stop staring any second now.” He takes in a drag and blows out a cloud of smoke.

  “I wasn’t staring,” I lie.

  “Sure.”

  Thomas leans against the damp wall and crosses his arms across his chest, careful to keep the burning end of the cigarette away. The glowing orange embers tumble to the frosty ground, appearing like fireworks. I almost regret missing out on his battle with his impulse. His flickering anger giving way to his defeat—it’s fascinating to me.

  Before I know it, I am walking closer to him, ca
tching a hint of his chocolatey scent, and snatching his cigarette away. I put it in my mouth and almost moan out loud at the relief.

  “You’re right. I was staring,” I confess, puffing out smoke. “But only because you’ve got this.”

  The hit of nicotine is instant, liquefying. It dissolves my brain, one puff at a time. I’m bolder, invincible with it in my body—or maybe it’s my hopeless crush making me feel immortal tonight.

  “Stealing is a sin,” he tells me.

  “I’m not stealing.” I smile. “I’m borrowing. And don’t worry, I only borrow things that make me high.”

  He shakes his head at me and scratches his jaw. “You probably missed school the day they taught that smoking causes cancer.”

  I burst into laughter. His words remind me of the analogy I made to Kara the other day. I look back at his shimmering face. He is like my personal moon—unattainable, to be admired from afar. He is my cancer, slowly killing me, and I don’t even mind.

  “I’m not afraid to die,” I divulge, taking another puff. He is watching me with an unknown glint in his eyes. I can’t decipher it, and I don’t want to. Let it be a mystery; mysteries can’t hurt me. “Besides, it’s not impossible that I might have missed that class. I wasn’t the type to attend classes.”

  “What type were you?”

  “I don’t know, the bad type. I used to cut school. I was always behind on homework. My teachers thought I was a nightmare to deal with.”

  “Is that really something you should be telling your professor?”

  His hands are in his pockets and his ankles are crossed. He has black snow boots with grey soles, and something about the ruggedness of them makes me smile. “But then you’re not my professor, are you? And I’m not your student. I’m just the trespasser.”

  “I’d be careful then. Bad things happen to those who trespass,” he says in a voice that steals my own.

  Thomas’ lips twitch with a restrained smile as his eyes rove over my face. My skin flushes, blooms in a million goose bumps. He has become the single point of my focus. He has absorbed the edges of my world, and all I see is his wind-ruffled hair, his magnificent chiseled features. I’m so engrossed in him that I don’t notice his hand reaching over and snatching the cigarette back, until it’s already gone.

  “As much as I find you annoying, I’d rather you not kill yourself on my cancer stick,” he says before sucking in a drag.

  “Fine. Whatever,” I grumble. “What are you doing out here in the cold, anyway? Without a jacket? Aren’t you missing the readings of your own students?”

  He gives me a side glance. “You’re wearing enough clothes for the both of us, and I can ask you the same question.”

  “I’m getting fresh air.”

  Cigarette clenched in his teeth, he throws me a knowing look. His eyes are saying what his mouth said last week: You have a thing for me.

  Like him, I let my eyes do the talking. I narrow them and cock my head to the side. You’re full of yourself.

  His chuckle is soft and airy. “Yes, I was too, until you came out and ruined it.”

  “You’re such a people person, aren’t you?” I shake my head. “Why did you take this job when you so clearly hate teaching and the students?”

  “It’s not just students. I hate all humans, in general,” he explains. “But I still need a job, don’t I?”

  “Actually, I don’t think you do. Aren’t you some big-shot award-winning poet? Shouldn’t you be working on your book somewhere? Isolated and drunk, growing out a beard or something?”

  “Are you sure you’re describing a poet and not your life goals?”

  “I can’t grow a beard. In case you didn’t notice, I’m a girl.”

  Something changes in his demeanor. I don’t know what it is, but he seems more aware of me, like I touched him without lifting a finger. It awakens every nerve ending in my body.

  “I noticed,” he murmurs.

  It seems he also touched me without putting a hand on me because I feel something rustling over my skin, electric and hot, causing seismic shivers. I huddle inside my coat and rub my arms, chasing the sensation away.

  Thomas flicks his finished cigarette off and crushes the butt with his boots, the wintry breeze catching his dark hair. “You should probably head back now. Your boyfriend must be looking for you.”

  “What boyfriend?”

  “The one you were sharing drinks with.”

  It takes me a second to understand what he means. “Oh, you mean Dylan?” I chuckle. “It fooled you too? I didn’t know I was that good. I was trying to prove a point to someone.”

  “And what point is that?”

  “That love doesn’t always have to be one-sided.”

  “What do you know about one-sided love?”

  “More than you think.”

  “Yeah? Did your date ditch you for prom? Or let me guess, he took you out on a date but didn’t call back the next day. Isn’t that how all high school love stories go?”

  Anger, hot and fierce, burns through me. How is it that in the last however many minutes, I’ve run a gamut of emotions with him? How is it that with him, all I do is feel and feel until I’m about to burst? And none of this scares me—not his rudeness, not his callous comments. I want to give as good as I get.

  “Just because you’ve got everything figured out doesn’t mean you can be an asshole, okay? And what, you can’t fall in love in high school? Is that what you’re saying to me? That age has something to do with love?” I shake my head. “God, you’re so fucking narrow-minded.”

  “You think I’ve got everything figured out?”

  “Haven’t you? I mean, look at you. People can’t stop talking about how much of a genius you are. The entire class wants to talk to you but you won’t give them the time of day. You’re married, and I’m assuming you got the one you wanted, so what do you know about one-sided love?”

  I hate him. I hate him so much. I hate that he’s got it all. I hate that he belittled my feelings for Caleb even though he didn’t know he was doing it. I hate that he is the happiest man alive.

  Although, if that’s the case, why doesn’t he look it?

  Why are the lines around his mouth tight and rigid? Why is there a heartbreaking sheen in his eyes? His hands are curled in fists. In fact, his entire body is curled, drawn into itself.

  “Yeah, what the fuck do I know about one-sided love?” he says at last with a humorless smile.

  Oh God, did I say something wrong? Is there something wrong in his marriage?

  I know firsthand that marriages aren’t always black and white. My mom is on husband number three. Over the years, I’ve realized that her marriages were convenient. No love. No passion. They were bound to fail.

  But I can’t think of Thomas that way. I can’t think of this passionate, surly poet as being anything but in love with his wife, and love has to be enough, right? It has to be. Because if it isn’t, then what else is sacred in this big, bad world?

  Then out of nowhere, something else strikes me.

  “Hold on, you saw that? You saw that I was sharing a drink with a guy from across the room. Were you…?”

  “Was I what? Watching you?” He pierces me with his stare, so intense, so serious.

  “Yeah?” I lick my dry, cracked lips. Is it my imagination, or has he moved closer?

  Thomas dips his head, catching my confused gaze with his, making this moment fraught with intimacy. “Yeah.” His words drag in a lazy manner. “I was. In fact, I can’t stop watching you.”

  How did we get to this? From trading insults and me hating him to this…conversation. My body is going into a weird mode: panicked and aroused at the same time. Sweat runs down my spine and heat fans out in my lower body.

  “Wh…?” Words are drying out on my tongue. I can’t…I can’t compute this, can’t compute that he’s been watching me, and yet it has happened twice now—once at the bookstore, and now here. A dangerous concoction of feelings is swish
ing around in my chest. I can’t recognize them all, but I know I’m afraid, among other things.

  Thomas snorts out a chuckle. “Teenagers. I fucking hate teenagers,” he mutters to himself. “You should see your face.”

  I growl, enraged. He was fucking kidding.

  I growl again. We hate him, my angry heart says. Yeah, we do, I agree.

  Thomas is watching me with amused eyes, and that just pisses me off even more. I take a breath, and keeping our gazes connected, lift my right leg and whip it right down on his foot. Hard.

  He doesn’t even flinch. Asshole.

  “How’s that for a teenager?” My harsh breaths echo around us. In the back of my mind, I know I shouldn’t have done that. This is the reason my mom sent me to therapy. I have zero impulse control.

  “I’d say it’s more middle school-ish, but what do I know about what kids are doing these days?” I’m still reeling from what I did, and he takes this opportunity to inform me, “You hit like a girl, by the way.”

  “I am a girl.” I grit my teeth. “And I stomped. I did not hit.”

  “Either way, it was an assault, and on a teacher, no less.” I feel the rumbles of his chest as he speaks, making me realize how close I am to him, to his body.

  It’s warm and hard and breathing. It feels exotic, like something I’ve never felt before, which is an absolute lie because I have felt a masculine body before—the night Caleb and I had sex. Why does this feel so different and new?

  I should step back. I know it, but I can’t. My anger is slowly draining out of my body and something else is filling up the emptiness inside me. My unruly foot inches closer, blindly searching for his foot. Once found, I tap the toe of his boot. “You’re not my teacher, remember?”

  Thomas looks down at our feet, connected on the ground, my pointed tip attached to his blunt one. It’s a childish gesture without any importance, but still, I love how our feet look on the snow-patched earth. We gaze up at the same time, and together, we swallow, part our lips, exhale foggy breaths.

  Before I can analyze what’s happening, the screech of the door opening breaks the moment and I step back.

  “Thomas. I had a feeling I’d find you here.” It’s a woman, short and sleek, with a blonde bob.