Page 115 of Dark Notes

Doesn’t really matter what we do as long as I have him to do it with.

When I graduate, we’ll be free of the student-teacher restriction. No more hiding and living in fear. Then…?

He says Leopold is mine if I want it. I don’t know how. If he breaks his deal with the dean, our entire world will come crashing down. I intend to pursue a spot there on my own. Maybe it’ll take me years. Maybe I’ll move there and knock on the recruiters’ doors every day until they get sick of seeing me.

He says he’ll move to New York with me while I work on my degree. That makes my heart soar, but I can’t ask him to leave his job and his family.

He says I can do whatever I set my mind on. I believe him.

December ends a discordant passage in my life, a coda to Treme and my broken family.

January is the prelude of a new song, promising a year of hard decisions.

February glides by in a glissando of homework, piano lessons, and quiet evenings with Emeric.

March kicks off with a countdown to spring break, unseasonably warm weather, and…

A bladder infection.

Squatting on the toilet, I hunch over in pain. I haven’t moved for thirty minutes, every teeny trickle of pee burning fire between my legs. “I’m going to be late for school.”

Emeric crouches in front of me and rests the back of his hand on my forehead, concern darkening his blue eyes. “Still no fever, but you’re staying home, and that’s final.” He shoves a glass of water in my hand. “Drink.”

More water means more urinating, which means more burning. “No more.”

He arranges my fingers around the glass, forcing me to hold it. “Dehydration is the reason you’re sitting here.”

“And too much sex.” I manage a grin and take a sip.

“No such thing.” His palms slide up my bare thighs, stroking tenderly. “Keep drinking.”

I force down the fluid with a glare. The black hair on top of his head is a finger-raked rebellion of sexiness, while the trimmed sides scream clean-cut Mr. Professor. With his freshly shaved jawline, potently masculine scent, and swank gray waistcoat and jacket, he’s ready to take on the world. Or at least, a school full of privileged teenagers.

My dirty ponytail hangs down the front of the only thing I’m wearing—his Guns N’ Roses t-shirt. I won’t be ready to go anytime soon. My stomach sinks. For the first time in four years, I’m going to miss a day of school.

“I know it hurts.” He takes the glass, sets it on the floor, and brushes his thumb over my bottom lip. “My dad’s bringing medicine.”

My body clenches against a sharp wave of pain, releasing another stream of pee. I groan, my eyes watering through the godawful burn.

“Fuck this.” He reaches for the knot on his tie. “I’m staying here.”

“What for?” I grab his hand, stopping his attack on the shirt collar. “What would you do? Sit in here and watch me pee all day?”

His eyes flash. “Yes.”

“Terrible idea.” I tangle our fingers together and hold them between my knees. “How will it look if we’re both gone? Neither of us ever miss school. People will notice.”

He drags his free hand down his face, his expression pained. The secrecy of our relationship, seeing me sick, leaving me alone, all of it torments him.

I lean in and kiss his mouth, wishing my teeth were clean. “This is embarrassing enough without your hawk eyes all up in my business.”

It’s really not that bad. I’m well-adjusted to his invasiveness. Whether I’m on my period or using the bathroom, he has no concept of personal boundaries, always hovering, interrogating, and examining me inside and out. I get it, though. Because I’m just as obsessed with him.

Straightening my back, I use one of his favorite commands. “Go.”

I expect his jaw to harden and his voice to crack the walls in his outrage. But what I find in his eyes is something wholly different. Something that’s been expanding between us for months, doubling in size when we’re together, and growing in strength when we’re apart. As if finally bold enough, everything we’ve ever felt for one another gathers into one monumental sentiment and shines from his gaze.

He wraps his hands around my hips. “I love you.”

There it is. Spoken without fireworks, received without weepy tears, and absorbed without the ricochet of distant thunder.

It’s simple, real, and right there in the open.

In a bathroom.

I grip his face, eyes connected, hearts beating in sync. “You waited until now to tell me that?”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “It’s not like you didn’t already know.”

“Yeah, but a girl doesn’t forget the first time her crush says those words.” I fight a grin. “I’ll always remember this moment with the image of a toilet seat imprinting a ring on my ass.”