Page 24

Chapter twenty-four

Mike

I tapped my pen against my desk, staring at the open textbook in front of me, but the words blurred together. The murmuring of my students filled the room, a low hum of discussion as they worked through the assigned reading, but I wasn’t really listening.

My thoughts were everywhere—and nowhere—and in only one place.

On him.

On Elliot.

It had been two days since he’d left, driving out ahead of the storm before it closed interstates and grounded flights across the region. And now, Hurricane Beatrice had slammed her purse against the Florida Panhandle like some spurned lover bent on vengeance, tearing her way up into Georgia.

I had no idea where he was, if he was safe, if he was caught in the worst of it.

He’d texted me late last night— Long day. Heading out at first light. Be good —but nothing since then.

I told myself that was normal.

He was probably too busy to check his phone.

He’d get in touch when he could.

But the silence gnawed at me.

It was stupid, how much I missed him already.

We’d only known each other a couple of weeks.

Hell, we hadn’t even defined whatever this was. And yet, I couldn’t stop thinking about him, about the way he’d looked at me that last night, his tough exterior cracking just enough for me to see something real underneath.

About the way he’d asked me if I’d wait.

I had meant it when I said yes.

But I knew we were getting ahead of ourselves.

We needed to slow down.

I’d done this all before—let myself fall too fast, let myself want too much—and it never ended well.

And Elliot wasn’t the type to settle down, was he?

He lived his life on the move, going wherever he was needed, whenever he was needed.

And I was, well, me.

I had a steady job, a life built around routines and predictability. I was comfortable, teaching my students, grading papers, going for runs in the morning before school.

Elliot was a storm in his own way, unpredictable and untethered. He was a volatile influence, one diametrically opposed to the stability I craved.

So why did it feel like I’d been waiting for him to crash into my life?

I sighed, rubbing a hand over my face. I needed to get my shit together. I was sitting in the middle of my own damn class, spacing out like some lovesick idiot.

I forced my attention back to the room, my eyes scanning the students, making sure they were actually working. Most of them were. A few whispered back and forth, trying to keep their conversations low. A couple were just staring at their books, likely wishing the words would rearrange themselves into something interesting.

Then I noticed a girl—Olivia—watching me with a curious expression and her hand in the air, the other hand bracing her arm as though she lifted a thousand-pound dumbbell.

“Uh . . . Mr. Albert?” she asked hesitantly.

Shit. Had she been talking to me? What time was it? Were we still in class?

I straightened, setting my pen down. “Yeah, um, yes?”

She gave me a cautious smile, as though she wasn’t sure if she was about to get into trouble. “I was just wondering if you were okay. You looked kinda . . . out of it.”

I blinked.

That a student had picked up on me spacing out made me want to sink through the floor. I was supposed to be the responsible adult here, not another kid getting caught daydreaming in class.

“I’m fine.” I cleared my throat. “Just a little tired.”

She nodded, but the curiosity didn’t fully leave her face.

I waved a hand. “Don’t worry about me. Focus on your assignment.”

She turned back to her book, but I still felt like an idiot.

The rest of class passed in a blur, and when the bell rang, I let out a slow breath, relieved for the break.

I grabbed my lunch—yes, the one I’d actually packed myself—and made my way to the gym where Mateo was already waiting on the bleachers, scrolling through his phone.

When he saw me, he grinned. “Damn. You brought your own lunch? Who are you, and what have you done with my friend?”

I rolled my eyes as I sat beside him, setting my Tupperware on my lap. “Ha, ha. Look at the funny Italian making funny Italian jokes.”

“That’s a racial slur,” he said, donning mock outrage. “I’ll call HR.”

“We work in a high school. HR gave up years ago.”

He snorted. “ Così vero .”

“Don’t start talking all sexy on me. I can barely resist your accent as it is.”

His eyes danced as he laughed. “You like my accent? This old thing?”

“I’m not afraid to dump my lunch on your perfect hair.”

He wiggled his ridiculously bushy brows. “Now you like my hair. Keep this up and I might think you have a crush.”

I groaned. “One baffling man in my life is more than enough, thank you very much.”

He eyed me a moment, watched my shoulders slump as I popped the lid on my lunch and quietly set about stirring without actually eating it.

“Seriously, should I be worried? You never bring food from home, and you look like you want to toss it across the gym more than eat it.” He smirked. “Did Elliot cook for you before he left? Because I know you didn’t make anything that isn’t charred beyond recognition, and I swear to God, if you’re out here getting homemade meals from your—”

“He’s not my anything ,” I cut in, already feeling my face heat up.

Mateo cocked a caterpillar. “Uh-huh. Sure.”

I ignored him, stabbing my first bite and lifting it from the Tupperware. “And no, he didn’t cook for me. I just . . . didn’t feel like buying something today.”

I didn’t look at him, but I could feel Mateo studying me. It felt like he could see right through my bullshit, and unfortunately, he probably could.

“All right,” he said, stretching his legs out in front of him. “Let’s hear it.”

I finally lifted the fork to my mouth, chewed slowly, debating how much I wanted to say. But it wasn’t like I could keep anything from Mateo for long.

So, I told him.

About that last night before Elliot left.

About the way I’d caught Elliot watching me sleep, like he was trying to memorize me.

About the way he’d asked if I’d wait.

About how much I already missed him, which was insane because, again, it had only been a few weeks.

Mateo listened, nodding along, his expression unreadable. When I finally finished, he let out a long whistle.

“Damn,” he said. “You’ve got it bad.”

I groaned. “Don’t start.”

“I’m just saying, you sound like a guy who’s already in pretty deep.” He leaned back on his elbows. “So . . . what’s the problem, amico mio ?”

“The problem?” I said, picking at my food, again forgetting that the goal was to get it into my mouth. “The problem is that I don’t know if this is anything. We haven’t talked about what we are, and I don’t want to be the idiot who assumes more than what’s actually there.”

Mateo hummed, considering. “Sounds like you already know it’s something. You’re just scared to admit it.”

“Not helping.” I scowled. “Besides, we’ve been on what? Three or four dates? What kind of idiot starts to fall that fast? I know better. Hell, I help students learn to take things a lot slower than this.”

“You what? Really? And they listen?”

I grunted a laugh. “No, not much, but I try.”

He grinned. “Okay, okay. Look, I get it. You don’t want to get ahead of yourself. You’ve done that before, and it didn’t end well. But—” He nudged my arm. “Elliot’s not your ex or anyone you’ve ever dated before. He’s not those other guys. He doesn’t deserve their baggage. Besides, if you’re really this messed up over him being gone for a few weeks, maybe that’s worth paying attention to.”

I sighed, rubbing the back of my neck. I knew he was right. I just didn’t know what to do about it.

Mateo clapped a hand on my shoulder. “Look, if he’s the right guy for you, you’ll figure it out. And if he’s not, well . . . I’ll be here to say, ‘I told you so.’”

“Of course you will.” I snorted. “You’re all heart.”

“Damn right.” He grinned, then gestured to my food. “Now hurry up and eat before I steal your lunch.”

I rolled my eyes but dug back in. Even with the weight of uncertainty sitting heavy in my chest, talking to Mateo helped.

Then my phone chimed.

We both stared down at the screen, neither of us moving, like it was a cobra coiled and ready to strike.

“Uh, Mike, that’s a text from Elliot.”

“Thank you, Captain Obvious. I can see that.”

Mateo cocked his head. “Are you going to look at it or wait for Martians to invade and read it to you?”

“Martians?” I blinked a few times.

He shrugged. “Best I could do in the moment. Read your damned text before I do.”

“You don’t know my—”

“Four, three, six, eight.”

“You little thief!” My jaw dropped. “You were one of those guys on the Italian Job, weren’t you? Like, in real life and shit.”

He snorted again. “Definitely and shit. Now, read your fucking text.”

“Fucking” came out like some sultry word I expected on the I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter commercial, all oily and oozy and so, so tasty.

“Fine.” I snatched my phone a heartbeat before his hand landed on the empty bleacher.

Pole Dude : Hey. We’re taking a break. It’s a complete shit show down here. Looks like a war zone. Wish you were here. Not really. Wish I was there . . . with you.

“Stop swooning and show me,” Mateo barked.

I was not swooning.

Okay, maybe a little.

I read the text aloud.

Mateo whistled. I was immediately jealous. I always wanted to learn to whistle but never had the pucker for it.

“He’s into you,” Mateo said.

“And you can tell that from one text?”

“Dude, he’s literally standing in the aftermath of a hurricane, and in his first moment free, he texts you? And he says he wishes he was with you? I swear you’re not as dumb as you look right now.”

“Dumb?” I huffed.

He crossed his arms. “Better answer him before he takes it wrong. Teen love is a tender thing.”

“Fuck off,” I said through an uncontained laugh. “We are adults, damn it. Now stop talking while I think of what to say in this note I’ll pass him in class.”

“That definitely sounds right,” he said. Asshole.

Me : I might miss you, too. A little. Only a little.

“You’re grinning so much I’m worried your face might break. Let me see that phone.”

I turned away, guarding my phone like it was the crown jewels. Mateo reached around me, grasping for it. Slapping ensued. Childish laughter, squeals, and giggles followed. When I looked up, three basketball players were standing on the court, mouths agape, watching us wrestle over my phone.

“Laps. Now!” Mateo barked. The boys snapped out of their haze, raced to drop their bags on the front riser, and began clomping around the outer edge of the court.

That’s when the Italian Job was completed, and my former friend got his greedy digits on my phone. It was still unlocked. Damn it.

“Pole Dude?” He burst out laughing, standing up and holding the phone away so it wouldn’t burn him—or rub off. “You named him ‘Pole Dude’? Is he an exotic dancer in his down time?”

“He’s a lineman. He climbs poles for a living. It’s a perfectly acceptable—”

“No, it’s not, but it’s very you, Mike Albert. So very you.”

The phone chimed again.

“Give me that!”

He held it away and read aloud.

Pole Dude : I can’t wait to see your couch again. You need to be even more verbal next time. Talk me through everything. Let me know how it feels, how you like it, how you want it. Let me know how bad you want my cock tickling all the way—”

“Oh . . . my . . . God. Give me my damn phone!”

He was howling, barely able to catch a breath, uttering a string of something in Italian I was sure would embarrass Mrs. H—and she was unflappable. But he gave me back my phone.

Sure enough, Elliot had laid out his plans for our next sexual encounter, complete with a detailed description of how Tab A would slide into Slot B over and over and over until Body C couldn’t move anymore.

If I hadn’t been so mortified, I would’ve been turned on.

I typed, holding my phone well away from Italian prying eyes.

Me : Let’s set my ass aside for the moment. Are you okay? Are you safe?

Pole Dude : I can’t remember the last time someone asked me that.

Holy shit. Even his friends? Was this guy secretly living on a deserted island with no one but his volleyball or soccer ball or whatever the fuck kind of ball Tom Hanks lost his mind with?

Me : That didn’t answer my question. I’m a professional at getting teenagers to open up. Resistance is futile. You will be assimilated.

Pole Dude : Ha. Okay, Mr. Borg. Whatever you say. And yes, I’m perfectly safe. Electricity and water are an awful mix, but we have protocols for situations like this. Injuries are rare. I’ll be fine.

My stomach churned. Something about that wasn’t very reassuring.

Before I could type another message, my phone dinged.

Pole Dude : Sorry to chat and run. Gotta go. I’ll call later, okay? Try not to think about me too much.

Asshole! Of all the arrogant, cockeyed, jerky things to say at the end of a text.

And I couldn’t stop staring at it—and smiling.