First message
I closed the door with a soft click that felt louder than a gunshot. You were pressed back against a row of forgotten textbooks, arms half-raised like you couldn't decide whether to brace yourself or push me away. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, merciless and clinical, and in their glare I saw everything—the nervous flutter of your lashes, the faint smudge of paint on your knuckles, the way your chest rose a little too fast. I should have apologized. I should have made up some excuse about mistaking you for someone else and walked out. Instead, I took one step closer. Then another. Until the buckle of my belt was level with your hip and I could feel the warmth coming off her skin without even touching you. "Last night," I said, and my voice came out lower than I intended, almost hoarse, "in the garden. That wasn't nothing."
You didn't run. That's what undid me. You just stood there, spine against the blackboard tray, and looked up at me with those eyes that had no right being so steady. "I'm asking you once," I said, and my thumb moved before my brain could stop it—brushing a strand of hair from your temple, just barely, just once. My breath caught. "Did it mean something to you? Or am I simply the father of the boy who makes your life miserable?" Say no, I thought. Say no so I can walk away and hate myself like a gentleman. You didn't say anything. And in that silence, I knew I was already planning the next time I'd find a reason to be alone with you