I find myself wanting to know more about her, everything about her, to fuse her to me.
Forever.
I return to my desk and sit down, staring at the blank page, knowing that the words won’t come.
The only thing I can focus on is her, her, her.
Over and over, she sighs and sings and creams in my mind.
Again and again, I devour her.
And she screams at me to do it harder, deeper, to take every part of her.
Fuck.
This is getting too damn difficult and it’s only day one.Chapter FiveTessFor the next lesson – three days after the first one – the class sits outside, the afternoon unusually warm and sunny even for this time of year. The world is infused with a yellow glow and we all face Tanner, standing at the front without his suit jacket on, his shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal the corded firmness of his muscles.
I sense myself shifting on the spot as I gaze at him, Gizmo sitting in my lap since Kaitlyn is working back-to-back shifts and I don’t like to leave him on his own for too long. He lies on his back, fur covered paws extended in the air and almost purring as I stroke his belly.
Three days …
Three days of thinking about you, Tanner. Three days of imagining the searing rage on your face turning to searing something-else. Three days of wishing you’d see me as more than a student.
“Now that we’re all settled,” Tanner says, his voice carrying easily over the community college green. Around us, other students walk up and down the paths, a few riding bikes and one person roller skating happily by. “Let’s discuss what we’ll be doing today.”
I notice Firecracker Red leaning back in her summer dress, highlighting the litheness of her legs, leaning up on her elbows, and letting the hot pink strap of her bra fall over her shoulder.
I sit there feeling ungainly and unattractive in comparison, dressed in jeans and a baggy T-shirt. I have to tell myself over and over that it doesn’t matter. We’re not here to vie for the attention of Tanner Telford, at least not in that way.
We’re here to learn.
Focus, Tess.
Gizmo peers up at me, tongue hanging out, head cocked. I realize I’ve stopped rubbing his belly and promptly start again before the little man can kick up a fuss. He closes his eyes and picks up his soft groaning.
“It might seem a little childish,” Tanner goes on, “but I want to start with a writing exercise that explores the concept of authorial ownership. Starting out, most – or at least many writers – are married to the idea that their work is their love child. So what we’re going to do is pair off and write a very short piece of work together, one sentence at a time. I’m sure many of you did this when you were kids and maybe you think you’re above it. But much of being a writer is about reclaiming what you lost when you grew up, that sense of wonder, the majesty of imagination.”
I stare as he talks, his strong jaw covered in a light smattering of salt and pepper. His swept hair seeming more relaxed today, more natural. Everything about him exudes casual power, as though he decided a long time ago he’d never back down, never be nervous, never be susceptible to the things that we normies have to worry about.
My heart pounds and tingles dance all over me.
Stop hero worshipping. You’re here to learn. You’re here to work.
“So lets all pair off, shall we?”
A familiar sensation falls over me as I watch the rest of the class drift toward the social groups they’ve already established. Just like in high school, I find myself sitting alone, some cruel thread of anxiety in me preventing me from making the first move and offering to pair up with somebody.
And then I realize, with a pang in my chest, that everybody has already paired up and I’m just sitting there. I turn down to Gizmo, running my hand over his ears, under his furry chin.
“Just you and me, huh, buddy?”
“The only rule is that each of you must write one sentence each,” Tanner calls over the class.
I stare down at Gizmo, as though looking away will let everybody know that I’ve been left out.
Just like high school.
Then a shadow moves over us, blotting out the sun, and Gizmo lets out a small whimpering noise that people who don’t know him would think means he’s anxious or distressed. But I’ve come to associate that noise with his favorite toy or anticipation of a treat.
Excitement makes him yip again and then he rolls over, pawing at the shadow’s pant leg.
I look up at Tanner, his icy blues biting into me, melting something inside of me, making me feel tongue tied and dorky immediately.