George’s expression shifts—the smugness gone and replaced by . . . panic? “Shay, I’m sorry. I want to know about your writing.”
I nod. Maybe he does. Maybe he’ll respect what I’ve done since he knows me and my other work. Or maybe he’ll think I’m wasting my time. Either way, I don’t want to be around him right now. “Another day,” I say, avoiding his eyes. “It’s not important.”
But it is. More important than I’ve wanted to admit to myself. So important that I only trusted the secret with Easton, who’s kept it for me all this time. I cringe. I may not know what to call what I have with George and I might be too much of a coward to ask about the ring, but I owe him honesty. “I need to tell you something.”
George tilts his head. “What is it?”
“Sunday night after we had dinner, I went to the bar. Easton was there.”
His face goes slack. Even pales a little. “Okay . . .”
“He kissed me.” I told myself it wasn’t a big deal, but seeing George’s face as I say the words makes me feel like shit. “I didn’t kiss him back. I pushed him away and told him I was seeing someone.” I swallow hard and step toward him, touch his chest. “It won’t happen again, but I wanted to tell you.”
He presses my palm to his chest, then dips his head to kiss me. It’s slow and lingering, and I wait for it to fill me with warmth. It doesn’t. When he pulls away, his eyes are dark. “Did his kiss feel like that?”
“No,” I whisper. Because it didn’t. Easton’s kiss felt like a promise. Like praise and worship. In the two seconds his lips touched mine, I was destroyed and rebuilt. No, George’s kiss feels nothing like Easton’s.
“Good,” he whispers, and I don’t correct him. I can’t bring myself to explain that it’s not good. It’s a mess. Everything’s a mess. “Can you drive back after Lilly’s class tonight? I want you in my bed.”
I wait for the tingle that should shoot through me, for the temptation of George’s bed to make me change my plans. It doesn’t come. Fuck you, Easton. “I really need to work on my revisions. I might be able to get them done early if I put my head down.”
He blows out a breath and straightens. I can practically see him mentally readjusting his expectations. “Early would be great. You could take a break.”
I look around, surveying George’s office. I’ve been teaching at Starling in a temporary position for the last two years, so it’s not like I don’t know what my life will be like if I find a tenure-track job. Teaching, grading, faculty meetings, advising undergrads, and so fucking much committee work. Of that list, the only thing I find rewarding is the actual time in the classroom. I love watching students connect with literature—sometimes for the very first time in their lives. I love taking them by the hand and showing them that even though writing terrifies them, they have the tools they need to write a compelling paper. But the rest? Insert cringe. “I think I need the extra time to explore my options for next year. I’ve been so busy finishing this degree and getting qualified for tenure-track positions that I’m not sure I’ve given enough thought to whether or not that’s what I really want.”
“Shay . . .” He studies me, disappointment creasing his brow. “Don’t let this guy ruin your plans. I know he’s all flash and money, and I’m sure that’s appealing to you after working so hard and earning so little, but don’t let him ruin everything you’ve worked for.” He wraps his hand around my wrist and rubs his thumb against the pulse point. “Don’t let him ruin the few months we have left together.”
“I can’t deny that seeing Easton again is messing with my head.” I wave a hand between our bodies. “Messing with this.”
He nods. “I noticed.”
“And I am sorry about that. But the need to re-examine my career isn’t about Easton. It’s about me.” But maybe I needed Easton to remind me that I’m more than the alphabet soup behind my name, and that I’ve never cared about my career as much as I care about my family.
Easton
May 16th, ten years ago
The beach is a balm to my lonely soul. Always has been. I grew up on the coast of Lake Michigan and spent weekends running barefoot in the surf and high school nights kissing girls on blankets in the sand. Lake Michigan is no Pacific Ocean, but it’s so vast you can’t see anything but water along the horizon. The waves are nothing compared to the monster currents of the Pacific, but they’re there, even if they’re only a few feet high.