Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 90795 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90795 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
C
Shivers attack every inch of my skin, running down my spine and leaving a trail of warmth in their wake. There’s no question who this is from. Did he put the V for my last name because I’d insisted he call me professor? Who does he think he is? He doesn’t even have a class with me today.
My first instinct is to pick up the bag and throw it away, but my hand lingers over the trash can, the strap on the bag feeling glued to my fingers. I did have breakfast before we left the house this morning. It was quiet, neither Nash nor Sadie speaking to me, but at least we didn’t have any drama. I didn’t bring lunch, though. I’d planned to grab something here. It would be silly to let the food go to waste.
Don’t do this. You’re not an idiot, James. You know what he’s trying to do, and the last thing you need is one of your students to tell you when and what to eat.
I shove the bag in a desk drawer, where I can pretend it’s not there, then pull out my laptop and set up the PowerPoint presentation. About fifteen minutes later, students begin filing into the room. Colton only has the one class with me, so I won’t see him again until Monday. That will give him time to get over whatever this food thing is—and why am I thinking about that when I should be preparing for my lesson?
Once this class is over, I drink a bottle of water and then proceed with the next one. I have three on Thursdays. My stomach is growling after my second class, and as I begin to pack my things to head for the dining hall, my gaze flickers to the drawer. I do have work to do. It would be easier to eat what Colton packed, before my appointment with my TA.
That’s what I tell myself, but I know the truth, know that there’s a part of me that wants to eat what Colton packed because he made it for me. He took the time to make me food when that’s not something many people, if anyone, has ever done for me. And on top of that is the truth that I want to do as he told me. I want to be good for him—not him specifically, but someone—because it makes me feel better…proud…like little parts of me are clicking into place.
Without letting myself think about it anymore, I jerk the bag from the drawer and go straight to my office, locking the door behind me. The lunch box taunts me as I set it on my desk, watching it like I expect the thing to begin performing for me.
“What the fuck am I doing?” I say into the empty room. This man is messing with my head. I sit in the chair and open the damn thing. There’s an ice pack keeping the sandwich fresh, cut-up strawberries in a container, and another with pasta salad, which he didn’t mention in his note.
That’s not what grabs my attention, though, not what hooks my gaze and won’t let go.
Inside the container is a sticky note with two words in bold letters.
GOOD BOY.
My skin flushes in a welcome way, my heart slowly accelerating. I shut down all the doubt, frustration, or any of the negative thoughts trying to fight me on doing this, and eat the lunch. When I finish, I fold the paper and put it in my briefcase before preparing for my meeting and then my final class of the day.
I think about the note too often—while driving home, while making dinner for Nash and Sadie, while checking over assignments.
“Do either of you have homework to do?” I ask the kids after dinner.
“I already did mine,” Sadie replies, while Nash ignores me.
“Okay. I can look over it if you need me to. Or if you ever need help, I’m here. I always loved school.”
Nash huffs out a sound of annoyance.
“I like it too,” Sadie says. “And thank you. We never had help before.”
I bite back the words I want to say—that that’s not how it’s supposed to be; that Sandra was a shitty mom who had no business having kids, and that there’s not a part of me that isn’t glad she’s gone. But I can’t say that. “I don’t know what I’m doing here. I’ve never been around children. This is all new to me, but I’m trying, and if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s school. We’ll figure it out.”
Sadie nods before going back to drawing. She’s very good for her age, and I’ve noticed she’s often sketching or doodling.
Even though Nash doesn’t respond, I feel a little lighter after my conversation with Sadie. I clean the kitchen, and then we all go to our rooms.