**I do not own these characters. First chapter Is a bit slow, but bear with me ;-) **
I think every one's lives can be categorized into two parts: Before and After.
Everyone has one event in their life, one decision that determines their life's course. It may not be as dramatic or heartbreaking as some, but it still sets their path. Maybe you chose to go to one college over another, maybe you decide to give that person another shot, or maybe you take that risky new job. Those are decisions, and regardless of how insignificant or significant they feel, they make up your life and set you on your course.
I can remember the exact day and time my life split into the Before and the After. I was eight years old, spending the night with Allison Riddle. There were a group of us girls there, stuffed on pizza and ice cream, giggling about the idea of boys (I can't say we had already figured out all the semantics) and painting our toe nails. Even then, I was a quiet girl. I had the softest laugh, always looking at Allison to make sure I was matching her. I never wanted to be different.
But I was different – while all the other girls were contently falling asleep, I was on the verge of tears. I wanted my parents, mom specifically. I was eaten up with homesickness, even though I had only been away for the day. It wasn't the first time. I was prone to becoming homesick at overnight visits, trying not to give in but I usually always padded into the friend's parent's room to wake them up, asking them as politely as I could if I could use their phone as I didn't feel too well. That night, July 31, was no different. While everyone drifted off to sleep, I crept over their sleeping bodies and made my way to Mr. and Mrs.'s Riddle's room. It was 12:42, according to Allison's digital clock perched on her pink nightstand.
Maybe I should have just been honest. Instead, a lie came out smoothly. "Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Riddle," and at their blurry, squinty eyes as they struggled to find the switch to their bedside lamps, I clarified, "It's Tessa. Um, I'm sorry to wake you, but I'm really not feeling well. Can I call my mom?' I was too embarrassed to tell anyone I was homesick, that the turning feeling in my stomach wasn't because I was ill but rather because I missed my bed, I missed my stuffed animals. I missed having my mom still tuck the covers around me and kiss my forehead.
"Of course," Mrs. Riddle took my hand and I let her baby me, feigning that it was because I was sick but really, I just wanted my mom. I had always been my mother's girl. She led me down the hall and downstairs, into the kitchen. She felt my forehead, her lips pursed as she checked for any temperature.
"I'm sorry," I mumbled, and I remember that she waved the apology off even as her eyes were heavy with sleep.
"No problem, sweetie," she said. "Want me to call for you?"
I shook my head. I wanted to hear my parent's voice, whichever one answered. "I can do it." I punched in the numbers, listening to each ring. On the fifth one, a groggy voice answered.
"Hello?" It was dad.
"Hi, daddy," I whispered, "It's Tess."
"Well, that party must be boring if you have time to call your old man," I could hear the smile in his voice, "Want me to come save you from it?"
I smiled, glancing at Mrs. Riddle who was peeking in the fridge. "I'm not feeling too well," I said, but I knew dad would know what I meant.
"Mom and I will come get you," he said, "Give us about a half hour, alright?"
"Thank you," I whispered, and I could hear my mom murmuring in the background. "Love you."
"Love you to, my girl," dad had said, "We'll be there soon."
I clicked the phone off with relief. Mrs. Riddle was walking back towards me, a piece of left over pizza in her hand. "You managed to get them?"
I nodded. "They're on the way. Thank you."
She smiled and sat down across from me. Together, we waited. Fifteen minutes. Thirty minutes. Forty five minutes. An hour. I remember Mrs. Riddle fidgeting after the hour mark. I knew she probably wanted to crawl back in bed, it was almost two. Mr. Riddle came down the stairs, his footsteps heavy.
"Everything alright?" he asked, and I nodded.
"Just waiting on my parents," I said. I didn't notice Mrs. Riddle fidgeting, her eyes looking at her husband with a worried look.
"Let's try them again," she suggested, taking the phone. It rang, going to our answering machine. Ten minutes later, she tried again with the same result.
I started to get scared. What if they were lost? What if they had broken down? It didn't matter that they knew where Allison's house was, maybe it was harder for them to find it in the dark. Maybe the car had a flat tire. My eyelids felt heavy, and I don't remember who carried me from the kitchen chair to the sofa, or who covered me up with a heavy blanket.
I woke up to a police officer. I was startled at first, expecting to see my mom or dad, expecting that I would be surrounded by my stuffed animals. The woman was nice, with big brown eyes and a big smile. She asked if I wanted to go get some breakfast with her.
There's no easy way to tell some on their parents have died. I imagine it's even harder trying to explain that to an eight-year-old girl, while giving her doughnuts at a police station. I wished Nate were beside me. He always knew what to do, what to say. Where I was quiet, he was bold. Where I was shy, he was brave. Even at eight, it was easy to see who the shining star was and who was the shadow of the flame. I never begrudged Nate for his charismatic personality– I envied it.
While coming to pick me up, my parents had stopped for a coffee together at McDonald's. They pulled out, coffee cups still hot, driving under the traffic light. To their left, two teenagers ran their red light and slammed right into my parents. My mom was killed on impact. My father died at the scene, while paramedics tried to stabilize him. One of the teenagers died, the other supposedly lived. Sometimes, I wonder where he or she is. If that night changed their life as much as it changed mine. If they regretted having enough alcohol in their system to knock out a horse. If they ever wished they had just stayed home that night, instead of speeding through an intersection, leaving three dead.
Nate was never the same towards me afterwards. I can still remember each word he said after our parent's death, every syllable cutting like a knife.
"If you weren't such a big fucking baby!" he had roared at me, tears streaming down his face. We were at the police station, seeing each other for the first time since the news. I recoiled, not used to hearing that type of language – especially from my brother. A police officer had placed a hand on his shoulder, trying to calm him down and I cowardly hid behind the woman officer. I couldn't face Nate's words, because I knew they were true.
If you weren't such a big fucking baby. He was right. If I hadn't been such a baby, I would have never called my parents in the early morning hours, setting their deaths in motion.
The week after their death was a blur. I stayed at Mr. and Mrs. Riddle's house, mostly curled up on the couch with Bluey, my stuffed bear. I had had him since I was a baby, according to mom. I remember just staring at the wall, wondering how it was possible my world had been flipped upside down, everything precious in it dumped out, and then twisted right side up again and I was expected to be the same. And while my parents were the two who died, it might as well have been Nate to. He refused to talk to me until the funeral, where he sat rigidly beside me. He took my hand in his and I looked up, feeling a relief like no other settle on my body. Then, I felt his nails digging into me. I tried to pull my hand away, but his grip was like steel.
"I hate you," he snarled out of the corner of his mouth, so softly that only I could hear it, "I wish you were dead instead."
Oh, so do I.
After my parents were laid to rest, the issue came up of where to place Nate and I. We had no family, save for an aunt, my mother's sister. Harriet, was her name. I had never met her and my parents seldom spoke of the blonde haired, blue eyed younger woman. It was easy to forget she even existed.
I had two social workers assigned to my case, their names never memorized but I can still remember their faces. They were scary; one being short and plumper, the other tall and lean. I can remember their long fingernails, how when they touched me it sent a shiver up my spine. When they smiled, it never reached their eyes. They had dark and black personalities, with looks to match.
"Your aunt can take in you," one of the women had looked at me, "But your brother will be staying with Mr. and Mrs. Lambert." I knew Mr. and Mrs. Lambert. Their son, Michael, was Nate's best friend. I wondered briefly why Mrs. Riddle wouldn't let me stay with her. I wanted to be with someone familiar, not sent off to a stranger. When I voiced those thoughts, the taller woman had smiled at me.
"Your aunt is very excited to bring you home," she said, "She said she has always wanted a daughter."
From there, it was one week before I made the move from New York. It seemed bizarre, the idea of moving from New York to London. An entirely different country, where nothing was familiar. Did they even have McDonald's in London?
I kept expecting Nate to come see me before I left. I waited, staring at the door to Riddle home. Friends from school visited, handing me cards and notes, little trinkets to remember them by. Allison cried with me, letting me sleep in her bed as I tried to process what was happening.
Nate never came, and soon Mr. Riddle was driving me to the airport, where I was meeting someone who would accompany me as I traveled to London. With my clothes packed and my stuffed animals tucked carefully in my carry on, I stepped out of the car and took a breath. I could do this. Aunt Harriet was the closest thing to my mother now and I tried to be optimistic as I boarded the plane, telling myself that this was where mom would want me. It didn't matter that she or Aunt Harriet had not spoken in years, it only mattered that she was mom's sister. This was the right choice.
Aunt Harriet had picked me up when we landed at London City airport. She stuck out, standing still in the rush of people. She had on a long skirt and a grey turtleneck, with a black sleeveless vest overtop. Her hair, which looked more gray than blonde, was pulled up in a tight bun. I could see slivers of my mother in her; they both had big blue eyes, with dark lashes framing them. Aunt Harriet was a little plumper than my mother had been, but still pretty. Her mouth was pressed in a firm line and I hesitated, feeling suddenly sick. What if she doesn't like me? I chided myself. She asked to bring you to live with her. She wants you. Of course she likes you!
I argued with myself for only a moment, until the woman in charge of making sure I arrived safely nudged me forward. Aunt Harriet's eyes landed on me and swept over my appearance. I shyly waved, walking towards her.
"Theresa?" she asked. I nodded, trying to be polite.
"I usually go by Tessa," I told her, forcing a smile. She didn't return the gesture.
Aunt Harriet and the woman chatted, going over a few papers. I stood to the side, clutching my bags. After a few moments, I reached a hand into my carry on and felt for Bluey's familiar soft fur. I clutched his ear, whispering that it was going to be alright. We were going to be alright.
"It's been a pleasure," the woman – I wish I could remember her name – smiled down at me. "Enjoy London, Tessa. Take care."
Aunt Harriet put a hand on my shoulder, pulling me along beside her. The airport was bustling, and I could smell all sorts of food. My stomach growled – I had only eaten airplane food and it wasn't very filling. Still, something told me not to ask Aunt Harriet if we could stop to eat.
Neither of use spoke as she hailed a cab, letting me climb in first. We drove through the bustling streets, the sound of car horns and shouting surrounding us. I wondered why Aunt Harriet had decided to move to London, what had made her leave America so willingly. I cast a glance at her, but she was staring firmly ahead, her mouth still pressed in a thin line. I wondered if I had already done something to make her angry. She reminded me of how Nate had been towards me after our parent's death.
"Thank you for picking me up," I tried, hoping to show her I could be polite. She glanced down at me.
"Did you think I was going to make you walk?" the words came out matter of factly, no teasing about them. Still, I tried to smile.
"Hopefully not, with all this traffic."
She raised an eyebrow but didn't say anything else. I settled by the window, pressing my forehead against the cool glass. The rain had let up some, but there was still a slight drizzle.
The traffic eventually thinned, the tall buildings replaced with flat pastures. I smiled at them, taking in how green everything looked. The cab driver was playing jazz, I can remember that. My father loved jazz.
I pushed the memory down. I wasn't going to think about my parents, not right now. I needed to stay calm, to show Aunt Harriet I wasn't going to be a big fucking baby. Nate's words rang in my head. I dug my fingernails into my palms, ignoring the tightness of my throat.
When we pulled up to Aunt Harriet's house, I had a genuine smile. It was cute, with a small yard and a fence separating the close neighbors. She paid the cab fare, and I followed out behind her with my bags. There were flowers in the front, roses blooming with climbing vines stretching up on trellises. She unlocked the door, ushering me in.
"Your house is lovely," I said. Looking back, I almost want to slap my younger self. I thought I could convince people that I was a sweet little girl by giving compliments. By smiling. I was naive, then. Naive of who I was.
"I hope you're ready to work off the cab fare it took to get you here," she said, shutting the door. She looked down at me as I narrowed my eyes, confused.
"I don't have any money," I whispered.
"Of course you don't," Aunt Harriet spat at me, "Which is why you will be working your debt off." She sighed, shaking her head at me. "I've got a lot of work to do with you."
The first night, Aunt Harriet went through my clothes. All of my pants were donated, all shirts with logos across the front were as well. You don't want people looking at you there, do you? She had sneered. I didn't understand what she meant, but I let her take the shirts away. I couldn't stop my tears as she threw away some of my favorite tank tops, clothing I remember buying with my mom.
"We'll go out tomorrow and buy you appropriate clothing," Aunt Harriet said. I nodded, holding my breath as she searched my carry on bag. She pulled Bluey out, along with Lilah, Ruff, Phoebe and Ike. My favorite stuffed animals who traveled all this way with me.
"You don't need all of those," she said, "Pick one."
My mouth dropped. "I can't," I stammered, "They're…they're…"
"They're junk," she said, "'Sodom's sins were pride, gluttony, and laziness, while the poor and needy suffered outside her door'. Do you know where that's from?"
Sodom? I tried to think. He was a book character, obviously. "Harry Potter?" I asked, hoping I was right. I could show Aunt Harriet that I was smart. I loved to read – it was one of my favorite things to do.
I was not expecting Aunt Harriet's hand to slap across my face. I fell, the shock of it knocking me down more so than the force. I held a hand to my face, looking up at her in disbelief. I had never been spanked – my parents believed in taking away mine and Nate's things when we misbehaved, or making us go to our rooms to sit, but they had never hit either of us. I didn't know what to do.
"Blasphemy," she howled, "How dare you talk about something so evil as if it could be scripture!"
Scripture. I knew that word – the quote was from the Bible? My parents had never been very religious. I had only gone to church a handful of times, and usually it was for VBS or other church functions. I couldn't remember going to church to just attend the service. We went with friends, but never as a whole family.
"I'm sorry," I stammered. I was trying to get on Aunt Harriet's good side, but instead I seemed to be making her even more upset. She crouched down to look at me, her lips curled.
"I took a chance on taking you in, Theresa," she said, "Your family was faithless and look what happened. They died because they lied, they sinned, and they thought they were better." She gestured towards the pile of clothes, all headed towards a donation center, and to my stuffed animals. "I will not have you grow up to be as gluttonous as they were. You do not need all of these things. You will keep only what you need, and the rest will be given to little girls who actually deserve it."
I didn't know what else to do, so I nodded. I don't think I really understood or believed what was going on. My heart was hammering. This wasn't real. None of this could be real. I would close my eyes, open them back up, and I would be back at home in New York, listening to my dad play his music and watch him kiss mom. Nate and I would both groan, making gagging noises as my parents laughed. I would watch mom cook and dad would do the dishes. Nate wouldn't hate me. We would enjoy summer vacation together, all of us, going on trips and taking ridiculous pictures.
But even as I tried to pretend any of that was feasible, I knew it wasn't. The images bursts and dissolved away, forcing me to look up at Aunt Harriet. I glanced at the stuffed animals and reached out to pull Bluey to me.
I wasn't hard to mold. While I fought it at first, lashing out when Aunt Harriet insulted my parents, I knew I would eventually accept that she was right. Because she was right. I did lie – I lied all the time when my parents were alive. It was my lie that caused their death. If I had told Mr. and Mrs. Riddle that I was homesick, instead of actually sick – would they have tried to comfort me, convinced me to stay through the night and they would take me home first thing in the morning? It would have saved my parent's lives. It would save my relationship with Nate.
I was liar and I was a sinner. Each night, Aunt Harriet sat down with me to read the Bible. We started at Genesis. She was surprisingly soft when she read from the Bible, her hard-pressed lips even smiling at some of the scripture. I wanted her to smile at me like that. So, when she gave me bible verses to memorize, I soaked them up. I parroted them back to her, hoping for an inkling of approval. Like I said, I was easy to mold.
I wore only skirts, making sure they came to at least my calf. When school started back in August, I behaved exactly as Aunt Harriet instructed.
"Look what happened to your parents," she chided me when I mentioned a classmate by name at home, "Do you really want to be the cause of someone else's death?" She had patted me on the shoulder then, gentle enough to make me lean into the touch. I was desperate for affection, regardless of who it came from or what form it took. Manipulation can feel good when your desperate.
"Focus on bettering yourself," Aunt Harriet murmured, "Then maybe you can think about making friends."
She was right. I needed to cleanse myself before I could bring anyone else in. I didn't want to hurt anyone else. The only girl Aunt Harriet didn't mind me conversing with was Jessamine, a girl my age whose family attended the same church. When I first met Jess, I was hoping for the best – she reminded me of Allison; pretty, confident and sharp. Jessamine made it clear quickly, however, that we were not friends. Even though we were in the same year, she ignored me completely.
It's funny how things can start to feel normal. After the first school year, it was hard to remember what my life in New York had been like. Had I really had many friends there? Was I really happy there, being as dirty and sinful as I must have been?
It's hard not to wonder, but as the years went by I settled. I adjusted. This was my life, a life that I deserved. And now, ten years later – months after of my eighteenth birthday – I'm zipping up the side of a jean skirt, glancing at myself in the mirror. I had my hair pulled up in a ponytail, wearing a simple blue cotton tee shirt. I bit my lip, giving myself a few extra minutes to run over my appearance. No make up, of course. That was prohibited, but I didn't mind. I would be clueless on how to apply it anyways.
I grabbed my bag off my bed, heading down the stairs. Aunt Harriet was cooking breakfast and I didn't want to seem unappreciative by diddle dallying upstairs.
"Theresa," she called my name as I stepped into the kitchen, "Good morning."
"Good morning," I said. I could smell the bacon, the sound of the grease popping filling my ears. My stomach growled. Dinner had been withheld last night, a small price to pay for forgetting to turn off the light in the living room before we left for Sunday night service at church. Aunt Harriet was frugal, and rightfully so. She worked as a book keeper for our church and hardly earned enough to support herself, much less me. We can't afford a higher electric bill. I hated that I still managed to forget to do my part, even after the ten years I had lived here.
"Excited for your first day?" she asked, using a fork to move the bacon from the pan to a plate. I licked my lips, trying not to eyeball it too much.
"Yes," I answered, honestly. I was excited, although I wasn't sure what for. Having passed my secondary GCSEs and completed my further education, I was now pursuing book keeping at a community college, following in Aunt Harriet's footsteps. I was fortunate enough to have the church cover my tuition, and with money I had saved up from babysitting for members of the congregation and working as a dog walker, I had enough to cover my books. I considered it a miracle that I even passed secondary school at all, considering school studies were never prioritized above church studies. I so often fell behind on my work then, struggling to keep up with the other students. Although I loved to read, you would be amazed at how many sinful books were apart of our curriculum. God will make a way for you to pass exams, without exposing yourself to these harmful ideas, Aunt Harriet would explain when I pulled out required readings for class. She would gently take them from my hands and place them in her room. Admittedly, I did sometimes pull the books from the school library during lunch or my free period to skim them over. It was bad, and I felt guilty each time. But the higher test scores outweighed the guilt.
Aunt Harriet made me plate, piling eggs onto the plate. I nearly snatched the plate from her hands but restrained myself. She always looks for things like that, ways to prove that I'm not quite cured.
We sit down to eat, a silence falling over the room. I try to eat slowly,savoring each bite.
"I hope you continue your progress this year," Aunt Harriet says, drinking her coffee. I look up quickly, trying to figure out the best thing to respond with. An "I'll try" or an "I will" are not appropriate responses, I had learned from past experience.
"I pray that I'm able," I finally settle on, looking back down at my plate.
Aunt Harriet nods and I let out a soft breath of relief.
"You've made drastic improvements," she admits, "But there's still work left to be done. College is not the same as regular school. There will be older people in there, worldly people who have not had the discipline you were lucky enough to have. It will be tempting." She gives me a knowing look. "But I expect you to be strong." She takes a breath. "I'm proud of how you've progressed, Theresa."
My eyes dart up. A compliment? I feel my lips spread into a smile. "Thank you, Aunt Harriet. I-," I hesitate, "I want to make you proud."
Her smile falls off her lips and she nods abruptly. "I believe you still have the capacity to do that."
We finish the rest of our meal in silence and I do the dishes, keeping an eye on the clock. I'll have to walk to the bus stop to arrive to the community college. Aunt Harriet gets ready for work, still in her room when it's time for me to leave. I lean close to her door.
"I'm leaving for class now," I tell her, "Have a good day at work."
"Don't forget your scripture," she replies. I wait a moment to see if she will say anything else, but at the silence I go to pick up my bag. I stop at the door, murmuring the words out loud. "Create in me a clean heart, O God. Renew a loyal spirit within me." I know Aunt Harriet is probably pressed against her door, straining to hear me repeat our morning scripture or hoping to catch me sneak out without saying it.
The sun is out today, which I like to take as a good omen. I trudge towards the bus stop, waving at Ms. Daly, who lived two houses down from us. She nods at me, carrying boxes to her car. I start to ask if she needs help, but decide against it. Bridget Daly may be small, but she is tough as nails. I'm afraid she would be offended if I assumed she couldn't handle a few boxes on her own.
The bus ride to the college is brief. I sit against the window, watching the hustle and bustle of the town around me. Riding the bus was my favorite thing as a child, when Aunt Harriet would send me off to collect something. I was never afraid, never nervous of the strange people who boarded. I loved watching them, imagining what their lives were like. If they were happy.
Being a book keeper was never something I had dreamed about, but it seemed like the right thing to do. I had already learned much of the trade from my aunt but getting a degree in it would make me more competitive, so Aunt Harriet said. I swallowed hard as I stepped off the bus, checking my wrist watch for the time. I didn't have a cell phone – what was the point? There was no one to talk to, although sometimes I dreamed about Nate calling. I push the thought away quickly. I can't think about that today, especially considering Nate had still never made contact with me since our parent's funeral. I had no clue where he was, now.
I had fifteen minutes to walk from the bus stop to class, which was easily doable. A few other people trudged behind me and I wondered if they would be in any of my class.
I wasn't going to allow myself to be nervous. Nervousness meant a lack of faith in God and Aunt Harriet had raised me better. I forced myself to walk into the class with my chin up, my eyes surveying the room quickly. A dark haired woman sat behind a desk, her head bent down over a stack of papers, but no one else had arrived yet. I took a breath. If I could survive primary school, this would be a piece of cake. The woman smiled at me as I sat down and opened her mouth, starting to say something.
And then it happened. One moment, my life had been neatly divided into the Before and After. There was no after the After. There was just the now. A clean split between two parts of my life. But as I sat down, nervously tucking a stray piece of hair behind my ear, I heard a voice coming from the doorway.
"Charlotte, is Henry's wallet in your bag? He's just sent me a text to ask you."
I turned my head instinctively towards the voice, glancing to see who it was. My eyes met a pair of blue ones, but they were not like any blue I had seen before. Where my eyes were gray, my mother's a pale blue, this man's eyes were nearly violet. Dark lashes framed them, drawing my attention to his sharp cheekbones when he blinked. He was tall, leaning in the doorway with his arms crossed casually. He looked back at me easily and I jerked my gaze away. Aunt Harriet was right – college was not like school so far. School had never had boys who looked like that.
"Oh, you've got to be kidding," the dark brunette woman sighed, "That man would lose his head if it wasn't attached." Although the words themselves were harsh, the woman said them with such a fondness it was obvious she wasn't truly upset. I watched as she rummaged through her bag. "What in the world – why would he put his wallet in my purse?"
"He said he stuck it in there before doing laundry," the man at the doorway said. I could hear the smile in his voice, but I refused to look at him. My first day out in the real world, and I was already failing Aunt Harriet.
The man walked towards the desk, the woman – Charlotte – pulling out brown billfold from her bag.
"I'll pretend that makes sense," she said, "But why didn't he just text me, instead of you? Shouldn't you be headed to class?"
"He said he tried, but you didn't answer."
I watched the woman rummage in her bag, pulling out her phone. A crease formed in her forehead. "Oops." She sighed. "I'll run it over to him." She walked briskly towards the door, revealing her small frame. As she walked out the door, she pivoted to glance at me. "Welcome to the first day of classes!"
I smiled back, watching her vanish down the halls. The man moved towards my table, shaking his head.
"You're in for a treat," he smiled, "Want to take a bet on how many times Charlotte will have to leave class to deliver something to her husband?"
I stared up at him, dumbfounded. It wasn't like I had never spoken to the opposite gender before; I was around boys during school and church all the time. But none of them had looked like this, it was ridiculous. I was ridiculous, getting so knocked off track over a pretty face. I clenched my fist under the table, taking a breath. This was a test. Everything in life was a test to prove if you were truly faithful. I would be nice, that was the Christian thing to do.
"She seems nice," I mumbled, nodding to where Charlotte had gone. The man's eyebrows shot up.
"You're American?" he asked. I nodded.
"Well, what are you doing here? America get too bloody boring? Tired of Trump?"
I didn't like his tone and I certainly wasn't going to explain my life story to a stranger. "I'm taking the level one book keeping class."
He laughed then, a deep sound. It was almost infectious, and I had to stop myself from smiling along with him.
"I see. I would travel across the world to take Charlotte's book keeping class, too. She's brilliant."
"Is she your mom?" the question slips out, surprising me. The two really don't look alike, but they seem to be close.
"No," he answers quickly, frowning. "She's been in love with me for ages, though. Poor girl. I have to keep telling her it will never work, not with her being already married and all."
Now my eyebrows shoot up. He waits a few beats before grinning at me. I let out a breath.
"You're joking," I confirm.
His grin widens. "You American's all so serious?"
Again, my lips twitch. It's amazing how ten years of strict teaching can fly out the window if you aren't careful. "I'm just here to learn."
He studies me for a moment, and I have to look down. Staring too much at him is like looking at a fire – I feel hot, a redness creeping up my neck.
"I'm William," he says, "William Herondale."
I continue to stare down at my notebook. Be good, Theresa. Be good. Think of your parents. Think of Aunt Harriet. Make them proud. Don't pull down your guard at a pretty face. The Devil was beautiful, too. It's almost as if the thoughts are spoken all in Aunt Harriet's voice. I can feel her gaze on me, even though I know she's at work. Did she set this up? Try to see how I would act with her so far away? It's a paranoid thought, but I can't shake it. My hands feel sweaty. I may be eighteen, but that still wouldn't stop Aunt Harriet from using a belt to slap my bare legs. My knees were still healing from last week, where I had to kneel on a pile of Grits, the sand like pieces biting into my skin for over an hour. It was a repentance for taking a bite of food without thanking God first.
The man – William – stares at me expectantly. He ignores the woman who walks in the class, and the man after her. People are trickling in, meaning the class must be due to start soon. I wonder if William is in it – what a nightmare that would be.
"Thersea." I don't offer a last name and I don't look at him while I tell him. When he speaks, his voice is softer.
"Theresa. That's a pretty name." His fingers rap against the table. "It was a pleasure meeting you, America. I'm sure I'll see you around."
He leaves then, striding out the door as if this entire campus belongs to him. I watch, letting my eyes linger longer than they should on his shoulders. The woman who came in after me sucks in a breath.
"Good Lord," she sighs, "They did not make them like that when I was your age."
I offer her a small smile, trying to be polite without confirming what she said. But the truth was, my neck was still hot, and I could feel something shifting. Something told me that would not be the last I saw of William Herondale.