Work - Charlotte Day Wilson
'"Cause people come and go. But I think you should know. That I...I think this will work."
My fingers played with my bracelet nervously.
I stared out the window into the glistening sidewalk as the rain continued to pour down in the city. People rushed to find cover from the rain while others strolled casually with their umbrellas. Normally I hate the rain, or any cold wet thing close to that—but right now I'd much rather be out there than inside this cozy little coffee shop. Than with him.
"Isabella?" I sighed when he said my name from across the table where he sat, patiently waiting for me to acknowledge him.
Turning my attention away from the large window beside me, I briefly met Professor Whitlock's unwavering eyes. One hand lay flat on the table with the exception of his index finger that constantly tapped the wood.
"I'm sorry?" I practically whispered, flushing when I realized I hadn't been listening to him.
The corners of his full lips twitched slightly but there was no amusement in his eyes, "I asked, how old are you? Really?"
I frowned as I sit back in my seat, immediately on the defensive at his suggestive tone, "You say that rather accusingly, as if I'd lied to you about my age."
"Didn't you?" His raised an eyebrow.
"You made the mistake to assume but I never confirmed or denied my age because you never asked me." My tone came off rather whimsical as if I were Rosalie.
"There hadn't been enough time to ask," I swore he mumbled something along the lines of considering we were busy doing other things but he continues before I could interrupt him, "but I'm asking now. I could always look you up on the school records and find out but I wanted to hear it from you."
Crossing my arms I looked back out the window and gradually felt myself wanting to run away as quickly as possibly from this man. Correction: from my teacher.
"I'm eighteen. Last I checked that was the legal age of consent."
"Jesus," it was Professor Whitlock's turn to sit back in his seat right as the waitress brought over two mugs of coffee over. I'd insisted on ordering for myself but he had none of it and I caved in and ordered a latte to save myself from an argument I was sure to lose.
I watched as his hands moved to stir his black coffee with a spoon before putting it on the plate. I rolled my lips together as he brought the mug up to his lips and took a sip of the steaming drink. His eyes met mine halfway and stayed on me until he set the mug back down on the table, "You're staring, Isabella."
"So are you...and it's Bella. I prefer Bella," I repeated, forcing myself to take a drink of my latte to ignore the throbbing that started between my legs as I recalled where his mouth had been last week—the hickeys he'd left on my thighs had barely faded away and I still think I see each and every one of them on my pale skin. I murmured, "But you probably won't be calling me that either..."
"You're right, I won't," he states after hesitating for a few moments. "This is very bad. I could lose my job and you could get into a lot-"
"I know that," I responded right away, forcing myself to look at him and confront the problem we'd started unknowingly. "I'm not going to say anything, so don't worry about it."
Professor Whitlock crossed his arms as he looks at me rather incredulously. His muscles stretching the dark fabric and distracting me. God Swan, get it together!
"It's not that simple."
I took a big sip of my latte in order to finish as quickly as I could and get the hell out of here when I felt my courage gradually start to disappear the longer I'm around him.
"Look, Professor I get it. What we did—while unethical or whatever you want to call it—was consensual and completely legal. As far as I can tell, you care about your future just as much as I do so let's agree to never discuss this again and no one has to know."
"That's it? It's that simple for you?" He ran a hand through his blonde locks.
I frowned, grabbing my bag and pulling out my black round eyeglasses when a headache started coming on strong. I gingerly slid them on before zipping my bag closed again and standing up. Professor Whitlock looked up at me with a concerned, questioning look as I said with a shaky voice, "It's not simple. None of this is simple but I've been in worse situations to know that it'll be okay. If we keep it quiet. Look," I leaned down to whisper into his ear, "we had fun. That's what people do right? One night stands and all that. That's all we did so don't stress about it."
Liar, that's not at all what it felt like...
"I didn't think that's what-" he turned his head to look me in the eyes, both of us dangerously close now and I recalled the last time we'd been this close—the surety of that night, the way I'd felt safe in his arms as he took me and held me long after we'd fallen asleep. I bit my lower lip hard to shun those memories away—those forbidden memories that were sullied now in some ways. Professor Whitlock opened and closed his mouth a few times before whatever determination is seen on his face disappeared and a cool mask slipped on, "I see. Well thank you for taking the time to speak to me, Miss Swan."
"Thanks for the coffee, Professor Whitlock," I murmured before practically running out of the coffee shop and hailing a cab before he somehow decided to take me home.
The entire ride home I couldn't stop thinking about him. About the night we'd met or about this morning. Every word said was repeating in my head while the intoxicating scent of pine and rain followed me home.
Putting my hands on my warm face, I rested my head against the window and stared out into the city, "Damn it."
I didn't let myself wonder what he'd wanted to say before changing his mind.
It didn't matter now.
Professor Whitlock was my teacher and I was his student.
Long story short: it's never going to happen.
After spending a few hours at Jake's to take my mind off of things and get in a few laughs with his family, I decided to go home only to walk into utter chaos.
My shoes stepped on shattered glass when I walked through the front door. The remnants of a beer bottle lay scattered on the hardwood floor of the entry way.
"Shit," I sighed and dropped my bag on the wooden bench in the hall where we kept all our coats. The stomping of shoes startled me just as I shed my jacket. My dad was muttering cuss words under his breath as he pulled on his own jacket. I tried to break the ice that could be felt throughout the house, "H-hey, dad."
"Look after your mother. She's been drinking again." That was all he said before walking past me and slamming the door behind him. Leaving me behind to clean up after their mess.
I stood there for a long while before looking for the broom and dustpan in the closet and sweeping up all the shards of broke glass. When that was done I slowly walked up the stairs of our townhouse and made my way into the kitchen to my right where I found more empty bottles of beer and dirty plates littered around in the round kitchen table and the counters.
A soft sniffle made me turn, head back across the hall and into the living room where my mother was laying on the couch, her hands dangling off the edge and one bare leg resting over the arm of the chair beside the couch. She was wearing a white silk robe with feathers at the end of her sleeves—the one she wore on her wedding night, she told me time and time again.
She cried silently into one of her arms as she lay there. I noticed a few more bottles in the glass coffee table and closed my eyes when they started to sting as soon as my frustration hit like a bus. The"Welcome Home" bus as I like to call it.
"Oh Bella? You're home!" My mother slurred joyfully as I stirred her out of her trance and helped her sit up.
I smiled, "Yeah, I am. Come on, let's get you to bed."
"Oh...yes that sounds nice. Bed sounds," she continued crying silently against my shoulder as I wrapped her arm around my shoulders and hauled her onto her feet. I slowly take her to her bedroom, help her take her slippers off and tuck her in. As I am, her hand cups the side of my face and I avoid looking into her glass eyes as she gives me a watery smile, "your father doesn't like me, Bells. But I know you do."
"I do, mom." I pat her arm and pull her hand away from my face. "Get some sleep, okay?"
Before I close the door to her bedroom, I bit my lip as I heard her mumble, "I know you won't leave me...not my Isabella. Not my kid..."
Wiping my face with my hands I walk back into the living room and survey the damage the same way I always do.
"It's okay," I whisper reassuringly to myself. I nod once and then to grab a trash bag from underneath the kitchen sink and start cleaning the mess left behind by my parents. I pick up empty bottles of beer and wine as well as empty bags of junk food that had been littering the carpet. "It's okay. You're okay," I keep telling myself until I finish cleaning up every inch of the apartment and dump the trash bags into the bigs outside. I stay outside for a long time, my hands gripping the lid of the recycling bin until my palms ache.
Until I don't feel the need to cry and rage because it's all I can do to calm the ache inside my chest.
I sit on the front steps of my home, underneath the porch to shield myself from the rain until I can stand to go back inside and lock myself in my room until the next day when I needed to go to school.
Where I needed to face a whole other problem it seemed...
