Page 18 of Sizzle

I needed to focus on what I can control and let go of the things I can’t.

Or else the yearning for things I can’t have will consume me once more.

9

GABRIELLE

The first time I knew I was truly in trouble when it came to Liam was around Thanksgiving time of his senior year. His football schedule was over, and I guess that meant he had more free time on his hands.

After feeling his eyes on me for months, after his lingering gaze tracked me wherever I went down the halls of the school, after a few attempts he’d made to stay after class and small talk, it all came to a head.

I walked into my classroom on a Friday afternoon and found a single daffodil laying on my desk.

The yellow flower, even in its lonely state, smells so much like spring that I ache for warmer weather. It’s just sitting there among the books and papers on my desk; the classroom lights off at the end of the school day.

Picking it up, I press it to my nose, wondering who put it here.

“That’s the flower of March birthdays.”

A deep voice comes from the door of my classroom. I nearly jump out of my skin, because there is Liam Ashton in his jeans and the green sweater he’d worn in my class today.

“How did you?—”

I was about to ask how he knew my birthday was in March but cut myself off because that wasn’t at all what I should say.

“This is a nice gesture, but no thank you.” I say it solidly with my whole chest, holding the flower out to him so he can take it back.

“I got it for you, you should keep it.” His eyes are so earnest, and I know he thinks this isn’t anything more than the flirting he does with his peers.

Except it’s so much more dangerous than that.

“Liam, you are a student. My student. Any kind of talk like this is inappropriate.”

“You’re only three years older than I am,” he says defiantly, as if that makes anything okay.

“That doesn’t matter. I can’t accept this, and please stop making attempts like this. I could lose my job, or worse, even if I’m discouraging every instance.”

The real fear of being labeled something I’d never be or do is real and palpable. My teaching career is of the utmost importance, and I’ll lose that if anyone walks by this classroom right now. Not to mention, it’s morally unsound to even entertain a student in a conversation like this for the mere three minutes Liam and I talked about it.

“As if I’d tell anyone or let them get the wrong idea if they found out.”

He’s talking as if we’ve already committed some sin, as if I’m a willing participant in whatever this is.

“No. Stop it now. I’m not asking you to do anything like that, I’m not asking for … I am not allowing this. If I need to have you transferred from my class, I will. Please don’t make gestures like this again. It is inappropriate and unwanted.”

Something unreadable glimmers across Liam’s face, and he turns on his heel. What he doesn’t do is agree with me, and that only serves to cause seismic panic waves to reverberate through my chest.

After that encounter, I kept my distance. I made sure never to be near Liam outside of the one class I taught him in. I went through painstaking effort to ensure I wasn’t alone after school hours. I discouraged any kind of look he gave me, cutting off any attempt.

It wasn’t as if he was dangerous or too forward with his attention, but I had to fight the chemistry so hard when it came to him. There was no denying it existed, yet I wanted to ignore it to the best of my ability.

Now, twelve years later, we’re still doing the same thing.

A summer Friday night in Hope Crest is punctuated by teens walking the streets in hordes, dripping ice cream in hand while they cause innocent ruckus, older couples sitting on benches sipping teas or taking in the sights with contented smiles on their faces, and families going out to eat or running about in the park.

Warm bursts of wind and fireflies dot the air, and the scent of the fries coming from the street side takeout window at the diner is all too tempting as I turn the corner on Newton Street.

I spent the day going through Grandma’s rare book collection in the shop. She left me the number of a collector and a museum curator, both of whom I called to come assess the editions she’d held in her possession. The curator had stopped by this morning and taken a look at the books, all peeling covers and cracking spines, and gave me her assessment of what they might like to include in their collection.

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