Page 11 of Someone to Have
I hold up a hand. “I’d like to hear from my nephew.”
“I threw a book,” Rhett mutters. “I didn’t mean for it to hit Ms. Maxwell.”
“He meant for it to hitme,” the man says.
Rhett’s eyes narrow slightly. “I didn’t mean for it to hit anybody. I just got mad.”
I’m not sure he’s telling the truth, but I can almost understand the urge. The dude’s chin is tilted up at an angle that suggests he’s perpetually looking down his nose at the world. His lips are puckered as if it’s painful to speak to me or my nephew when he clearly considers both of us beneath his intellectual station. His hair is styled in that deliberately tousled way that no doubt takes a lot of time and expensive product to achieve. Everything about him radiates the kind of pretentious superiority that makes me want to knock him down a peg or two.
I give myself a mental head shake. Nope, I’m the adult. The responsible one. The role model. I’m not going to kick Mr. Sphinctimonious’s ass.
Suzanne Kenkel clears her throat and gestures for Taylor and the guy to take a seat across the table from us.
“Mr. Anderson, this is Bryan Connor, one of our English teachers.”
The Connor guy smirks. “Advanced Placement English is my specialty, particularly world literature and language.”
“He’s also teaching freshman English this semester, and Rhett is in his second period class. There was a bit of an…” Suzanne clears her throat. “…altercation in the library during the first lunch bell. Things escalated and?—”
“He threw a book at my head. A hardback ofBeowulf.” Bryan Connor gives me a dismissive once-over. “You might not be aware, but it’s a classic work of literature.”
“Grendel and his mother,” I say slowly, matching his smirk with one of my own. “I’m familiar.”
His brows draw down over turd-brown eyes even as Taylor’s delicate brows lift in obvious surprise.
I should be offended that she’d think I’m moreBeavis & ButtheadthanBeowulf. But she isn’t wrong and shocking Taylor Maxwell is the most fun I’ve had in ages. I’d enjoy shocking her in a lot of ways, most of which are unfit for polite conversation.
Being versed in medieval literature is one of the most benign ways I can surprise her.
“The mom monster got a raw deal,” I tell Bryan, and his lips thin.
I don’t think I imagine Taylor’s lips twitching, and it feels like we’re on the same team, at least for the moment.
I’ve spent the past decade surrounded by friends and teammates. I’ve dated, partied, gone on holidays and adventures. Very rarely have I spent a day or evening alone. Still, the saddest kind of lonely is being with people and still feeling like you have no one.
This invisible string of connection with the woman sitting on the other side of the table hits me hard, my heart defying logic by flinging itself against my rib cage.
This whole business of caring for my nephew is making me soft. Why else am I thinking about roads I didn’t travel and who I’d want at my side for the journey?
One person I wouldn’t choose to have anywhere near me is Bryan Connor, world literature and language teacher. The way he’s staring at me—like I’m a shit skid mark on the bottom of his fake leather shoe—reminds me of all the teachers who wrote me off when I was younger. Who ignored me, dismissing the dysfunction in our family home. Adults who labeled my sister a slut and me a punk-ass kid with a chip on his shoulder.
My slut days came later. Compared to Jen, I was a late bloomer in the promiscuity department. But true to everyone’s expectations, I got there eventually.
“Why did you throw the book, Rhett?”
I keep my death glare laser-focused on Bryan, who visibly fidgets. Oh yeah, there’s guilt flashing in those turdcolored eyes. He did something to provoke the kid. I’d bet my favorite skates on it.
Suzanne Kenkel clears her throat. “According to Mr. Connor, they were discussing Rhett’s lack of class participation this week and a missing assignment.”
I turn and look at my nephew. He’s staring down, fists clenched in his lap, but there’s no response to my question.
“What did he say to you?” I ask quietly.
Bryan raps his knuckles on the table to get my attention. “Principal Kenkel has already explained?—”
“I’m not talking to you,” I interrupt.
“It was nothing. The poem is stupid and confusing. We read it last semester at my other school, so I don’t know why I have to do it again.”
