Page 20 of Sol
My pulse thundered in my ears, my heart hammered against my chest like it had to come out, and my stomach sunk so fast I felt lightheaded. I was so close to her face, I wouldn’t have to straighten my arm to touch her cheek. To kiss those lips.Again.
“Thank you, Trent,” she whispered with a smile, and suddenly it was just her and me again in the pizza parlor, four years ago. The passage of time had treated her well, only making her morealluring.
Long, dangling earrings, silver and turquoise, hit her narrow shoulders covered in a bright, rough-woven fabric. Her cute, upturned nose led to a pretty pout like a soft peach. Blond hair waved so much that it seemed almost tangled. Like she just got out of bed and tumbled into class, sweet-sexy and sleepy. I didn’t know how to describe it, except that she looked like the queen of the itinerant princesses. Like a fairy who spent a wild night out under the stars and woke up late but happy. Like Tinkerbell took out the ponytail and forgot her comb for a day ortwo.
My eyes followed her hand as it passed through herhair.
The blondness was a shock against her tan, freckled skin and dark eyebrows. Her slim fingers were laden with rings, and as she lifted her arm to set all the papers again in order, she exposed a sliver of inked skin on her waist. Even though she wore a loose top, it stuck to her torso, outlining her smallbreasts.
She stood up. The light filtered through her long skirt, showing me herfigure.
Goddamn.
If only I could worship that inchurch.
An image flashed to me for the millionth time of what she’d look like in bed. But the difference this time was that I was looking at her face, not a photograph. So surreal, I couldn’t handle it, like seeing a celebrity in real life—they existed, but not really. Miley Cyrus wasn’t gonna show up in myworld.
Even better, right now I had Dani beforeme.
After all these years, here she was, more beautiful than ever. And still smelling like chaitea.
Then I glanced into the class. Two dozen students stared at us, hanging onto everyword.
She giggled. “Let’s start the class, shallwe?”
I got up, dusted my hands on my thighs, and beelined for a seat in the back against a wall. The safest one. I could defend from this position. Nosurprises.
Dani waltzed up to the front, an angel gliding around, skirts billowing around her legs, feet ensconced in gladiator sandals. Bangle bracelets stacked on her thin arms jangled as she pushed back her messy, but fantastic hair from her face and set her papers and embroidered bag on the teacher’sdesk.
She didn’t seem like a teacher, but rather like a student. Waifish, much shorter than my 6’1” and much tinier than my 205 pounds of muscle. I bet she didn’t weigh half that. She hadn’t gained an ounce in the time we’d beenapart.
And she didn’t seem to have the weight of authority. The gravitas. I wondered what the fuck the administration was doing hiring the Instagram version of Janis Joplin as a teacher. Had they no sense of responsibility? Did they hire any street person who showed up? Could she really teach thisclass?
It was the kind of thing where I needed to pinch myself, to stay grounded in the present, to know that she really was here and I’d found her. Otherwise, she’d take off, leaving a vapor trail behindher.
A brushfire of possessiveness ripped through me. I should stand up and keep everyone away from her. I needed to cordon off a perimeter around her and get her out of here. Out of Spain. Home. With me, where I could keep her safe. I’d haul her out over my shoulder if I had to, if any threat presenteditself.
Then Isighed.
There goes my fucking brainagain.
It’s just a classroom, Milner.Relax.
Spending four years on high alert meant my brain had been warped, because this room was benign. About twenty desks and chairs surrounded me. An old-fashioned chalkboard adorned the front wall behind a large teacher’s desk. The spartan, clean walls were otherwise blank. Nothreats.
The other students were benign, too—neat, young Spaniards with fashionable haircuts and button-down shirts and ironed jeans with leather belts, even in forty-three degree Celsius weather. Male or female, didn’t matter, they were all elegant. No shorts, no T-shirts, nothing sloppy. I stretched out my black boots, glad that I wasn’t dressed like a typical tourist in cargo shorts and a loud shirt. I felt like a tourist though, since I understood not a word of their rapid-fireSpanish.
I rehearsed what I had to tellher.
Less than two weeks ago, Degan died while our unit was on patrol in the Korengal Valley inAfghanistan.
Fuck. If I thought about it too much, I’d break down. I blinked rapidly, holding my jaw as tight as Icould.
My knees banged the underside of the desk, and the hard wooden seat hurt my tailbone. Now that I sat down, I noticed the temperature. I’d figured I was just hot from running, but no. Even with the windows and doors open, the air felt stifling. A pressure cooker. A bead of sweat rolled down my temple into my hair, and my T-shirt stuck to me. No airconditioning.
As Dani arranged her papers on her desk, a ruddy blond guy with a Havana shirt and Hawaiian shorts plopped his pile of books on the desk next to mine. With a round face, he was the human version of Olaf, the clueless, jolly snowman fromFrozen.
Don’t be a hater. I saw it with my friend’s kid while on leave a few yearsago.
