I wake up the next morning an hour before Scott’s alarm is set to go off. I never made it back to my room. I slide out from beneath his covers and start creeping towards the bathroom with my privates feeling tender. I sit on the toilet to void, and feel a burning sensation, Agh does it hurt, reflecting on last night’s activities, it was well worth it.
I run a bath and slowly lower myself in. The warm water soothes me as I lean back in our new soaker tub. I press a button on my right and jets to start swishing the water around. The noise from the tub is too loud and I don’t want to wake Scott up so I turned them off. Dripping on the floor, I go over to the towel rack and pull the hand towel down to dry myself off. The door opens just as I’m finishing. I reach for my housecoat and cover my naked body as he silently walks past me.
I’m ready for school before he is, so I make our breakfast while he showers. He comes out of the bathroom in a pair of jeans and nothing else, “Is that how you dress for breakfast” I ask.
“Sometimes,” he answers, “does it bother you?”
“Not at all,” I admit.
“We can take it back into the bedroom,” he offers.
“I don’t have enough time; I have class in forty-five minutes.”
“I’ll only take two minutes,” he beams brightly.
“I seriously doubt that after last night’s performance,” I say sipping my vanilla cappuccino.
“Give me a few minutes and I’ll drive you in,” he offers.
“I can take Dad's car, that way you don’t have to pick me up.” “I’ll pick you up,” he insists, “we need to talk.
Scott grabs his keys from the front entrance and asks, “Are you ready?” “Why don’t we walk? It looks nice outside?” I suggest.
“Sure, it will give us a chance to talk,” he says ominously locking the door behind us. We take the stairs to the lobby. School is only five minutes by car; it almost seems silly to drive. It’s warm and sunny for a September day. We live off an older busy street close to the university core that is pedestrian-friendly with sidewalks on both sides and old trees shading areas of the walkway.
“What did you want to talk about?” I ask curiously. He weaves his fingers through mine as we start strolling towards school, I look sideways at him grinning, “Are we back to pretending?”
“I’m not pretending. I want to be with you. I’m tired of waiting,” he said petulantly. He’s never moody, so his tone catches me off guard, making me feel defensive.
“You were waiting for me? Really? How is dating Juliet waiting?” As soon as I say it I want to take it right back. Why the fuck did I go there? He drops my hand as acid fell on it.
“What did you want me to do, wait around for you while you get it on with Michael?” I feel my face grow warm and a wave of nausea hits. Does he think I’m naive enough to believe nothing is going on? He hands me back my bag and walks in the opposite direction from me with a big attitude.
I chased after him, “Scott wait!” I call out.
He stops and turns back to me, his wisps flopping in his face as he moved, “What?” he growls.
“Nothing,” I say utterly deflated. There isn’t anything I can think of saying that will fix this. I go to school with a heavy heart.
My first class is Art History taught by Jed William a renowned Nigerian artist from the National war Museum. The lecture hall is jammed full of students, some having to resort to sitting on stairs just to attend it. The girls sitting next to me gush about how fascinating he is and how his class always has a waiting list. A minute later he walks into the lecture hall and it is like a celebrity just entered the room. Everyone jumps to their feet and starts applauding. I’m a little thrown off, does this happen to all the teachers on the first day of class? This can’t be normal, can it? A guy sitting on the other side of me notices my confusion and brings me up to speed, “He just sold a painting on e-bay for a little over a million dollars and donated seventy-five percent of it to the Hospital for Sick Children.” Now, I understand, he’s more than a talented artist and a professor, he’s a humanitarian.
We take our seats after a few seconds and he begins his lecture. He spent one hour reviewing the course syllabus and another half hour discussing plagiarism. I zone out fifteen minutes into it, reflecting on what happened between Scott and me this morning. In my heart of hearts, I know Scott would do anything for me because he is made from the same cloth as this Professor Williams. I try picturing Scott not being in my life, and it’s unimaginable. I pulled my phone out of my bag and text him:
ISABELLA: I’m so sorry for this morning Scott.
I put my phone on vibrate and waited for him to respond checking my texts every few minutes. I have one more class after this. The next class is scheduled for three hours, it's psychology. The lecture hall is just as big if not bigger than the first, only the students aren’t sitting on stairs because there weren’t enough seats and this teacher doesn’t receive a standing ovation. I’m bored to tears after, and long to make things right between me and Scott. When I finished class I go straight back to the apartment to find Scott sprawled out on the sofa watching Sons of Anarchy. He doesn’t acknowledge my presence when I first get there, so I know I have a lot of work ahead of me. I go into the kitchen and help myself to a Diet Coke before sitting next to him.
I cracked open the can, “You’re cuter than he is,” I flirt before taking a sip of my coke.
“Half-Sac? Jeepers, thanks,” he says sarcastically. “I always wanted to be cuter than a character with one testicle.”
“No,” I giggle, “Johnson!”
He looks at me suspiciously, “What do you want?”
“Nothing,” I say too quickly, hardly believing myself. I reach for his hand and cover it with my own. He doesn’t pull away from me so I know I’m making progress. His skin is soft and his fingers tender. I love his hands, wishing they are doing their magic on me rather than just resting on the couch. Scott’s profile distracts me from the show; I notice his face looks rougher than usual with more than its share of stubble on it and his shaggy hair even by my standards needs cutting. He looks tired and is letting himself go. This is the first time I’ve noticed it.
“Do you want to talk?” I offer.
He turns from the TV, to face me, “I said everything I needed to this morning.”
“You’re letting yourself go,” I observe.
“You just compared me to Johnson,” he reminds me. He takes my can from the table and helps himself to my drink. I watch as he swallows. The urge to run my fingers over his stubble is too strong for me to deny. I climb up on his lap facing him, waiting for him to protest, when he doesn’t I close my eyes and touched his face. “Open your eyes and look at me,” he demands.
All too happy to oblige, I open them, continuing to run my fingers along his face. His eyes lock onto mine and when my fingers touch his mouth, he captures one between his teeth and then he slowly brings it into his mouth, sucking it. I close my eyes focusing on the feeling he’s giving me when he suddenly nips at my fingertip. He doesn’t have to tell me twice, I open my eyes again and continue staring into his while he sucks. I know what he’s implying, what he wanted me to do.
I dismount off his lap and kneel on the floor before him. He spreads his legs and unzips his pants for me. I wrap both my hands around it and gingerly kiss the tip. He leans his head back and closes his eyes. I stop instantly and say, “Open your eyes and look at me.” His eyes snap open and then I glide his piece against my lips feeling his soft warm skin against my mouth. His hand nestles into my hair and I glide my tongue all over the top of his hardness. I’m throbbing for him. I suck voraciously.
His hand starts tugging at my hair and I can tell he’s nearing the brink, I don’t let up until every last drop seeps into my mouth. I get some Kleenex and wipe him off before cleaning myself up in the bathroom. I join him back on the couch. The television is turned off and the room is silent. He stretches out resting his head on my lap; I stroke his soft hair, lovingly.
“We skate tomorrow after our classes,” he informs me. “Good, there’s something I need you to know Scott.” “What’s that?” he asks.
“I love you.”
He kisses me again and then places his head back down on my lap while I continue playing with his hair.
“I love you too, Isa.”