Those eyes bore into me now, wide and unblinking, because she knows exactly what I’m not saying.
I pivot toward the counter and brace my arms on the granite surface, my shoulders slumping with the weight of my words. “It’s over.”
“What, exactly, is over?” Her voice floats behind me, full of concern.
“Sit down,” Dad says with less tenderness.
I finish my beer, grab another, and sit in the chair between them. “She’s a senior at Le Moyne.” I let that settle on the table before continuing. “When she walked into my classroom on the first day…swear to God, I thought she was a teacher.” I rub a hand down my face and swallow another swig of hops. “She doesn’t look like a high school student.”
Mom reaches across the table and rests her hand on my wrist.
They don’t interrupt as I explain Ivory’s financial situation, musical talent, my suspicions of abuse, my visit with Stogie, and her desire to attend Leopold. They share anxious looks when I mention the kiss in the park and the past five weeks of hell. I even admit to driving the streets after her private lessons, trying to track her path to the bus stop. But she never takes the same route, and most often, I don’t spot her at all.
I wrestle with the urge to leave out the most implicating part, but my need for full disclosure wins. “I spanked her. In the classroom.”
Their faces pale, but neither asks if it was consensual. Their trust in me is infinite, which makes the final piece easier to spit out.
“I was caught with her in my lap afterward. By a colleague.” Fucking Shreveport all over again. “I blackmailed the teacher.”
Mom reaches for her wine and finishes it off.
When I meet Dad’s eyes, he sits back, removes his glasses, and cleans them with the folds of his shirt. “Blackmail how?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Well.” Mom stands and walks to the counter to refill her glass. “You certainly know how to test the limits of social acceptance, but I know where you get it from.” She returns to the table, her eyes glimmering at Dad. “Your father loves to spank—”
“Mom,” I groan. “Don’t make this more awkward.”
She lowers into the chair, her expression sobering. “You said she’s a gifted pianist? Is she more deserving of Leopold than the one you want me to push through?”
Though retired, Mom still flies out to New York once a month for board meetings. Even after everything I told her, I know she’ll guarantee a placement for one of my referrals.
The deal with Beverly has been plaguing me for weeks. Ivory belongs at Leopold. Not because she’s beautiful and genuine and in desperate need of saving. She’s all those things, but I owe her my referral because she’s the best goddamn musician at Le Moyne.
“Without a doubt, she deserves that spot.” My chest lifts with passion in my voice. “She’s incredible.”
“You’re in a tough position.” Mom’s hand finds mine, squeezing my fingers. “I don’t envy you, but honey, if you pursue a relationship with her, it won’t turn out like Shreveport.”
Because I didn’t commit a crime with Joanne. Our relationship was consensual, not illegal. But Ivory? Student-teacher misconduct doesn’t just get swept under the carpet. It makes headline news. The best lawyers in the world couldn’t save me from the charges that would follow if I were caught with her.
“You need to cut your losses, son.” Dad sets his glasses on his nose and folds his arms on the table, leaning in. “Quit that damn job, end things once and for all with Joanne, and move out of state if you have to. The shit at Shreveport can only follow you so far.”
Mom shakes her head. “Frank, don’t tell him that. Our family is finally back together in New Orleans and—”
“No, Mom. He’s right.” I shove away from the table and empty my unfinished beer in the sink.
I’m already deliriously drunk on Ivory Westbrook, and I don’t know how much longer I’ll last without giving in.
I can keep the job, try to ignore this forbidden attraction, ultimately fail, and risk going to jail. Or I can quit Le Moyne, remove the temptation from my life, and fuck me, never see her again.
My chest hurts with the agonizing truth. I know… God help me, I know what I need to do.
“This is all your fault!”
My mom’s tear-drenched screech cuts through me, but it’s the hatred in her dark eyes that makes my insides bleed.
I don’t even know what I’m being blamed for. It’s the middle of the night, and she stormed in here, flicking on the lights and waking me with her crazy wailing.
Lying on the couch where I sleep, I pull my legs closer to my body, curling smaller on my side and holding Schubert to my chest. “H-how? How is what my fault?”
She came home a month ago, crying about the boyfriend who broke up with her. She hasn’t stopped crying.