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Blinded by Assumption

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School started in September and with it came relief. The summer had been too long – hot, stifling and overflowing with emotion. It had been almost two months since Dad’s funeral and talking to the same people had become as torturous as retreating to the four stark walls of my bedroom. Nobody knew what to say and I didn’t know what to say to them. I thought school could be an escape. New and different. The first year of sixth form would be the penultimate hurdle into adulthood and I figured it’d be easier to live in the boisterous crowds of high-school corridors than in the bleak silence of my home.

But the illusion soon wore off. The friends I’d had before were different. Or maybe I was different. Things were different. We drifted apart by the end of the first week. I wanted to commit to schoolwork but didn’t feel any form of motivation. What was there? I was seventeen. Was I really meant to have planned my life out? Everyone else was pushing for target grades, references, university applications and work experience placements. All I wanted to do was live; to breathe and discover.

But I tried in English class only because of the teacher. Mr Lance Eastwood brought colour into the old books we had to study. Under him the subject became deep, essential, and almost intrinsic in understanding life. So I paid attention in English. In every other class, I daydreamed about English. I also daydreamed about Mr Eastwood. His personality only seemed to emphasize his good looks and I wasn’t the only girl who noticed.

Rebecca Carlton. She wore miniskirts and tops that ended above her navel and seven earrings in each ear. I’d never even spoken to her but I knew her. Everybody knew her. She had the kind of sexy voice that a gossip reporter might have. Low and self-assured and full of scandal. She sat right next to me in English and all I could ever smell was her overpowering perfume.

“Mr Eastwood?” she murmured when Lance introduced himself to the class. “More like Mr I-sure-as-hell-would.”

Her friend giggled more extravagantly than the joke warranted. But Rebecca had a point. Most of the teachers at Westfield High were old. Men with grey hair and bald patches and ill-fitting clothes. Lance was the opposite; under thirty, dark haired and with a permanent shadow of stubble. He had an easy way of teaching, a kind of camaraderie with the class. It was refreshing. Everybody respected him.

Rebecca flirted with him shamelessly, spurred on by her enviable abundance of confidence. She feared no one. She said what she wanted and went after what she wanted. She’d hang back after class, leaning over Lance’s desk so her blonde hair fell over her face as she talked about essays and coursework and exam schedules; her attempts at seduction even stronger than her perfume. But Lance didn’t respond in any inappropriate way. He was a professional; a dedicated teacher with far more important things to deal with than a seventeen year old girl’s infatuation.

***

We broke into October with plans for a play. The school was arranging a fundraiser in the run-up to Christmas where it hoped people would donate enough money to make up the deficit for a new library. There’d be music, poetry readings, a spelling competition, art displays, raffles and a short play which Mr Eastwood was producing.

“I need all of you to take part,” he said, to widespread dismay. “If you don’t want to act, we have scenery to sort. Music, lighting, pretty much everything. But for anyone who wants to act I need commitment. We’re gonna have to stay after school and really put in the work to make this decent. So – who wants in?”

I considered it hastily. Staying after school meant less time at home which meant less time fighting with my mother and less time alone. I’d never been one of the kids into drama but how bad could it be? Nobody was even taking the fundraiser seriously. Half a dozen kids in the class had raised their hands. I followed suit. Mr Eastwood glanced at me.

“Okay,” he said. “Good. Now. The female lead could almost be played by two people but we don’t have twins so I’m gonna say…” He looked around the class deliberatively. Rebecca’s arm was stretched up so high that I half-expected the underarm of her shirt to rip.

“Taylor,” Mr Eastwood said.

I blinked. Rebecca flinched.

“Me?” I asked stupidly.

“Yeah,” he smiled. “You.”

He assigned the rest of the parts, handed out copies of the play, schedules of rehearsals and got back to teaching exam technique.

Rebecca turned to her friend.

“He just feels sorry for her ‘cause her dad’s dead.”

It wasn’t true. I couldn’t stand for it to be true. I should have told her what a bitch she was but I could never find the words. The emotion was there; the kind of rage that brings you to tears, but there were no words, no comeback, nothing to silence her. I just had to swallow it. I stared down at the play and read the lines until the world filtered away.

***

He didn’t feel sorry for me. He wanted me.

Inappropriateness lingered at the edge of every class, every rehearsal. It was in the way he looked at me, the way our eyes met, the way his fingers touched mine when he handed me script revisions and marked essays and stage props and my jacket and anything and everything he could find to give to me. The boys at school felt like nothing; like they wasted space with their teenage immaturity and loud voices. Lance was so different. So adult.

It was in the way he looked at me. There was indecency in the way his eyes met mine and dragged down to my mouth. He looked at me like he wanted me. Nobody so attractive had ever looked at me that way before. It made me feel like a woman.

***

Christmas break loomed. I didn’t know if I could deal with it. Even though I hated school, the timetable filled up the days. What else was there to detract from solitude? How could I even begin to get out of bed?

“So whatcha doing over Christmas?” Mr Eastwood was stacking chairs against the wall, his sleeves rolled up past his elbows. I wanted to touch his forearms, feel the veins and muscles, the evidence that he really existed and wasn’t just a fairytale.

“I dunno,” I said. “Same old, same old, y’know?”

But it was a lie. It’d be the first holiday without Dad. Maybe Lance saw it in my eyes. He paused and looked at me.

“What’s wrong?”

He knew. The entire school knew. It made me sick. Pain is easier when you keep it to yourself. When everyone knows, there’s almost a shame in it. The pity and the opinions. Pity. Is there anything worse? It forced people to be kind to me, to view me as something inferior, something damaged. I didn’t want to be less. I wanted to be whole.

“I just feel really alone sometimes,” I said and the words were too limp, too small to ever explain but I said them anyway. “But not around you.”

The distance between us seemed like nothing. I could step forward and reach up and kiss him. I could. I so could. What would he do? I thought about doing it so hard that I feared it might unconsciously happen. Lance stepped closer to me.

“You shouldn’t feel alone. You’re surrounded by people who’re privileged to know you.”

The words didn’t even register with me. His mouth. His eyes. They met mine, guarded and yet dying not to be. Did he want me? The self-serving thought felt dizzyingly beautiful. How could he want me? I looked at his mouth. He looked at mine and for a few precious seconds the opportunity danced between us. But he ended it. Stepped back. Ran a hand through his hair.

“Hey, why don’t I give you my phone number? If you feel down, you can call me. Yeah?”

He scrawled it onto a scrap of paper, his fingers touching mine as he handed it to me.

***

I called him a week before Christmas, self-control broken by the false festive spirit. My mother was going out of her way to pretend that everything was the same; that we could act like we had the last year, as if Dad was still around. The house was filled with tinsel, cards, light, candles. People visited. I didn’t want to see any of them.

I escaped, slamming the door so hard behind me that the plastic wreath fell off. I went to a party thrown by one of the kids at school but hated it as soon as I walked in. Cheap alcohol, cheap pills and loud music. People got drunk, high, made out, made fools of themselves, all just for the sake of doing it. I couldn’t stand it. Why couldn’t I? Why couldn’t I be like them; drown the cynicism and act like a regular person rather than a judgemental spectator?

Back outside, the night was cold. I tried to act like I had something to do. I looked at Lance’s phone number, scrawled down in his beautiful writing. Could I? He’d said I could. I started dialling, and then stopped. I hovered outside a pub, the light from inside glowing warm. The wind whipped my hair back. I looked down at the number again. I wasn’t wearing a jacket and the dress I’d worn to the party was short and sleeveless, the sequinned hem ending well above my knees.

I called him. It seemed to ring forever but when he answered, his voice felt like the most precious thing in the world.

“Hi,” I said.

“Taylor? Hey. What’s up?”

“Uh…” Maybe it’d been a mistake. I fought for something to say. Anything.

“You okay?” His voice tipped into concern. “What’re you doing?”

“Uh - right now? Actually I just went to a party.”

I could almost hear him frown.

“Do you need a lift home? Where are you anyway?”

I can’t explain why his concern warmed me so much. As it was, I could have easily walked home or called a cab. But I didn’t. I told him where I was and fifteen minutes later I found myself in the passenger seat of his Toyota.

“Thanks for coming,” I said, sounding as fake as Christmas.

He didn’t buy it. He looked at me.

“Why’d you call me so late?” His voice dipped low. It sounded like it could answer every question in the world. “Is everything okay with you, Taylor?”

I’d missed him more than I could ever admit. His attention filled me entirely, melting away the cold loneliness. I looked at him. Light from a streetlamp came through the window, slanting a white glow across his face. I’d never wanted to kiss anyone as much as I wanted to kiss him in that moment.

“Everything’s fine,” I said but the words were empty and he knew it because he let out a sigh like he got it.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay.”

I was still looking at him; at the way his stubble faded out, the way his eyes narrowed as he frowned. He looked back.

“What?”

I blinked.

“I don’t know,” I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time but most of all I just wanted to stay in his car forever with the heat up and the smell of him everywhere.

“What is it?” His voice leaned into me. “You can tell me.”

“I just – I never -” I looked down at my hands, at my fingernails, where the new nail came out clean beneath scratched silver polish. “I don’t ever feel close to anyone anymore. But you’re – you’re so nice.”

Nice. It was a useless word and I despised myself for using it. The silence hung in the small space between us. Rain started drizzling down onto the windscreen.

“I’m not all that nice,” he said finally. “But I know what you mean.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. I do.” He paused, swallowed hard. “I know exactly what you mean. You feel like you should make an effort to be included, to be kind, to have conversations and friendships but when it comes to it, you can’t. It feels fake. Sick. I feel like I hate them sometimes.”

“Them?”

“Pretty much everyone I meet.”

The rain had intensified. I watched the drops connect and fall on the windscreen, dragging one another down.

“D’you hate me?” I asked.

His laugh was barely there.

“How could I hate you? You’re – clean.”

“I’m not. I’m a mess. Isn’t it weird that I called you?” I laughed a small insincere laugh. “Isn’t this whole thing inappropriate?”

“Is it?” He didn’t sound like he particularly cared. He tilted his head just enough to look at me. “So why’d you call me, Taylor?”

God, the way he said my name. From him it sounded special, loaded, like it was full of something he wanted. I met his gaze. The streetlight hue across his face was dappled with shadowed raindrops. His eyes were so, so dark. Heat came out of the fan but I was more aware of the softer heat from his body. Human heat. Two people. Living, breathing people. The urge to touch him was everything. I looked away. I sat on my hands. He didn’t move.

“I think about you all the time,” I said. I didn’t look at him. The rain was coming down harder than ever, running off the windscreen, the soft patter almost drowning out my voice. But he could hear me. I knew it from the still way he sat, his eyes on my mouth, his breath held like he didn’t want to miss a word.

“Sometimes it feels like too much,” I continued. “Like real life can’t ever compare to everything in my head.”

“What happens in your head?”

I bit so hard on my lip it bled.

“I couldn’t even say.” My dress had ridden up too far and I looked down at my bare legs. “But I really wanted us to kiss that day in the hall.”

I wanted the words back as soon as they were gone. They were weak, desperate. Lance exhaled.

“What’s stopping you?”

My insides surged. My pulse set a racing beat to the erratic rain. I looked at him.

“What, now?”

He looked back undeterred.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

My mouth felt dry. I stared at him for what felt like an age. His hand came out and found mine.

“How much longer are you gonna make me wait, Taylor?”

I moved instinctively, turning in my seat. My heart thudded against my ribcage. I’d kissed guys before. Useless guys. Guys as insecure and incomplete as me. Lance was more. So much more. I was half-afraid he’d reject me as soon as our lips met. But he didn’t. He caught my bottom lip between his and I felt his hand touch my face, palm curving against my cheek like I was something precious.

I kissed him harder and his hand moved, slipping into my hair and gripping hard. He kissed me back hungrily. I moved closer to him, shifting clumsily against the gearstick, the handbrake, the steering wheel until he’d pulled me into place opposite him. He kissed like a man. Patient and warm and confident.

I felt his hands grasp my wrists, holding them to the small of my back so my body pressed against his. My legs were either side of his. It seemed suddenly indecent but I couldn’t try to close them without ruining the moment so I fought the urge and kissed him until we were gasping. His mouth went to my neck, pressing against my pulse, his tongue wet against my skin.

“You smell incredible,” he said.

I’d remember those words. I’d remember everything. It was the kind of night I’d revisit countless times, wishing it could play on loop. He let go of my wrists and touched my leg. His fingers were warm. They walked up, until they were under my dress. He didn’t stop there. His fingertip found the edge of my underwear and pushed past it. My heart thudded.

“What – what are you doing?”

He didn’t answer. He kissed me again, his tongue in my mouth and his free hand on the back of my neck, holding me to him. His hand moved against my snatch, feeling how wet I was. I gasped, breaking the kiss.

“Tell me to stop,” he said. We looked at each other in the dark car, his hand moving between my legs until it felt like they’d give out. I didn’t want him to stop. It would have been easy. One word. I didn’t say it. I pushed helplessly against his hand until his finger pushed inside me. I clenched around it desperately. Somewhere in the backseat, my phone rang, muffled and inadequate.

“I should answer that,” I gasped even as his fingers stretched me.

“Yeah. You should,” he said. But he didn’t stop fingering me and I didn’t stop taking it. His thumb pressed against my clit.

“You want me to fuck you?” he asked. He said the word like it was no big deal. It sounded exquisite from his mouth.

“I don’t – I don’t know,”

“You don’t?” His thumb pushed harder and my entire body quivered. “You don’t want my cock inside you?”

“God,” I pressed my forehead against the seat behind him and his hand pushed under my dress, finding one of my tits and groping it hard. “I don’t know, I don’t know.”

“C’mon, Taylor. You’re about to come all over my fucking hand and you don’t know?”

He had the perfect voice for talking dirty. It seeped into me and melted my insides, made me drip copiously around his fingers. Every so often, his thumb pushed against my swollen clit, making desperation course through my body.

He let go of my breast and found one of my hands, guiding it blindly to his jeans.

“Take my cock out.”

An invitation? Or a demand? It didn’t matter. I unbuckled his belt, pulling it free. I could feel the heat beneath the denim, the hardness. It made my mouth dry. I unzipped his jeans and felt underneath. He wore boxer shorts. My hand slid daringly under the waistband and found his...

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