“You don’t have to.” I turn away from him as I hunt for my shoes.
“Avery.” His soft tone causes me to hesitate before looking to him. He extends his hand, dropping his key fob into my palm, and gives me a quick kiss on my cheek. “I’ll see you in a few hours.”
I clutch the key fob in my hand, grab my purse, and bolt from the media room. Once in the garage, I click a few buttons before I finally open the correct garage bay and back the truck out. Only now noting one other vehicle, and guessing he probably has some secret Batcave with the other two.
Damn it. Why can’t I act normal around him? What is normal anymore? There’re times when I’m with him that I forget all the other bullshit of who he is and what he does. But then there are other times where, whether he wants to accept it or not, he is the Carter Barlowe. And I’m not sure how to wrap my head around the entire situation. It’s even more evident as I drive his fancy truck across town to my place, get dressed in record time, then hightail it to school, arriving just in time.
I’m flustered （obviously） and attempting to get settled at my desk when I hear a familiar whoop and slap on the doorframe. I don’t look up until I hear E.J. say, “Nice, Ms. W.”
“What?” Surely Carter didn’t message my student about our date last night. And my question is quickly answered, although I’m not sure how much better I feel about the picture that E.J. flashes me from his phone. Taking the device, I look at the shot of me smiling at Carter from across the table at the steak house. Cute. But then I register the caption on the photo, and let the fact sink in that this is a published article that I had no control over. Uh-oh. “Number One Fan really is a fan of Carter Barlowe’s after all. Looks like he’s officially off the market.”
He’s news. I knew this. But it’s supposed to be about his pitching. I even understood the stupid fan-at-the-game-who-brings-a-book coverage. But I hadn’t expected a picture of our date would have my student trying to give me a congratulatory fist bump. “Sit down, Ernest. Now.”
His demeanor changes at the realization that I don’t share in his excitement. My dating life will not be a hot topic of conversation in this classroom.
I mindlessly go through the motions during the class period as the picture flashes through my mind several times. It had been a fabulous date. But I’d been naive to not consider who was sitting across the table from me.
The second period bell rings and Carter appears in the doorway, accepting a congratulatory fist bump from E.J. before moving into the classroom and, for the first time, shutting the door behind him.
“Joe called me. By that time, you were already in class. I tried to call, but your phone went to voice mail.”
“It’s too much.”
“Avery, it’ll be old news before lunchtime; someone else will be the topic of conversation.”
“No, Carter, you’re not hearing me. I can’t do this. This is too much.” I hold up my phone, the alerts steadily going off. “There are people contacting me that I haven’t spoken to in years. People are sending me messages, asking random questions about our date.”
“You didn’t seem to mind the attention when it was focused on your parents’ place of business.” His accusatory tone only furthers my anger with the circus taking place around us.
“You did that with the feed store, not me. I never asked you to do anything.” I point to the cup of coffee and reach into the desk, grabbing out the key fob for his truck. Handing it to him, I intone, “You need to leave.”
“You’re scared. But it’s not of the attention or any of that bullshit. Something else keeps you wanting to run.” Dropping the key fob on my desktop, he makes no move to leave.
“Get. Out.”
He does an assessment, a slow scan of my face that feels more invasive than when he actually had his hands on me. “I’m scared too. Which is why I threw the signing event in your face, but I shouldn’t have. That was my doing. And I did it for you. And I’m sorry, Avery. But I’m terrified I’m going to lose you before we’ve ever had a chance to give us a real shot.”
His words hit more nerves than I care to admit because I want there to be an us, but I’m not sure if I can handle it.
Taking a deliberate step towards me. His voice is softer but still carries an accusatory tone that makes me feel like he can see straight through me. “What is it? What is it that you’re scared of? You can’t hide behind those romance books forever. And you’re too smart to bury your head in the sand.”