I don’t know what is more shocking: the fact that Mr. Bennett told me he was choosing my poem in the first place or what Lotus has just asked me to do.
“I’m not doing that,” I say.
She folds her arms across her flat chest. “So you want our school to lose?”
“I don’t want us to lose, but Mr. Bennett picked my poem for a reason. He must think it’s capable of winning.”
She sneers at me. “Oh, you really think that’s why he picked your poem?”
My mouth falls open. “Yes…”
“I mean, it’s not enough you got Mr. Tuttle fired, now you have to go after Mr. Bennett?”
My face burns. I had thought maybe Lotus and I were friends, but I was sorely mistaken. “I have to go home,” I mumble. “I’ll see you next week. Mary.”
As I walk away from Lotus, clutching the straps of my backpack, my thoughts won’t stop racing. I hate that she called me out on all my darkest fears. Mr. Bennett had a lot of poems to choose from. Why did he choose mine? Objectively, I don’t think my poem was the best one. There were so many other amazing choices—including the ones Lotus wrote.
So why me?
Is it possible she could be right? Is it possible that Mr. Bennett had some sort of ulterior motive in picking an inferior poem to enter in the contest? Was this nothing more than favoritism on his part? Or something even more than favoritism?
The worst part of all though is the shiver of excitement that goes through me at the possibility that Lotus could be right.
OceanofPDF.com
Chapter Nineteen
EVE
TODAY IS MY BIRTHDAY.
I’m turning thirty, which feels like a milestone of sorts, although my life hasn’t changed much in the last eight years or so, since I started teaching at Caseham High. It feels like time has moved so quickly. In the blink of an eye, it was my first day as a teacher, and now I’m coming up on nearly a decade.
My twenties are over. In another blink of an eye, I’ll be forty and my thirties will be gone too. Then one day, I’ll be lying on this bed, ninety years old, and wondering where my whole life went.
I stare into the closet, trying to decide what footwear I want to wear for my birthday. I’ll be working, so I can’t wear sandals—not that I would in the middle of October. I scan the rows of shoes that line the bottom of the closet, then I hesitate. Nate is still in the bathroom, shaving—he’ll be there for at least a few more minutes.
I take the opportunity to reach for the large suitcase stuffed into the side of the closet. I heave it out, and with one more quick glance at the bathroom door, I undo the zipper. I let out a sigh when I look down at the contents.
There are dozens of shoes in that luggage.
Nate doesn’t know about this particular stash. He thinks the number of shoes I have at the bottom of the closet is bad enough. He’s already monitoring the credit card bill for shoe purchases and has hinted that he thinks I have a problem. If he knew about this luggage, he might have me committed.
Which means I don’t have much time.
I get out my favorite pair of Louis Vuitton pumps. Well, I only have one pair of Louis Vuittons, because they cost a small fortune. They’re made from black patent calf leather with sleek lines and a stiletto heel. Nate never would have approved of me buying them, so I saved up the cash until I had enough. I keep them hidden away and only wear them on special occasions.
I quickly slide the pumps onto my feet, then I stuff the luggage back into the closet just as Nate emerges from the bathroom with his face clean-shaven. He’s got a white towel cinched around his waist, and even though he is not quite as muscular as Jay, he is incredibly handsome. Despite everything, I am still intensely attracted to my husband.
The only problem is he doesn’t seem to feel the same way.
I’m wearing only a bra and pantyhose, and I take the opportunity to walk over to him in my Louis Vuitton pumps. With those shoes adding inches to my height and him in his bare feet, I am much closer to his height. I tilt my face up to his, and he pecks me on the lips.
I run a finger down his chest. “How about a little birthday present?”
He stiffens. “Now?”
“Sure. Just a quickie.”
“Eve.” He rolls his eyes. “You can’t possibly be serious.”
Right. Why would I be stupid enough to think my husband would want to have sex with me on my birthday?
As always when he rejects me, I get that pang of shame in my chest. At least there’s a man out there who wants me. Maybe it’s not me—it’s him. Maybe he’s asexual. Isn’t that a thing?