been with the most beautiful women in the world?
And why am I thinking about this now, while he’s holding me, his lips still dancing across my skin?
“What’s wrong, my love?” he whispers against my neck. I shrug, trying to hold myself back from crying. It’s not fair for me to feel this way. I was the reason those women got to see him like this. I was the one who ruined everything.
The question is if I will be able to forgive myself before the end comes.
Chapter 4
Then
_____________________________________
Logan
“Mr. Cooper, do you have your poetry assignment done?” asks Mr. Harris as he ruffles his fingers through his long white beard.
I bow my head, my eyes lingering on the paper in front of me, and kick myself for not having chosen to write something different. It’s too personal a poem, too intimate to be read out loud in a room full of my classmates. It was dumb even attempting to write such a thing.
“Mr. Cooper? Do you have the assignment or not?” he continues, his tone becoming less patient.
“Yeah, I have it,” I mumble as some of the other kids snicker and chuckle under their breaths around me.
“Well, don’t keep us in suspense, young man. Please come up to the front of the class and read it for us.”
Shit! Shit! Shit!
What am I going to do now?
I can tell him that I was wrong. That the poem he asked us to write was eaten by my dog or something, even though I don’t actually have one to blame. Or I can face the music and just blurt out some of the most personal words I have ever put down on paper.
“Mr. Cooper, we’re waiting. Need I remind you this assignment holds thirty percent of your grade for this period? You have had more than a full month to finish it. So are we going to hear what you came up with, or will an F in my class be in your immediate future?”
The only F I see is that I’m fucked either way.
I tilt my head to the side, Valentina’s worried stare fixed on me. It’s no surprise she’s concerned, since getting an F in any class is unacceptable to me. I’ve been busting my ass non-stop in all my classes since freshman year, just so I can improve my chances at getting a scholarship. So far, I’ve excelled at all of them. Numbers and facts I can deal with, no problem. English lit though is a whole other ball game. I only took this class so it would break the norm and look good on my academic rap sheet. If I knew that I would have to be on the spot and tell a room of strangers all my secrets, then I would have reconsidered and taken home economics instead. But there was another reason why I wanted to take this class. Val was taking it, too. And since mine are almost all AP classes, this was the only one I had with her.
The chair beneath me scrapes on the linoleum, like a bad horror movie sound-tracking my impending doom. I wipe my brow with my arm and pick up the scribbled notebook off my desk. I feel all eyes on me as I walk to the front and center of the room.
“Which poem did you pick as your muse? The one to inspire your words today?” Mr. Harris asks when I finally get close enough to him.
“‘A Woman in the Garden of Light’ by Rudyard Kipling,” I stammer, my voice starting to fail me.
“Please proceed, Logan. We do have more students to hear today,” he states, using a more understanding tone.
I clear my throat, my palms so clammy, I have to grab the notebook in my hands with my fingers not to wet the paper and tarnish the words written there. I crane my neck up, and even though the room is full of rowdy teenagers, I only have eyes for her—the only girl who could summon poetry out of me. Fear, excitement, dread, and embarrassment all accost me at once. I shake those feelings away and just look down at the words. The words I wrote for only her ears, but never had the courage to say.
In finding our sanctuary,
We roam free through its golden waters.
No fear or shame as we swim to the surface,
Letting the warm sun kiss our bare skin,
As the liquid gold brands its loving mark upon us.
And you, who shines so effortlessly,
Soothe our longing with a