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Authors: Julie Prestsater
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care.”
I slam my beer on the table, some spilling out of the top of the bottle. “Don’t you fucking dare talk about her like that.” I stand, shaking like crazy. “Just fucking don’t.”
CHAPTER EIGHT - Chase
When Tiffany doesn’t come into work the following Monday, my brain starts filtering through a million scenarios. All of them have to do with my dad doing or saying something so highly inappropriate , that she felt too uncomfortable to come to work and confront me.
The first chance I get , I call her. Her voice is shallow and groggy. “Hey,” is all she says.
“Good morning,” I say. “How are you doing? You’re not here and I’m a little worried.” A lot worried, but I don’t want to sound like a creeper.
She coughs into the phone. “I’m sick. I feel like shit.”
It surprises me to hear her curse. I kind of like it. Little by little, I’m breaking down that old -fashioned teacher facade and coming to know the real Tiffany Gutierrez. I love when she lets her guard down a little and lets me see the real her. It’s been happening more and more often over PB and Js during lunch.
“Can I do anything for you? Get you anything? Medicine? Food?” I ramble on.
“Thanks for the offer, but I don’t want you to get sick.” She coughs again. Her nose sounds stuffy too. “It’s probably just an overnight bug. I’m never sick for long.” A yawn comes loud and clear through the phone lines. “Thanks for calling to check on me, but I gotta go. I’m really sleepy.”
My chest squeezes thinking about her at home and sick in bed alone. I wish there was something I could do. “Okay. Get some rest. I hope you feel better soon.”
“Thanks,” she replies before the line goes dead.
The rest of the day goes by in a blur. Class after class, I taught what Tiff and I had planned. Our students asked about their new teacher and I took that as a compliment to her. If they didn’t like her, they wouldn’t care. They did seem genuinely concerned and some even asked me to tell her to get well soon. I thought that was really nice of them.
“You should take her some flowers, sunflowers or daisies. Girls like that stuff when they’re sick,” one of our female students instructs me on her way out.
I take her paper, feeling a bit confused. But a lot intrigued. “You think so?”
“Definitely,” she says.
“Hmm …” Considering it, I nod my head. “Thanks.”
She smirks at me knowingly before leaving.
On my way home, I can’t stop thinking about the advice I was given. Damn, I really want to see Tiffany. I want to make sure she has everything she needs to get back into good health. I bet her mom is there to help. But what if she isn’t?
As I pass the local grocery store, I know what I have to do. At the next light, I flip a bitch and head right into the parking lot. I get a cart on the way in and make a beeline straight to the medicine aisle. I toss a variety of cold and flu remedies inside before looking for the soup. Tiff is a classic girl, so I think I’m safe with a few cans of chicken noodle and a few of creamy tomato. Next, I get some crackers followed by a bag of Popsicles—just in case she has a sore throat. Finally, I search the prepackaged bundles of flowers for the perfect bunch for Tiffany. Roses are out, even the yellow ones. White daisies seem cheap. I settle on a bouquet of wild flowers in deep reds and purples. I would’ve liked something brighter but I guess we’re in the fall season and I should just be happy I don’t have to buy her a cornucopia. That would be weird. The damn things remind me of The Hunger Games.
The bags are in my trunk and I’m sitting in my car sifting through work emails for Tiffany’s contact information. I could call Shelly and ask her how to get to her place , since she took Tiffany home that one morning, but I’d rather shoot myself in the eye than give her ammunition to taunt me more. I keep getting texts about the
I slam my beer on the table, some spilling out of the top of the bottle. “Don’t you fucking dare talk about her like that.” I stand, shaking like crazy. “Just fucking don’t.”
CHAPTER EIGHT - Chase
When Tiffany doesn’t come into work the following Monday, my brain starts filtering through a million scenarios. All of them have to do with my dad doing or saying something so highly inappropriate , that she felt too uncomfortable to come to work and confront me.
The first chance I get , I call her. Her voice is shallow and groggy. “Hey,” is all she says.
“Good morning,” I say. “How are you doing? You’re not here and I’m a little worried.” A lot worried, but I don’t want to sound like a creeper.
She coughs into the phone. “I’m sick. I feel like shit.”
It surprises me to hear her curse. I kind of like it. Little by little, I’m breaking down that old -fashioned teacher facade and coming to know the real Tiffany Gutierrez. I love when she lets her guard down a little and lets me see the real her. It’s been happening more and more often over PB and Js during lunch.
“Can I do anything for you? Get you anything? Medicine? Food?” I ramble on.
“Thanks for the offer, but I don’t want you to get sick.” She coughs again. Her nose sounds stuffy too. “It’s probably just an overnight bug. I’m never sick for long.” A yawn comes loud and clear through the phone lines. “Thanks for calling to check on me, but I gotta go. I’m really sleepy.”
My chest squeezes thinking about her at home and sick in bed alone. I wish there was something I could do. “Okay. Get some rest. I hope you feel better soon.”
“Thanks,” she replies before the line goes dead.
The rest of the day goes by in a blur. Class after class, I taught what Tiff and I had planned. Our students asked about their new teacher and I took that as a compliment to her. If they didn’t like her, they wouldn’t care. They did seem genuinely concerned and some even asked me to tell her to get well soon. I thought that was really nice of them.
“You should take her some flowers, sunflowers or daisies. Girls like that stuff when they’re sick,” one of our female students instructs me on her way out.
I take her paper, feeling a bit confused. But a lot intrigued. “You think so?”
“Definitely,” she says.
“Hmm …” Considering it, I nod my head. “Thanks.”
She smirks at me knowingly before leaving.
On my way home, I can’t stop thinking about the advice I was given. Damn, I really want to see Tiffany. I want to make sure she has everything she needs to get back into good health. I bet her mom is there to help. But what if she isn’t?
As I pass the local grocery store, I know what I have to do. At the next light, I flip a bitch and head right into the parking lot. I get a cart on the way in and make a beeline straight to the medicine aisle. I toss a variety of cold and flu remedies inside before looking for the soup. Tiff is a classic girl, so I think I’m safe with a few cans of chicken noodle and a few of creamy tomato. Next, I get some crackers followed by a bag of Popsicles—just in case she has a sore throat. Finally, I search the prepackaged bundles of flowers for the perfect bunch for Tiffany. Roses are out, even the yellow ones. White daisies seem cheap. I settle on a bouquet of wild flowers in deep reds and purples. I would’ve liked something brighter but I guess we’re in the fall season and I should just be happy I don’t have to buy her a cornucopia. That would be weird. The damn things remind me of The Hunger Games.
The bags are in my trunk and I’m sitting in my car sifting through work emails for Tiffany’s contact information. I could call Shelly and ask her how to get to her place , since she took Tiffany home that one morning, but I’d rather shoot myself in the eye than give her ammunition to taunt me more. I keep getting texts about the
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