Read Online This Glittering World by T. Greenwood - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: T. Greenwood
Ads: Link
I feel like I have control over things. That’s why I couldn’t work in the ER. It’s just too much. I can give shots and draw blood and hand out stickers to scared little kids, but I can’t deal with death like this. I’ve been rattled all week. And then that stupid stuff about the wedding … I’m just …” She took a deep breath. “Sorry.”
She must have been saving this up for days.
“It’s okay,” he said. He hated seeing her like this.
She turned to him and shook her head. “It’s not okay. It’s like things are changing between us, and I don’t want to be so angry all the time. I want to be who we used to be. God, what happened?”
And then she was leaning into him, pressing her cheek against his chest, and his chest ached. He rested his chin on the top of her head and closed his eyes hard. The house smelled like her mother’s homemade tomato sauce. There were candles burning on the dining room table.
“Did you do this for me?” he asked.
She pulled away from him and looked up, smiling. “I got the sweet sausage you like, and I made homemade garlic bread.” She went to the pan, covered it with foil, and put it in the oven.
“What time is it?” he asked, glancing down at his watch. It was only five.
“I left work early. I just wanted to come home and be with you. Start the weekend right.”
He raised his eyebrow at her. She was pressing her whole body into him now, and he could feel himself giving in to that old feeling, that wonderful feeling of Sara, Sara. God, what had happened to them?
And then she took his hand, leading him out of the kitchen, through the living room and down the hallway to their bedroom. She put her hand against his chest, pushing him down on the bed. She pulled the heavy curtains, and in the darkness he went through the motions, trying to remember what it meant to love Sara.
O n Tuesday morning, he walked down the rows of seats, handing back the graded essays. He was met with all of the requisite groans and sighs. He hated teaching at eight A.M., but it came with the territory of being an adjunct. The fulltime faculty got first picks with the schedule, and the rest of the available courses were doled out to him and the rest of his colleagues at the bottom of the academic totem pole.
There are two types of kids who take eight o’clock classes: the overachievers and the underachievers. The overachievers are the ones who wake up ready to go each day, the ones who go to bed early during the week, the ones who do their homework and visit during office hours. These are the students who manage to graduate in four years, which is no small feat in a town with so many opportunities for distraction. The underachievers are the ones who forget to register for their classes until all of the sections held at reasonable times are full. These are the second-or third-or fourth-year seniors who have to have this class to graduate. The ones who have spent more time snowboarding than studying. More time at the bars than at the library. And this makes for a terrible classroom dynamic. The overachievers sitting in the front row, raising their hands, eagerly jumping in anytime Ben poses a question while the underachievers hold court in the back rows, fighting off sleep or texting their grievances, clackety-clack, all through class.
This morning as Ben began his lecture on American colonialism, Hanna Blum, fresh out of the shower and Starbucks in hand, raised her hand to ask a question, and Joe Bello yawned in the back. It was a big yawn, an exaggerated yawn. The kind of yawn that is meant to send a message.
“Joe?” Ben said. “Am I boring you?”
There were some chuckles in the back. His buddy, Drew Miller, punched his arm. “Wake up, dude.”
Joe had been a pain in the ass all semester. He was a rich kid from Scottsdale, probably on his third or fourth school. His parents had likely sent him here thinking there would be fewer temptations than back home. He was a frat kid,
She must have been saving this up for days.
“It’s okay,” he said. He hated seeing her like this.
She turned to him and shook her head. “It’s not okay. It’s like things are changing between us, and I don’t want to be so angry all the time. I want to be who we used to be. God, what happened?”
And then she was leaning into him, pressing her cheek against his chest, and his chest ached. He rested his chin on the top of her head and closed his eyes hard. The house smelled like her mother’s homemade tomato sauce. There were candles burning on the dining room table.
“Did you do this for me?” he asked.
She pulled away from him and looked up, smiling. “I got the sweet sausage you like, and I made homemade garlic bread.” She went to the pan, covered it with foil, and put it in the oven.
“What time is it?” he asked, glancing down at his watch. It was only five.
“I left work early. I just wanted to come home and be with you. Start the weekend right.”
He raised his eyebrow at her. She was pressing her whole body into him now, and he could feel himself giving in to that old feeling, that wonderful feeling of Sara, Sara. God, what had happened to them?
And then she took his hand, leading him out of the kitchen, through the living room and down the hallway to their bedroom. She put her hand against his chest, pushing him down on the bed. She pulled the heavy curtains, and in the darkness he went through the motions, trying to remember what it meant to love Sara.
O n Tuesday morning, he walked down the rows of seats, handing back the graded essays. He was met with all of the requisite groans and sighs. He hated teaching at eight A.M., but it came with the territory of being an adjunct. The fulltime faculty got first picks with the schedule, and the rest of the available courses were doled out to him and the rest of his colleagues at the bottom of the academic totem pole.
There are two types of kids who take eight o’clock classes: the overachievers and the underachievers. The overachievers are the ones who wake up ready to go each day, the ones who go to bed early during the week, the ones who do their homework and visit during office hours. These are the students who manage to graduate in four years, which is no small feat in a town with so many opportunities for distraction. The underachievers are the ones who forget to register for their classes until all of the sections held at reasonable times are full. These are the second-or third-or fourth-year seniors who have to have this class to graduate. The ones who have spent more time snowboarding than studying. More time at the bars than at the library. And this makes for a terrible classroom dynamic. The overachievers sitting in the front row, raising their hands, eagerly jumping in anytime Ben poses a question while the underachievers hold court in the back rows, fighting off sleep or texting their grievances, clackety-clack, all through class.
This morning as Ben began his lecture on American colonialism, Hanna Blum, fresh out of the shower and Starbucks in hand, raised her hand to ask a question, and Joe Bello yawned in the back. It was a big yawn, an exaggerated yawn. The kind of yawn that is meant to send a message.
“Joe?” Ben said. “Am I boring you?”
There were some chuckles in the back. His buddy, Drew Miller, punched his arm. “Wake up, dude.”
Joe had been a pain in the ass all semester. He was a rich kid from Scottsdale, probably on his third or fourth school. His parents had likely sent him here thinking there would be fewer temptations than back home. He was a frat kid,
Similar Books
