It has been a very, very long while since I had been back home. Although the city was only a couple hours away, I had no desire to visit the small town I had grown up in. However, this year is my five year high school reunion. Since I was somewhat proud of what I had accomplished, I decided to attend the party.
Since the event was scheduled for the morrow and I had nothing better to do, I had taken a few days off and checked into a hotel room. Maybe something exciting would happen, but so far my trip had been rather dull. It was nearing late evening, and I was sitting at a fairly empty bar, nursing a sweet margarita.
So far, I had seen a few former classmates. Some made small chat; others seemed to not recognize me. It was no matter; I dressed up a lot more now than what I had ever in high school. Since I did hair for a living, I had to look the part if I expected to make money.
Sighing, I glance down the bar, searching for a familiar face to talk with. There's a man who stirs my memory, but he is too old to be a former classmate. He's sipping on a glass of bourbon, neat. Much to my embarrassment, he catches my stare and gives me a small smile.
Mortified, I instantly redden and turn my eyes back to my drink. I hear a bar stool scrape the floor as he makes his way in my direction. I squirm uncomfortably as he sits beside me his front facing my side. My eyes turn to his.
"Mr. Stiles?" I gasp in recognition. He was my freshmen English teacher in high school, although I did seek advice from him all four years.
"Sydnee," he grins warmly. "Five years?"
"Yes," I answer, my long blond hair falling down my back. "It's good to see a familiar face. How have you been?"
"I've been well. Glad for the summer to finally be here. I'm still teaching," he says.
"Are you going to the reunion?" I ask.
"No. That's for you young folks," he shakes his head. "Do you still write?"
"Sometimes. It can be difficult to find time," I say.
"What do you do for a living?" he asks. His eyes flit to my chest for a moment. I grin mischievously at him. His expression is guilty, but it's slightly cute.
"I do hair," I answer, leaning forward slightly. The small movement is enough to give him a glimpse of my chest under my dress. Alcohol does foolish things to a mind . . . especially around an old crush.
"You look wonderful," he says quietly, keeping his eyes on mine.
"So do you," I whisper, turning to face him. My legs are between his now. For a few moments, we gaze at each other. Then, he clears his throat and looks away.
"Where are you staying?" he asks, breaking the silence.
"The only hotel in town," I answer. "Do you still write, Mr. Stiles?"
"Not as much as I did when you were in school," he confesses.
"I enjoyed reading what you let me," I say truthfully. "You're brilliant."
"So are you. Part of the reason why I stopped writing was the fact you were gone. You are excruciatingly honest when you peer edit. I've missed you." he says, his eyes turning to mine.
"Aww," I grin at him. "We should exchange phone numbers. I would love to edit your work. Or just chat."
"That would be great," he says. My legs are still between his. When I stand, we're extremely close. Since he's sitting and I'm wearing heels, our faces are extremely close. He smells sweet and fresh; almost minty.
"My phone is in my car. You're finished, right?" I ask with a glance to his empty glass. He nods, standing as well.
"I am . . . but not with you. We could grab a pizza and go to my place. I bought new patio furniture that I haven't tried out yet. And . . . I wouldn't mind catching up with you a bit . . . if that's all right." he says.
"Yeah. Would it be all right if you just followed me to the hotel so I can drop off my car? On the way here, it was sounding a little rough and I don't want to drive it too much," I say.
"Do you know what's wrong with it? I could take a look for you," he says, wrapping his arm around me and laying a twenty down on the bar.
"Don't pay for my drink," I scold, but he shakes his head.
"Let's go," he says, leading me out of the bar.
In no time, he's scratching his head although something tells me it's not from confusion. He lets out a sigh, turning his gaze to me.
"Sydnee, I don't think this thing is meant to drive anymore. I'm sincerely worried for your trip back home. The wheel bearings are definitely bad, and I'm pretty sure you're going to have to replace the passenger axel." he eyes me steadily, annoyed. "Why would you deliberately put yourself in danger like this? You could have been hurt . . ."
"Mr. Stiles, I—"
"Remy." he says quietly, and I'm not sure if he meant the thought to be aloud.
