I’ve seen Ian shirtless exactly 23 times. Half of those occurrences have been innocent in nature: beach days and pool parties. The rest have been stolen glimpses of him while he’s changing in his room. Yes, that’s right—sometimes, I’m a sneaky little voyeur. I just can’t help myself.
Still, this feels different. He’s never just been shirtless like this around me. At the beach or at the pool, we’re outside and there’s room for my desire to swell and expand. Here, in his kitchen, it dwells like a physical presence.
My gaze skates gently across his abs and I note the grooves like a toddler counting up her blocks. One, two, three, four, five, six…I wonder if his skin would feel hot or if it just looks that way because it’s tan.
I pinch the collar of my shirt and tug on it, trying to increase airflow.
It’s like we’re in a pressure cooker.
He peeks one eye open. “Are you going to start today, or…?”
“Yes. Obviously.” I grasp blindly for the instructions and shake them out. “I’m just giving you time to change your mind about ruining this thick head of hair. Your mom is going to kill you—and me.”
He smiles. “Wouldn’t happen. She likes you too much.”
Then he closes his eyes again and this time, I am dutiful and stay on task.
I put on the nitrile gloves and pick up the bowl of blue dye. After a concentrated breath, I dip my fingers in the goop and start to disperse it across his hair. At first, I try to keep my distance. I’m standing as far from him as possible, bent at 90 degrees to reach his head, but my lower back aches in protest after a few seconds. I’m forced to step closer, but apparently it’s not close enough because Ian laughs and reaches for me.
“You’re getting it everywhere, c’mere.”
His arm loops through my legs and around my left thigh so he can tug me toward him. Either he underestimates his strength or I’m just weak because when he pulls, I lose my footing and collapse against him, and worse, I can’t steady myself because my hands are covered in blue goop. We’re connected whether I like it or not. My hip hits his shoulder. My thigh is brushing his bicep. My boobs are inches from his face. He squeezes my leg to help stabilize me and his fingers are touching the sensitive skin above my knee. For a second, it feels like he’s skimming them back and forth on purpose.
My entire body clenches in anticipation of what will happen next. We’ve never been this close for this long.
My breath is held hostage in my chest. His eyes are still closed.
My mouth is open, and I’m about to whisper his name like a question, but he pushes me back to standing on my own before I can. His arm drops from my thigh then his hands go right back to resting on his abs.
I force a slow, steady exhale I hope he can’t hear.
After that mishap, I’m The Flash through the remainder of the dye job. I run my fingers through his hair, saturate the strands, and try to stay calm during the parts where I have to lean over his body to get to the other side of his head. I can feel his breath on my neck. A fireworks show makes its way down my spine.
If he’s affected by our proximity, he doesn’t let on. He could be napping for all I know.
When I’m finished, I step back. “Okay. Now we’re supposed to let it sit for a few minutes.”
He opens his eyes and offers me a devilish grin. “How do I look so far?”
I sigh, slightly annoyed with the results. “Not nearly as dorky as you should. Half the team is probably going to copy you.”
“So I’m a trendsetter?”
He chuckles and turns to stare up at the ceiling. His fingers drum on his abs.
I rock back on my heels and reach for my blue-fingerprint-stained glass of water.
“What should we do while we wait?” I ask.
“How about I do you now?” he suggests.
I spew water all over the counter and break out into a violent coughing fit. Ian cycles from amused to concerned as he realizes I might actually be choking. Embarrassed, I turn to walk away, but he pinches my shirt and pulls so I plop down backward onto his lap. He slaps my back until the coughing subsides.
“Okay, I think I’m good,” I say, trying to stand up and run out into traffic, but now his hands are on my waist, holding me in place.
“Did you think I was coming on to you?” he says to the back of my head.
We’re too close for comfort, but the lack of eye contact has made him bold.
“I just misunderstood the question,” I answer, feigning calmness.
“Interesting.”
I roll my eyes. “Oh please. Obviously I didn’t think you wanted to like…do me.”
His fingers dig into my hips, and I think he can feel my pulse respond.
“Hmm, but it seemed plausible enough to inhale half a glass of water.”
“Whatever. I was just woozy from the noxious hair dye fumes.”
I try to wiggle out of his hold, but he doesn’t let me.
I give up and hold stock-still, afraid the slightest movement might turn this friendly, lifesaving lap-sit into a $10 lap dance. The thought sends a new flush to my cheeks.
“I don’t smell fumes, just your body wash. You’ve used the same scent for three years.”
He doesn’t sound like he’s trying to be funny. He sounds feral.
“I’ll change it if it bothers you,” I say, breathless.
“Don’t.”
I’m having wild ideas: Maybe I should turn around and kiss him. Maybe I should finally find out what he tastes like.
I catch our bizarre reflection in the window in front of me and an alarm whirs in my brain. STOP THIS! STOP!
I jump up and clap my hands. The noise is like a freight train, interrupting the tension building between us. “Oh! Time to rinse your hair!”
It’s only been like two minutes, but he doesn’t question me. He shakes his head and looks away.
After rinsing off in the shower, we see it was a success.
Ian’s hair is blue.
My cheeks are still red.
Everyone at school goes crazy for Ian’s new do. It’s such a cool, shocking shade that the students call him a badass and the female teachers now think he has some untapped wild side. In the teachers’ lounge, they whisper about him looking like a rock star.
I’m glad the color isn’t permanent. His constant workouts mean he has to shower frequently, and soon, he’ll be back to generic ol’ Ian. Of note, I find that if I call him words like generic in my head, it’s easier to make it through the day. Here’s how it works: Oh, him? That’s just plain ol’ Brad Pitt. Meh.
See? I bet you don’t even think Brad Pitt is hot anymore.
As the blue fades from his hair, Ian’s collection of valentines grows more out of control. He donated two large trash bags full of teddy bears the other day. The children’s hospital called the local news and they tried to film a feel-good puff piece about the gesture. Local Teacher Bears Gifts for Sick Kids. Thank god he declined an interview. The last thing I need is for him to go viral. Can you imagine the YouTube comments?
Granny330: Back when I was in school, teachers could still spank students—I wouldn’t have minded so much if it were him doing it!
SoccerMom88: I think we need a few more parent-teacher conferences…
TeachersPetXOXO: Van Halen’s “Hot for Teacher” anyone?
He donated the roses as well—to me. I didn’t want to accept his crummy secondhand flowers, but he insisted. They’re stinking up my entire apartment. Every time I look at them, I’m reminded of my competition. After only a day, I decide to toss them and tell him they were carrying a fungus.
Thank god Valentine’s Day is this weekend. The fundraiser will be over soon, and those choir dweebs will get their trip to nationals—Ian’s admirers have made sure of it.
The only downside is that the end of the fundraiser brings with it the most lovey-dovey holiday of the year, the one I’ll get to endure alone for the third year in a row.
Fortunately, I have a busy few days ahead of me to distract me from my bleak and desolate future.
Ian and I have to run that sex-ed course on Friday, then we have the Oak Hill Valentine’s Carnival on Saturday morning, and finally, as if my life couldn’t get any sadder, Ian surprised me by announcing he signed us up to chaperone the Valentine’s Day dance on Saturday night.
“You’re kidding me.”
“What?” he asks, feigning innocence. “Do you have other plans?”