A Dance for Him (26 page)

“You’re a clever girl, Paige, not giving out your school email address. Maybe I should have asked you for your phone number instead. But then, didn’t I tell you, I’m not as demanding as you think. See you on Saturday.”

And with that he takes off, leaving me standing there, still dazed, shocked, nauseated, not quite sure what’s just happened, not quite sure if I’ve done the right thing in agreeing to this bizarre plan.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

She’s sitting at a bench in the lobby, fiddling with her phone, absent-mindedly tucking a strand of hair behind her ear with her free hand.

God, I could look at her forever, she’s just so utterly adorable. And if I have it my way, I will get to see her around a lot more, at least once the regulation against teacher-student relationships doesn’t apply any more to us - which couldn’t be soon enough for me.

Here now
, I text her.
My car’s in the parking lot across the street. Meet you there?

She gives a start, looks up and around, sees me, and smiles before texting me back:
Of course
.

She gets up from the bench as I approach the door. There’s something strangely nervous about her manner - perhaps she’s still unsettled by that run-in with Roger and Caleb the other day, I’ll probably find out soon enough …

She still looks a bit pale when she gets to the car - happy to see me, I think, but distinctly jumpy, looking around more than once before she climbs into the car.

“Hello, baby girl,” I say as I lean in for a kiss.

She reciprocates with unusual timidity.

“Hello, Sebastian,” she murmurs.

“So what do you think, where shall we go today?”

“Anywhere you like,” she says, shivering a bit. “Anywhere, as long as it’s not on campus.”

“But you’re shivering, my dear girl. Are you all right? You’re not coming down with a cold, are you?”

She looks startled.

“Oh, no, no! No, I’m just - just feeling a bit nervous. You know, about Dean Miller spotting me on campus and realising I’m a student, that sort of thing.”

“Well, let’s be on our way then, I want my girl to be happy after all.”

She smiles.

“Thank you, Sebastian.”

Given her worries about being seen, I decided it might be best to pick up some takeout and eat at the house.

She seems terribly grateful and (unnecessarily) apologetic, but there’s still something a bit off about the whole thing, something I don’t understand.

She’s also picking at her food rather than attacking it with her usual healthy appetite. Of course, it could be that she doesn’t like it all that much, but to be honest, in light of everything else, it’s as though someone or something has taken away her usual spark, replaced it with a sort of bleak, grinding dread.

She was still quite saucy and chatty when we talked last night, so I’m pretty sure something’s happened this morning, unless she’s having a case of delayed sub drop, which I don’t get the impression it is.

What’s unsettling me is that every gesture of affection I make is responded to with disproportionate gratitude, and yet I can’t help having the feeling that my tenderness is also, in some strange way, causing her pain at the same time.

After we’re done with lunch she gathers up our plates to take them to the sink, but her manner is so painfully meek and anxious to please, in contrast to her usual lively, feisty self, that I take the plates from her, set them on the table and pull her over to sit on my lap.

“Are you all right, Paige,” I finally ask her again. “I just feel like something’s the matter, that something’s not quite right. You’re upset about something. You know you can talk to me about anything, can’t you?”

She looks at me, pale, almost frightened.

Frightened of me
, I almost would have said, as much as the idea cuts me to the quick, except that she then huddles against me, burying her face in my shoulder, like a small child seeking comfort.

At least she’s still all right with seeking comfort from me
, I think …

“I’m sorry, Sebastian. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. It’s a passing mood, I’m sure. I - I’m very sorry. I know we were supposed to have a bit of fun today, and I’m being a complete wet blanket -”

I hold her closely to me. It’s strange, she’s always seemed lithe and delicate yet strong to me, but in this moment she seems terribly, touchingly fragile.

“Paige. Paige, my darling girl. Look, yes it’s true that you are a very attractive young woman, and I can’t get enough of you. But it isn’t just about that for me - just about whether or not I get laid. Surely you know that by now?
You
matter to me.”

She raises her head and looks at me with a stricken expression that I don’t understand.

Or rather, it’s an expression that I think I recognise, but I can’t imagine why she would have that expression on her face, don’t want to imagine why she would have that expression on her face.

Because she looks
guilty
, somehow.

But why? Guilty of what?

It’s with a terrible feeling of dread that I realise
Maggie
used to look like that towards the end of our relationship, before she eventually broke down and confessed about Peter.

And yet …

That
occurred very gradually, over months. How can things change that quickly, in, what, half a day? Hours, even, because she seemed just fine in class. No, it can’t possibly be a replay of the Maggie thing. It simply can’t be.

“Paige, darling Paige,” I say, as she buries her face in my shoulder again and I stroke her hair. “Look, I really don’t know what I can do to help you. Would it help for you to stay here for the day? Or would you prefer it if I drove you home? I wish I knew what you wanted - I just want you to be happy, baby girl.”

“Oh, Sebastian,” she sighs, her voice still muffled. “I’m sorry, I think I’ve just been stressing out over some of my other classes. I wish I could spend more time with you …”

“My poor girl. I’ve been taking up a lot of your time recently, haven’t I?”

She looks up and shakes her head.

“I’ve loved every moment of it, and I don’t regret it one bit,” she murmurs, running her hand through my hair as she speaks. “But finals are coming up, and I’ve fallen behind in the advanced calc class, it was probably silly of me to take it as an elective but regular calc was easy and so I wasn’t expecting this to be so difficult.”

“It’s all right, Paige,” I say gently. “I’ll drive you home then. And you let me know when you might have time to meet up again, we can talk on the phone or Skype in the meantime, if you feel like you might be in the mood. I would love it if we could meet for a bit on the weekend, maybe grab dinner Saturday night, but please don’t feel like you’re obliged to, if you’re busy with work …”

An expression of alarm flits over her face when I mention Saturday.

“Not Saturday,” she says hastily, before appearing to realise that maybe she said it just a tad too hastily, and trying to backtrack and sound more casual. “Um, I mean, I don’t think Saturday will work, I think it might be better to aim for Sunday. You know, I’d like to see you after I get everything done, so I can forget all about homework and just be with you, without any distractions …”

She seems tense and yet anxious to please (to appease, almost), all through our somewhat awkward drive back to her place.

When I pull up in front of her apartment building, she takes my hand and presses it to her cheek before kissing me.

“Thank you, Sebastian,” she whispers. “You’re so kind. I really appreciate it. I’m sorry about today. I hope to make it up to you on Sunday. And please do call me anytime. I - I always love hearing your voice.”

“Sweet girl,” I say, and pull her in for another kiss, a long, soft, tender kiss that she seems to respond to, which is at least a bit of a relief. “Do what you need to do. I’ll be fine. And yes, I’ll call and check in with you tonight.”

She smiles timidly and gets out of the car, pausing to blow me a kiss before she slips into the lobby of her building.

It’s all quite perplexing, and I don’t really know what to think as I drive home. The whole thing about the advanced calculus class seems vaguely plausible, given her conscientiousness, and yet there was something a bit off about it - as was her panicky insistence that she wouldn’t be able to see me on Saturday.

And yet she seemed so affectionate as well - just oddly closed off …

After I get home, I idly take out my phone, which has been muted all this time, as is my usual habit both when I’m teaching and when I’m with her, and idly scroll through my new emails.

A few messages from students fretting about their grades, and then a message from someone I don’t know, who’s using his or her email address as a screen name - an email address I don’t remember ever coming across, and which gives no hint as to the actual name of the sender.

Subject line:
Saturday
.

If you want to know why she can’t meet you on Saturday night, be at the Royale at 7:30pm. Don’t bother asking her about this email - she won’t tell you a thing. And it won’t change a thing.

A well-wisher.