The Consequence of Pining

Reyna sat in her car for twenty minutes every day afterschool. She didn't like the rush of the parking lot, but she didn't particularly want to linger inside the building, either, so she just sat in her car and slowly wasted gas until most of her classmates had hustled out of their spaces. Today, she was reading, but sometimes she was knitting or watching something on her phone or just gazing at the sidewalk, fogging up the window with her forehead pressed to it.

Sometimes, if she was lucky, her favorite teacher Mr. Hart would wander out, phone pressed to his ear and a scowl on his face, as he walked to his car.

He had a girlfriend, and she was pretty, too, but she couldn't be all that great if his smile slipped every time she called. When Reyna would swing by in the mornings sophomore year, Mr. Hart would always look embarrassed if his girlfriend called. She often did, since it was before class started, and she liked to talk to him before he started teaching. Once, when Reyna was telling him about a campus she'd visited over the weekend, Mr. Hart's girlfriend had called, and he had glanced down, grimaced, and then declined the call. Reyna had nearly keeled over but managed to finish what she was saying, by the grace of God.

She was a senior now and went to the early college program in the mornings to take some of the APs that her school didn't offer. She didn't mind it, but she missed having time to wander by Mr. Hart's room, lingering until he happened to glance up from his laptop and greet her with a warm "Oh, Reyna!" She hadn't been his actual student since her sophomore year, but her devotion to him seemed eternal at this point.

Today, sitting in her car with a book splayed open on her lap and one pale hand resting on the page to keep it from closing, she watched, enamored, as Mr. Hart strolled out of the school and over to his car. There was one row of staff parking in the student lot, spillover parking, and Mr. Hart generally arrived at school much too early to be in the overflow staff lot. But today, he kept walking right past the staff lot and up the grassy hill to the student lot. As he made his way closer, Reyna darted a frantic glance around.

She knew which car was his because she was a psycho, but she hadn't processed until right then that it was his car. And it was two spaces away from hers. If it were 3:45, when school let out, then Reyna wouldn't worry. There would be way too many people for him to notice her, even if he kept his eyes peeled. But she had lost track of time reading, and a startled glance at her car clock revealed that it was 4:30. Her car was one of roughly ten remaining in the lot. And hers was certainly the only car that was running.

Fighting the urge to slink low in her seat and discreetly turn off her car, Reyna returned her attention to her book. She was sitting cross-legged with the seat pushed back to allow for more room. She prayed to God that he would ignore her.

A soft knock on her passenger side window disrupted this illusion. When she glanced up, Mr. Hart was standing between her car and his, a warm grin on his handsome face. There were many reasons he was at the top of her favorite teacher list, but that big smile ranked high. She wanted to recline her seat and let her body sink into it, never to be seen or heard from again. She also wanted to roll her window down, climb over the console and the passenger seat and through the window and into his strong arms. Settling for a compromise, she rolled her window down and gave him a shy wave.

"Hi, Mr. Hart," she murmured, cheeks flushed. So much had changed since she had last really spoken to him. He wrote one of her college recommendations, but he did that for a lot of people. She didn't like to think about how the pandemic had changed her life, but this relationship that had meant so much to her even just a year ago was certainly one of the most devastating casualties. He liked her, and she knew that. He thought she was funny and charming, and she liked to read and he was an English teacher, so of course they got on well. She was respectful, too, because that had been seared into her brain as soon as she could consciously interact with people. Teachers always liked her.

But he really liked her. He liked her in a way she hadn't really experienced before, a warmer way. He seemed surprised and delighted by nearly everything she did. She would say something, and his laugh would stumble out of him like he'd unsuccessfully tried to block it. And she would grin, victorious, and journal about it before she went to bed.

They had emailed a few times during her virtual junior year, and he had been kind, so wonderful. He had responded to her personal email account, which was not allowed by the school board, a fact she had learned only recently, but he'd still used his school account, so it was not as illicit as she wanted it to be. That didn't keep his responses from turning her inside out. Once, he'd written, "Please come visit me when we get back to school. I'm going to need some cheering up."

Reyna had gasped and grinned and picked those sentences apart. Cheering up? Her mind was perverse, and she pictured herself in his arms, perched on his broad, strong lap with her skirt high on her thighs. He would put one tan, callused hand on her thigh and use it to ease her legs open. And then she'd cheer him up.

She responded to the email with "You won't be able to get rid of me," and that had been the last of it. She felt awful about him, and her stomach hurt when she thought about him, from lust and affection and just the wrongness of it all. She was twisting what they had, making it something sick that he didn't want it to be. But she didn't think it was sick, not really. It wasn't wrong of her to want him so badly when he treated her so well. When he smiled and kept a present she knitted for him sophomore year on his desk, proudly displayed.

Then she'd ruined it. Responded so terribly enthusiastically to the prospect of cheering him up that she'd scared him right off. They'd spoken since, of course. She had volunteered at freshman orientation, and he had passed her in the hallway. He'd blanched at seeing her once he recognized her through her mask, and said, "Hey! What are you doing here?"

"Freshman orientation," she had explained, gesturing to the gaggle of 14-year-olds at her heels. She was wearing athletic shorts that her friend had gotten her for Christmas and a sweatshirt with the high school's name on it. Her hair was down and long, spilling over her chest. His eyes had skimmed her, and she could've sworn his cheeks reddened, but it was nearly impossible to tell through his mask.

Since then, she'd talked to him a few more times, but mostly about college and her yearning to be in his class once more. He would listen and offer advice and chuckle when it was time, but things weren't the same. And she wanted to bury her head in her pillow and set herself on fire every time she thought about it.

But still, her heart raced whenever she stayed long enough to watch him go to his car, his long, strong legs carrying him faster than hers ever could. And she would smile and sigh and add it to the list of things she thought about at night, when she lay on her tummy with her hands between her thighs, spine arched.

"Hi, Reyna," he said now, still beaming at her. He wasn't wearing his mask because he was outside, and she wasn't either because she was in her car. His gaze ran over her face, and she returned the gesture, appreciating the severe, handsome lines of his features. He was pushing forty, but inexplicably that only added to his appeal. Reyna was a sick girl, and she knew it, but she couldn't keep her grin from splitting her face in half as she looked her fill.

"Oh, there she is," Mr. Hart murmured, chuckling at her big smile. "How are you?"

"I'm good, how are you?" Reyna chirped back, just reciting lines she'd rehearsed since first grade.

"Great," he drawled, his grin slipping into something lazier. "I feel like I haven't seen you in a while. Where have you been?"

"Oh, uh, around," Reyna said vaguely, waving a hand at the school and then circling back to her car. She felt like throwing up. Things were awkward, and she was making them awkward. He liked her because she was funny. Why wasn't she being funny? All she could do was stare at him.

"Are you sure you're okay, Reyna?" he asked, his voice dropping an octave as he took a step towards her open window. "You seem blue."

"It's winter," Reyna blurted, like that explained things. His eyebrow quirked, and she blushed. "Well, the sun sets at 5 p.m. now, and I just feel like I don't exist these days. I like the cold, but I feel cold, do you know what I mean?"

She wanted to set herself on fire. She was not being funny.

"It is winter," he agreed, gaze softening so much that she wanted to weep. He was looking at her like he looked at her when she was in his class, and she had cried at the end of Cyrano de Bergerac. "And it is too cold. And I always know what you mean."

Oh. Her eyes filled with tears, and she glanced down at her book to avoid the reality of her situation. Crying in front of her favorite teacher. Crying in front of the guy she'd had a crush on for almost three years. Crying!

"What are you reading these days?" Mr. Hart asked, peering into her car at the novel on her lap. She welcomed the distraction as she picked the book up and closed it and shoved it in his direction, and he took it into his big, strong, cold-chapped hands.

"Oh, your hands," she murmured sullenly, eyeing him. His nose was red, and his cheeks were flushed, and his hat didn't quite cover his ears. Her eyes caught on his hat, and a flush stole over her entire body. "I made that hat." As if he didn't know. "You didn't tell me it was too small. I can add more."

"I like it small," he assured her. "It's risky. Could fly off at any moment, and then I'd have to go running after it all embarrassed. You don't get that rush when the hat fits."

She giggled and pulled her knees up to her chest, resting them against the bottom of her steering wheel. "Are you cold, Mr. Hart?" It would probably be inappropriate for her to invite him into her car, what with COVID and teacher-student boundaries. But he looked cold and seemed to be chatty.

"Not cold enough to get into my underage student's car on school property," he said, a sardonic twist to his smile.

"I'm not your student anymore," she reminded him, shoving a dark strand of hair behind her ear. She had cut her hair over the break, so it no longer fell to her lower back. It now brushed the bottoms of her breasts instead, and she wanted him to notice, but he hadn't. She felt embarrassed by her invitation and her arguments, but she dug the hole deeper. "And I turned eighteen three weeks ago."

"Reyna," he said, exasperated. He was still holding her book. It was one of the ones that he used to truly tease her for when she was in his class. It was called In the Bed of a Highlander, and he perused the blurb on the back with a familiar grin. He tossed the book into her passenger seat and shook his head at her. "What am I ever going to do with you?"

She smiled up at him, and she knew her gaze was inappropriate because she knew her thoughts were inappropriate, and she had never mastered how to hide her feelings. His eyebrows dropped into an admonishing furrow.

"Reyna," he said again, this time a true warning. She glanced away from him, embarrassed at whatever had been in her eyes that he needed to scold her for. She heard him mutter "Christ" under his breath, and then the sound of a car door opening. A few seconds later, a car door closing. When she looked up, he was behind the wheel of his car, and his hat was askew on his head. He took it off and ran his hands through his hair. She bit her lip and looked away, trying not to cry.

She waited for his car to start, but it didn't. When she looked over at him again, he was furiously turning the key in the ignition, and then he slammed a fist into the steering wheel. The horn honked, and Reyna jumped at the noise.

"Piece of shit," he muttered, climbing out of the car. He hesitated and then put his hat back on. It was winter. Reyna kept her head down, feigning interest in the book open in the passenger seat, but she watched him beneath her lashes. She had never heard him curse. It made her stomach flutter.

He rustled around for a few minutes, rubbed his temples, and then glanced in her direction. She froze, and he let out a disbelieving laugh before striding over to knock on her window again.

"Hi," he said, irritation written all over the lines of his face. "You don't happen to have a jumping cable, do you?"

"I--what's a jumping cable?"

"Shit," he hissed, putting his elbows on the roof of her car and dropping his head in his hands. She fixed her gaze on the broad shape of him filling her open window. He was wearing a black coat, unzipped, and a white dress shirt beneath it. His pants and tie were gray, although the tie did have black stripes. When he ducked his head and caught her gaze dragging across his muscular torso, he swore again.

"Can I help you without the jumper cable?" she asked, blushing when she messed up the terminology of whatever nonsense he had asked for. And she blushed harder when she thought about helping him, about cheering him up, about sinking to her knees and easing at least one burden.

"Do not look at me like that," Mr. Hart growled, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Fucking hell, Reyna. I'll just call someone to give me a ride and worry about it later."

"I can give you a ride," Reyna exclaimed, gesturing to the car she was sitting in. "It's no problem. I won't give you slutty looks, I promise. I'm sorry."

His jaw tightened at her word choice, and she blushed again, looking down at her hands folded in her lap and letting the curtain of her hair hide her face from him.

"I live thirty minutes away," he sighed. "I don't want to be worrying about whether you got back home all night. It's way out of your way."

"It doesn't matter," she dismissed, waving a hand. "I was gonna get coffee anyway, so I would've already been out. I'll just go to whatever Starbucks is closest to your house on my way home."

"I will worry about you all night, Reyna," he repeated, looking exasperated. "It's nearly dark now. We have established that it's winter."

"I can...email you? When I get home?" she offered, unsure of what else to do.

He nodded sharply, once, and then scrubbed a hand over his face. "Before I get in your car, I need you to understand that nothing can happen between us. The way you look at me is not slutty, but it is not something I can tolerate for thirty minutes alone in a car with you. And again, I can call someone and get a ride home. Or Triple-A. You do not need to drive me."

"I don't mind," Reyna repeated, blushing and choosing to ignore the other aspects of his warning. "And it's cold in here with the window down. I'm ready to go."

He gave her a long, considering look, swore again, and then transferred his bag from his car to hers. His leather satchel looked so frustratingly mature next to her green backpack. She looked away.

****

"Left here."

Reyna nodded and switched lanes. That was about how things had gone for the past ten minutes. He would grumble directions, and she would follow them and try not to cry or yearn.

"Now you're just gonna go straight for about six miles."

Reyna nodded, as she was wont to do, and tried to force herself to relax. Sure, she was alone in a car with the man of her dreams, and he was aware, at the very least, that she had less than innocent feelings towards him--but this would all be fine, and really, this could be an opportunity to endear herself to him again. She could be funny and charming and harmless again, like she was with every other teacher she had. Like she'd been with him.

But every time she opened her mouth or glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, his foreboding, flat expression shut her right down. He wasn't interested. He wasn't interested in fulfilling her inappropriate desires, and that was fine, but it seemed like he wasn't even interested in being near her now. She wanted to cry.

"It's not wrong to have a crush on a teacher," she blurted after thirty more seconds of silence. "I'm sorry for making you uncomfortable, but I'm not bad. You're relatively young and extremely handsome and nice, it's not crazy for me to be into you. You're making me feel awful."

She saw his hand tighten on his own leg out of the corner of her eye. He was quiet for a moment, and she thought he would keep ignoring her, but he released a heavy, loaded sigh and ran a hand through his hair. He knocked his hat off in the process, and it hit her in the shoulder before settling into her lap. She drove with one foot tucked beneath the other leg, so there was a solid cradle for it to fall into.

Mr. Hart reached for it, seemingly without thought, and then froze. Reyna froze, too, but miraculously kept driving, despite the reality that her favorite teacher's hand was resting between her thighs, his fist curled tightly around his wayward hat. He released a stream of foul words and snatched his hand back like she had burned him. And she might have. Despite the dejection she felt, she was still close to a man she'd spent three years thinking about while she orgasmed. She had no doubt that, if he'd really processed it, there would've been quite a bit of heat for him to feel in the cradle of her thighs.

"This is what's wrong, Reyna. It's not you, it's not really any of my business if you have a crush on me. A lot of girls in my classes look at me like you did in the parking lot. It doesn't matter because I don't give a shit if they think I'm hot. I'm not interested in little girls. I've never once thought about a student in that way. Even when you were my student, I didn't think about you that way."

Reyna clenched her hands around the wheel. Her heart stuttered. Something within her heaved a sigh of relief at this news: he wasn't some lecher, prowling around the school and growling at hormonal girls and jerking off in the staff bathroom. He hadn't wanted her when she was fifteen...but he had said "didn't." Past tense. There was an implication that something had changed since then, that his current feelings were different.

"But now," he went on, gritting his teeth, "every time I see you, I have to sit down for at least fifteen minutes until my boner goes down. And I want so desperately to return to when you were my favorite student, and I loved having you in class, and I didn't process whether or not you were wearing tights that day or how long and thick your hair was or how red that lip gets when you spend all fucking day biting it. But I can't do that anymore because I didn't see you for a year, and when I did see you, you looked so lovely. So warm and inviting and happy to see me, like you always have been, but now it's loaded. And the way I feel is loaded, too. And that's what's wrong, Reyna. Because you are barely legal, and I don't fuck girls half my age. And you aren't my student anymore, but you were. And you were fifteen. That's the problem."

"Well, I...it's not like I'd report you or anything. You won't get fired or--"

"I don't care about getting fired, Reyna," he interjected, lifting a dismissing hand. "Ah, shit, that was the turn. Whatever, fuck, just pull into this parking lot. We need to talk. Here, honey, this space."

Once she had parked, Reyna pushed her seat back again and twisted to face Mr. Hart, folding her legs back up in her seat. His gaze dipped to her legs, encased in tight black leggings.

"Good God," he muttered, dropping his head into his hands. "Aren't leggings against the dress code or something?"