“I do all right, but the book deal was quite lucrative. Who’s your agent? What kind of deal did they offer? I’m telling you, Ezra, your book is fantastic and once it’s published, your whole life will change.”
“I like my life as it is.” He turns his attention away from the street long enough to spare me a quick smile. “When I was approached about writing the book, someone had seen one of the videos on our Instagram account and thought we had a story to tell.”
“They were right. Reading about your early days frustrated as a teacher, how you’ve built something for families who might otherwise have had to settle for an inferior education—it’s inspiring.”
“I want more people to know about our students and our story,” he says. “More donors and investors so we can continue helping students who can’t afford private school and live in places where, frankly, their schools suck. Your zip code shouldn’t determine the quality of your education.”
His passion, his dedication to his students deepens my understanding of the man he is now. Reading that manuscript filled in some of the gaps the years created.
“I don’t remember you wanting to be a teacher when we were growing up,” I say.
“I don’t think I did. I wanted to do well in school, of course, but I entered college unsure what I should do with my life.”
Something niggles my memory and breaks through. “Bubbe was a teacher!”
“She was before she retired; you’re right.” He angles an impressed smile at me. “Great memory. She was the reason I first decided to at least give teaching a chance, and I fell in love with it.”
“What do you like most about it?”
“The part I don’t get to do anymore,” he says ruefully. “Actually teaching. Seeing a mind expanding before your very eyes. Seeing things kids learn literally change the way they see the world and see themselves, reima
gining what they’re capable of.”
He chuckles and shakes his head, one hand on the steering wheel. “Now it’s fundraising and administration and conferences and speaking engagements, though I do as few of those as possible.”
“Well, plan on speaking more. I make my living knowing things and I know this book is gonna be a huge success. You’ll be on morning shows and doing book tours before you know it.”
“You think so?” One brow dipped in skepticism lifts. “It’s not even a huge publisher.”
“It doesn’t have to be. Your story, what you’ve built and are doing,” I say in a rush. “It’s huge.” I gesture in the air like a wand waving over his imposing figure behind the wheel. “And all that won’t hurt.”
His lips pinch at the corners and he snorts. “All that? Why, Ms. Allen, to what are you referring?”
“You know how you look, Ezra. Don’t play the modest card with me. I dealt this hand.”
“When you kissed that scrawny thirteen-year-old in the girls’ bathroom, you had no idea he’d grow another foot and a half, huh?”
That precious memory overtakes the present, and we’re not in the subdued luxury of his Rover, just minutes from my mama’s house. We’re back in that stall, both unsure if we’re doing it right, but completely sure we want to do it wrong together. His father’s genes may have kicked in, lengthening and broadening his body, but reading that manuscript, I know the shape of Ezra’s heart never changed.
We pull up in front of my parents’ house and he parks. As soon as the car is still, he reaches for my hand, studying our fingers twined together. “I was thinking the other day that I wish I’d gotten to see you grow up. Maybe you can dig out some pictures for me.”
“Maybe. I did love seeing you through all the years I missed.”
Years she had with him.
“Kimba, I know seeing the pictures in the bedroom upset you a little—”
“No, they didn’t upset me. They just reminded me that even though the sex is amazing and it feels like we’ve been together since the beginning of time, we haven’t. You have other people in your life and so do I. I know you want this to be easy, Ezra, however you and Aiko dissolve this relationship, but I have a feeling it won’t be.”
He leans in to cup my face with one big hand, his palm rough, his touch gentle against my skin. “I don’t think it will be easy, Tru. I just know it will be worth it.”
He closes the last few inches between our lips, rubbing his thumb across mine and then kissing me in that deep, drugging way that makes every thought flee my head. There’s no room for anything else but this sensation, this man.
“Dammit, Tru,” he whispers into the kiss. “I want you again right now.”
He pulls my hand down to his lap so I can feel the hard truth between his legs. I take him in my hand through his pants and squeeze, roll up and down slowly, torturously.
“Shit,” he hisses at my temple. “Making out in my car and getting a hand job in front of your mom’s place certainly feels like something we missed in high school.”