HIM: Chapter One

Stella

The front door of my backyard haven pushes open, accompanied by a December chill in the air. It whooshes in, making me shiver as I look up at my mom’s smiling face. She’s beaming, a sparkle in her eye as she passes under the ivy overhang to walk inside. 

“There you are. I swear if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were claiming this spot as your own forever. Your room is waiting for you in the main house, you know?” 

My lips lift in a matching smile because my mother knows me well. I am claiming this space as my own. It’s a magical little cottage with French doors, raw wood paned windows, and long beams running the length of the raised ceiling that join the space from the fireplace to the bed together. The cozy living room is basked in soft creams with natural wood and stone accents, and hand-tufted rugs sit atop thick Berber carpeting.

It's like a Nancy Meyers movie set. Perfect but built as a seductive lure in the hopes to get me to stay close to home for college.

Never happening, even if I love it. However, the privacy when I visit from boarding school is very convenient—less awkward booty calls. 

“Well—” I shrug “—you caught me. I am claiming it. Forever. So, feel free to turn my room into an office, or a spa.” 

She laughs rolling her eyes at me, but I still see the hope behind them. She’s thinking that maybe one day I’ll come home-home and stay. But our relationship’s still in rebuilding mode and I’m only comfortable with baby steps.

There was a time when we weren’t even this close. I resented her for a long time after Henry—the worst man alive, and the reason I ran away at fifteen to Madison, my all-girls boarding school in upstate New York.

Between her denial and his violently misogynistic personality, there wasn’t a choice. I had to leave. I wasn’t going to stand around and watch my mother become more of the woman I’d begun to detest. And I certainly wasn’t going to become another of Henry’s victims, even if he was my father.

The memory still stings like a fresh wound every time the past bites. 

“Henry, please do not raise your voice to me. It’s uncouth.” 

“What’s uncouth is your need to share your opinion. I married you for your looks, not whatever brain you presume to have.” 

“I beg your pardon. How dare you say such hateful things in front of our daughter.” 

“Let this be a lesson to her. Women should only speak when spoken to. If you insist on pushing me, I assure you I can find a way to keep you quiet. And it won’t be something you’d like your daughter to witness.” 

I blink from just one of the memories that always haunt me as mom sashays over in front of the couch. She does a little spin to show me the new outfit. It’s sparkly, short, trendy, and borders on being too young for her, but she’s so beautiful that it’s impossible for her to look bad. 

“Ooo, gorgeous,” I purr, then pause, gnawing on my lip. “Are you going out again?” 

“I am.” Her eyes shift to me, then away before she fusses with her hair in the mirror. “And yes, before you ask…it’s with Peter.” 

My brows draw together. “What’s that, like five dates in a row since I’ve been back? I mean, not that I’m counting, but—” 

I won’t finish my sentence. I don’t want to ruin her mood or mine.

She spies me through the mirror and the concern on her face unveils my worry. Turning, she smiles before sitting next to where I’m cozied up. Her slim fingers take the remote from me to mute the television show that I wasn’t really watching.  

“You and me, we’re good now, kiddo.” Her hand pats my leg. “All the past mistakes are staying right there… in the past. Your father’s name will live with esteem, and we will live with the truth. We’re free of him and that time.” Her breath is released softly. “But, frankly, I’m not dead. Not even close. It’s been a year, and I feel ready to try and find some happiness.” 

The truth tumbles out of my mouth.

“I want that for you too. I just don’t want another Henry.” 

She tugs at my arms until I sit up, pulled into the hug she wants. “Never again. I promise. Trust me?” 

No. Maybe. Not really. In my defense we’re only rid of him because he’s dead—not because she chose to leave.  

“Okay. Yeah. Of course, Mom.” 

Why is it that protecting her always trumps protecting myself? I’d hate her if I didn’t love the idea of her so much.

She smiles as she pulls back, smoothing my dark chocolate hair down the side of my head, then brings our foreheads together. 

“I love you, wild thing.” 

A quiet laugh escapes as she releases me back into my pillow cocoon. 

“You realize that nickname isn’t cool anymore, right?” I say. “It was only cute when I was six.”

She stands and looks downs at my human sexuality book, smirking.

“Oh, I don’t know. I have a feeling there are plenty of wild times ahead for you, Stella. You, my darling girl, are definitely a wild thing.” 

Shit, I forgot that was out. It’s not required reading for school, more of a curiosity or a healthy guidebook. Whichever way someone wants to look at it.  

I checked it out to read about some shit I saw in a movie that made me feel as if my body was on fire, and I never returned the thing. Instead, I marked the sides and highlighted all my favorite parts. Sorry, not sorry.

My face remains expressionless as I grab the remote and unmute the television, giving in to full embarrassment as the door closes behind her. I’m unashamed of my curiosities but having my mother insinuate my wild traits makes me want to pull the cashmere throw over my head and die a thousand times over.

Because, god, if she only knew.  

I’m not a wild thing. I’m a feral thing. But between the fucking trauma of my life and having been left to my own devices for all of puberty at an all-girls school what more’s to be expected? I grew up where designer drugs are a way of life, and libidos run fast and untamed. I’m due to be wise beyond my years.

And at eighteen I’m like the yoda of promiscuity. Wise so am I.

For fuck’s sake, my first sexual experience was getting fingered by my roommate, Elaine. She was one of those buttoned up, stiff, conservative products of the upper east side. Until after lights out when her fingers climbed the inside of my thighs.

Then she was very liberal…with all her ideas.

She was a sophomore, and I was a freshman, and it was kind of predatory, but I liked it. I especially loved knowing that she’d probably grow up and marry a guy named Tad who fucks the housekeeper to stroke his ego, because his wife only comes when she thinks about all the times my breath became spasmed, and my eyes rolled back into my head.

What a torturous life…to regret what you crave. I never regret my choices. I quite like them. Even the ones that hurt. Especially the ones that hurt.

My eyelashes brush, blinking past my thoughts before I stand noticing the sun going down. So, I pad to the door to make sure it’s locked. There’s no real point seeing as if someone wanted to break in, they’d have to get past the guards and the gates, but I do it anyway.

“Just in case there are monsters out there,” I whisper to myself before turning back, raising my arms above my head, and stretching as I walk. 

As I pass the coffee table, heading to the kitchen my phone buzzes, so I reach down and swipe it up.

One of those things that make me the animal I am light up on the other end.

“Hey. I was just thinking of you,” I lie. 

His voice is gruff, and admonishing. And yet he called me.

“You shouldn’t be. I thought we agreed. That was a one-time dalliance. I was under a lot of stress.” 

Here come the excuses. He does it every time. 

I pull open my glass front refrigerator door and pluck a bowl of grapes out. Thank god for housekeepers, or I wouldn’t eat.  

“You called me, Stuart. You also ate me out three times so your math is wrong. Which is ironic for a calc teacher.” 

“Very funny.” He replies, clearing his throat. 

“Not funny. Accurate. Once on your desk after school hours. Once in your home, when the little wife was away. And once on your knees, in the back room of that school mixer.”

Silence rings out between us as I pop another grape into my mouth and lean back against the countertop. I’m waiting for him to speak because if he wants me, he’ll have to break down and beg. 

“Stella…” 

“Mmhmm.” 

More silence. God, even sophomore Elaine had more game. I sigh. “Did you call to listen to me breathe because I can pant if that helps. Or is there a better reason, Mr. Dalton?” 

My lips tip up as I hear him cough.  

“No. No panting is necessary. Stella, I... I wanted you to hear it from me. I’ve accepted a position at another school. I won’t be back after the break. This is the end of...this. And I wanted to say I’m sorry. It was wrong, but I hope you can forgive me.” 

Before I answer, the last bit of what he said shines like neon in my mind, “I’m sorry…forgive me.”

He can’t be serious. Sorry? Doubtful. He’s worried I’m some kind of east village Lolita that’ll lose it and try to ruin him. Jesus, he’s barely suitable to teach me, let alone be seen with me. 

No need to worry Stu, I’m not going to boil rabbits in your kitchen.

“Are you worried about my heart or my reaction? And be honest, Stuart… you sound like a bitch when you lie so I’ll know.” 

I can almost see him running his hand through his salt and pepper hair out of frustration.

“I guess I want to make sure that you won’t do anything rash. We may only be a few years different, but I am, er was, your teacher. Stella, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that if what we did gets out—” 

“What you did, Stuart.” I interject cutting him off. “I never touched you. Let me ask you something…by rash do you mean to insinuate that I would tell everyone?” My giggling begins to muddle my words. “Why? Because I’d be lovesick or devastated?”

He scoffs but I continue. “Are you worried that I’ve fallen for you? A teacher at my school? A man old enough to be my father…your math is off again. You’re joking, right? Tell me this is a bit.” 

This time I wait for him to answer, mostly because I’m enjoying myself.

“Well,” he starts, his voice laced with the offense he’s taken. “If I was insinuating any of that, you mocking me has made it clear I shouldn’t worry.” 

I smirk even though he can’t see me.

“We fucked, and I use that term liberally. But that’s all. Sometimes women do that…without feelings. Even for someone as irresistible as you.” 

He huffs his condescension, “Stella, you’re not a woman yet.” 

“Isn’t that what you liked best…Daddy.” 

The line immediately goes dead, and my brows shoot up as I place my last grape in my mouth. Well then.

Men really are such slaves to their dicks. Stuart Dalton was no different. I knew that the second he let his eyes drift to where I was seated on the first day of advanced calculus. They struggled to leave my opened thighs before his shame set in.

An argument could be made that his shame meant he was human. And humans, although flawed will strive to be good. But in my experience men who strive to be good always miss the thrill of being bad while they do the wrong thing.

Then again, the shame of a “good” man is always my favorite part.