Where You Are by J.H. Trumble

“Yeah.”
    â€œOh, good!” He kisses me on the cheek. “I gotta go,” he says, already backing away. “Can’t keep my girls waiting.” Then, almost as an afterthought: “You want to hang out tomorrow? I don’t have anything else to do.”
    He doesn’t wait for me to answer.
    I pull my car up next to a Dumpster and toss the book in.
    Â 
    Andrew
    Â 
    â€œOne beer,” I tell Jen.
    She eyes me and nibbles on a tortilla chip. “Were you always this stuffy, Drew?”
    â€œNot stuffy. Just not stupid,” I say in my defense. “This place is crawling with gossips. I’d just as soon not be one of their subjects.”
    â€œAaah, come on. We’ve been locked up with hormonal teenagers for four months now. It’s our turn to let it all hang out.”
    I laugh. “Sorry, partner. I’m not lettin’ nothin’ hang out tonight.”
    â€œYou’re no fun.” She inches her chair closer to mine, then gathers her long blond hair and pulls it over one shoulder, twisting it in a move that I assume is intended to be alluring. I decide to change the subject.
    â€œSo, what are you going to do with that novel when you finish it?”
    â€œI joined the Romance Writers of America. A hundred ten bucks, can you believe it? But they’ve got this special-interest chapter—Passionate Ink—for erotica writers. And I’m thinking . . . maybe my roommate had the right idea. She paid her way through college writing dirty novels. And, hey, I can write erotica. I’ve had sex.”
    I try not to grin too broadly as she goes off into a long, animated monologue about her publishing plans and pen names and the steamy scenes she wants to write. The music is loud—Journey, I think—and I lose some of her words in the beat.
    I find myself thinking again about Robert. Would he actually call? And why me? Maybe he gave his phone number to all his teachers. Don’t know, not going to ask. But I can’t help speculating. And I can’t help feeling that there’s something about me that’s more approachable than other teachers, some special quality that Robert intuits.
    â€œPride goeth before a fall,” Jen says.
    Most of her chatter has fallen on deaf ears, but this little indictment somehow grabs my attention. I look at her, and she nods toward Philip, who’s making his way to our table.
    â€œHe thinks he’s got this so under control,” she says, snidely. She grins widely up at him as he approaches. I’d like to warn him, but I can see it’s too late.
    â€œHey, you two, what are you up to for the holidays?” he asks. He pulls out a chair across from us and sits.
    â€œJust hanging out with the family,” Jen says brightly. “I bet your kids are excited about hanging out with their dad for two weeks straight.”
    He smiles. “Actually, Diana’s got a honey-do list for me a mile long. It’s going to be a working holiday for me. What about you, Drew?”
    â€œI’m headed to Oklahoma to see—”
    â€œHey, is Liz here?” Jen interrupts. “I wanted to ask her about her trip to Mexico.”
    Philip looks uncomfortable. He glances around the room. “Don’t know. Haven’t seen her.” Then he gets up and tells us he’ll catch us later.
    â€œYou are shameless,” I say to Jen.
    â€œHe deserves it. He’s got four freaking kids at home.”
    â€œHe’s a nice guy.”
    â€œHe’s a douche.” Jen grins and drains her mug. “I’m gonna get another beer.”

Chapter 4
    Robert
    Â 
    When I get up Saturday morning, I find Aunt Whitney in the kitchen surveying empty cabinets and drawers. She has taken everything out of them and stacked it on the counters. And she’s obviously been here awhile; the old shelf paper is gone too, and new green spongy stuff has been precisely fitted to each shelf