Saturday midafternoon, our bellies full of bagels and coffee, our minds empty after a marathon brainstorming and planning session, the members of Team 6A decompress in the oversized booth at Bob’s Bagels. Slater tosses his arm around me. Everyone here knows about us, so it’s no big deal for them to witness the PDA, but what if someone else notices?

When I search Slater’s face, his stoic smile tells me he doesn’t give a shit who sees what we are. The thought of putting our whatever-this-is on display both elates and terrifies me. It’s too soon to label the whatever-this-is, but I have a sneaking suspicion it might be the one four-letter word I’ve never met, let alone spoken to a guy.

“Can y’all imagine what’ll happen if this thing takes off?” Love says.

“We haven’t even started with the nitty-gritty,” Witcher says, stuffing the leftover half of her bagel into a plastic baggie. That woman is obsessed with bags. She has a bag for everything. Bags inside of bags, even. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves just yet.”

While Witcher’s right, I don’t want to downplay our students’ accomplishments. They’ve already demonstrated their eagerness to make this video happen. Even Attila, Quentin, and a few of the other less driven kids have thrown themselves into the work, and it’s only been a couple days.

“I think once we get the ball rolling on the new stuff, things are gonna fly,” Love says. “So many of our kids need to feel good about themselves, and this will give them the perfect confidence boost. Roxie, you’re making us proud. Bracken Middle won’t be the butt of any more jokes after they see this video.”

“Hear, hear,” I say, lifting my cup of sweet tea.

We all tap the butt-ends of our drinks.

“Maybe the Dragonlady will ease up a little too,” Vino says. I’m pretty sure she slipped some vodka into her drink from a flask in her purse.

Everyone moans at the mention of the principal.

Slater laughs. “You call her the Dragonlady too? Shit, I thought I was the only one.”

Witcher turns to him and slaps the table. “Are you kidding? She came in my room last week for an observation and made a comment about the learning environment being ‘cluttered.’” She makes air quotes. “What in the twat is that supposed to mean?”

Vino, mid-sip on her vodka and Coke, nearly chokes. Love’s eyes bug out. Slater turns to me, looking like he’s about to totally lose his shit laughing. Mrs. Witcher must’ve heard one of the students say that word. She’s pretty old-fashioned. No way she’d have said it if she knew what it meant. Still, it’s funny coming from her.

“Rosemary,” Love says carefully, “it’s fine for you to use ‘twat’ in front of us, but please don’t ever say it in front of the kids at school.”

Witcher quirks her head with a puzzled expression. “Why not?”

“In the parlance of today’s youth, it might be mistaken for ‘vagina.’”

Witcher’s ghostly white cheeks turn bright red, and the color spreads all the way to the tip of her witchy nose. “Lawd ’a’ mercy. I’m glad y’all told me.”

A round of laughter bubbles up from the table, as the remainder of whatever ice existed among us breaks and drifts away on a current of camaraderie.

“I just want to thank you all for the help,” I say. “What started out as a fun little project has blossomed into a massive undertaking. Whatever happens, I’m proud of what we’ve come up with.”

Slater nudges me with his shoulder. “It was all you, baby. It would never have gotten this big without you behind it.”

He called me “baby.” Sploosh.

After the scene on the table in his room last night and several more hours of practice in his bed at home afterward, I’m convinced I’ve caught a sexually transmitted disease. A real bad one. Worse than crabs. It dug its claws into me and hasn’t let up. I feel hot all over. My nipples ache, and the fever between my legs is unquenchable.

Goddamn it.

Love is more than just a four-letter word. It’s a life-threatening plague that refuses to die, no matter how much alcohol you drown it with or how much fire you try to kill it with. The devastating effects of the disease intensify with every look he gives me, every brush of his hand on mine, every pass of his tongue over his lips.

I warned myself not to, but I did it anyway. I fell for Mr. Slater.

I’m gonna splat in a big, bad way when I hit the ground—

He grins down at me from under a mess of bedhead that I claim full responsibility for.

—unless he catches me first.

The arm around my shoulder tightens.

Safe.

Rescued by Slater again. What can I say? The man is good.

Love picks at her muffin and stuffs a piece in her mouth. “I had fun today. Maybe we could do it again sometime, minus the work.”

Slater nods and his smile widens. “Staff development.”

“I know you do that with your eighth-grade buddies every Friday,” Love says.

Slater pauses and then shrugs. “There’s no reason you guys can’t come. If you want to.”

Love’s eyes soften. “It’s sweet of you to offer.”

“Is there liquor involved?” Vino asks.

Slater and I exchange glances. “Hell, yes,” he says.

“I’ll be there,” Vino replies.

“New group, new tradition,” Slater remarks. He faces me. “Anything else we need to do here?”

I inhale a deep breath. “I think we’ve covered every possible angle.”

“All right, then,” he says. “That’s a wrap.”

I stand and gather my stuff. “Thanks again, ladies. We’ll see you bright and early on Monday.”

We say our goodbyes and head out of Bob’s Bagels toward Slater’s Camaro.

“Where to?” I ask.

He smiles smugly without answering. “Hop in.”

I do. More talk about the kids’ project ensues as Slater drives. We end up at the local Target. He leads me inside by the hand, grabs a shopping basket, and wanders to the personal care section. After lots of sniffing and close examination, he fills the basket with carefully selected items: a toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant, shampoo, conditioner. Then we go to the bathroom supplies. He plucks the thickest, fluffiest towel on the rack, inspects it, and finding it to his liking, he adds it and several identical ones to the overflowing basket.

“What are you doing?” I finally ask, thoroughly confused.

“Stocking up on essentials.” He whistles a soft tune and carts the load to the register.

Once the transaction is complete, he turns and hands me two of the four bags. “For you.” Then he waves me outside.

I glance into the bags, then back to him, but he’s way ahead of me.

Is this … Is he … What did he mean by, “For you”?

No, Roxie. Don’t read into anything. He’s just buying normal things people buy.

But what if he’s not? What if “for you” literally means the contents of the bag are mine? The personal items were marketed for women, not men. Why would he buy me a toothbrush and shampoo and towels? Unless—

Trying to catch up to his long strides, I follow like a lost puppy. Because that’s what I feel like. A puppy on the verge of finding a home.

“I don’t understand,” I say as he hits the button on his key fob, opening the Camaro’s trunk.

He tosses his bags in, turns and reaches for mine, and says, “What’s not to understand? You’re about to graduate and will need a place to live soon.” The rest of the bags secured in the trunk, he closes it and faces me. “Move in with me, Roxie Rambling.”

My head spins. “What—why are you doing this?”

He seems oblivious to the swarms of people in the parking lot, walking to and fro, as he palms my hips and leans in to kiss me. His lips are gentle yet firm. They’re telling me to shut the hell up. So, I do.

Slater wants me to move in with him.

This is too fast. It’s too much.

But damn, he sure is a good kisser.

He dips his tongue into my mouth as if to prove my point. Any lame arguments for why I shouldn’t move in with him fizzle out the longer our lips remain locked, and eventually, he beats my impulse to decline into submission.

When the kiss breaks, I’m dizzy. “I’ll pay rent,” I gasp, trying to catch my breath.

He nods. “Fair enough.”

Okay. That’s good. It means this isn’t as serious as I thought.

“You can pay rent in sexual favors,” he jokes.

I laugh. “Oh yeah? What about Savage? I’m gonna pay him in BJs and booty calls too?”

Possessiveness clouds his green eyes like a thunderhead. “You’re never giving another man a blow job, Roxie Rambling. That mouth, this dick,” he flexes his groin into me, “that’s all folks, the end.”

“Mr. Slater, it sounds like you’re trying to corner me into a … what’s the word?” I playfully stroke my chin. “Commitment?”

“Consider it a rental agreement.”

Now I really laugh. “You think you got enough money to rent me? Son, this bitch is priceless.” I point to myself.

His wry smile turns softer. “Move in with me,” he says again, this time more like a request than a command.

“We hardly know each other,” I protest.

“Then consider it on a trial basis, starting tonight,” he says, tugging me closer by the belt loops. “It only makes sense. You need a place to live. I need you. Let’s give it a whirl and see what happens.”

I sigh. “Trial. That means if things don’t work out, I can leave at any time.”

“Yes.”

“And I will pay rent. That’s the only way I’ll agree to it,” I say, pointing a finger at him. Not sure where I’ll get the money, but my pride won’t let me take anything from him for free. It doesn’t feel right. Gramamma would want me to provide for myself. I can do it. I know I can. Even if I have to resort to substitute teaching or worse to make ends meet.

“Rent is due the first of the month,” he negotiates. “Initial payment is due the month after you find a job. Until then, I got you covered.”

I bite my lip. “I guess that means I better step up the search for employment, starting tonight. Roxie Rambling don’t take no handouts, Mr. Slater.”

He seems to consider my counteroffer for a long moment.

“I can accept that. Do we have a deal?” Slater arches a hopeful brow and thrusts his hand out to me.

I clasp it and squeeze with a stiff pump. “Deal.”

He kisses me to seal our bargain.

Enveloped in all that is Slater, my heart sings.

It sings so loud, my ass begins to sway to the music playing in my head. I get a solid twerk going, and Slater breaks the kiss to see what’s happening back there. He laughs as I shake it like I mean it and make up a celebratory rap on the fly:

(I heft my boobs and make some pretty cleavage with them.)

A couple college students walk past and nod appreciatively at me.

“What up, homies?” I yell and then point to Slater. “I’m movin’ in with him!”

They lift their fists in solidarity.

Slater’s bent over, laughing his ass off. He straightens, leans back, and howls at the top of his lungs, “Roxie Rambling’s my new roomie! Be jealous, people of Atlanta!”

Claps rise from various spots in the parking lot. Someone yells, “Congratulations!”

Now I’m laughing too. Today has been the most fun I’ve had in ages.

I fling myself into Slater’s open arms. He lifts me, the toes of my brand-new high-tops dangling a couple inches above the ground, and kisses me again. I curl around him, and he walks me awkwardly to the passenger door. When our lips part, he opens it and sets me down.

Staring into my eyes with happiness that mirrors mine, he says, “Let’s go home.”

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