Yes, I know it's short. Live with it. Love it.

Chapter Two

The way it all began was pretty fuzzy for me. It was odd; I could remember the planes and angles of his face, and the deep timbre of his voice, but I couldn’t quite recall the memory of our first moments. How I drew him in so drastically, so permanently. After he discovered me, nothing else seemed to matter to him. His job, his very life. I was his life.

A fact he didn’t keep from me, after the first three weeks.

The first time I saw him was in the Journalism classroom. He sat at his desk, looking down at an attendance sheet, I think. Nothing happened in the instant I laid eyes on him. He was a teacher; I was a student excited about the class.

I chose a desk near the front, eager to begin. I had always loved writing, and the opportunity to get better only heightened my anticipation. My best friend Ann sat next to me.

She said something like, “Have you looked at that piece of meat? Hot!” Taking out my notebook, I ignored her; Ann had always had a flare for the dramatic, and she thought almost every guy was hot. Even my own father.

“Who?” another girl asked, plopping down on my other side—I can’t remember who.

Ann licked her lips. “Mr. Sheldon,” she purred. She glanced again at the teacher sitting at the desk, and smiled when he glanced up. He looked back down again, not noticing.

But that brief glimpse I’d caught of his face made my stomach drop. For once, I had to agree with my best friend. He may have been the most gorgeous teacher I’d ever seen. Hair dark as night, pale skin that was clear and beautiful, and eyes so penetrating and sharp that they shook me to my core.

Ann and the other girl giggled about him as more students filed in the room. I worked to control my sudden anxiety, and studiously wrote my name on the inside of the notebook cover.

“Hey.”

Irritated, and relieved at the distraction, I turned my head to look at Heath, my ex-boyfriend. “Hi.”

I think he commented on the football season—typical—and after that, Mr. Sheldon stood. Instantly, the girls in the room silenced. The boys leaned back in their seats, already bored.

The sound of his voice rooted me to the spot, that first time. “Welcome to Journalism I,” he said to all of us, a small smile on his lips. I couldn’t help but notice that they were perfect lips; not too thin, not too full. He had a small dimple in his left cheek, and it only served to enhance his looks.

“I’m Will Sheldon, and this is my first year here at your school.” He went on, talking about what we were going to do in the class—I can’t remember what—and what he expected of us.

Then he took up attendance. The moment he said my name is what I remember with the most clarity, the moment when he first looked at me. I listened to his voice say my name with polite briskness, and tried to smother the silly butterflies inside me.

“Shawn Matthews?”

“Yeah.”

“Paul Anderson?”

“Here.”

And then, “Rebecca Chapman?”

In a voice carefully composed, looking down at my notebook again, I said, “Here.”

He glanced at me.

And looked away.

Marking me present, he continued down the list. And that was why I remembered that instant so vividly, why it was one of my clearest memories. Because just then, I was only a student to him. No one special, no one worthy of a lingering glance.

So how had it all begun?

For you, that remains to be seen.