At seven o’clock, after cutting the white sponge cake and opening small gifts, I sat at the dining room table and listened to the family gossip with each other. I sank my fork into a slice of cake and glanced at my phone, hoping that I’d get an email from Mr. Avery.
Usually, he sent an email to his students with a reminder about the homework, especially if he had been distracted in class. And today, I’d learned that he definitely had been because he was watching me glide my thighs together.
me The thought of making him—a married man—hard enough that he had to stop class …
I knew that it was beyond wrong, but he never once spoke about his wife, like the other teachers at Redwood did. He never shared what he did at home with her, their goals or vacations or pictures. Nothing.
But every n
