Dear Mr. Brody by A.M. Johnson

Parker

Since it was my birthday, I’d left work around two. I’d gone out for a late lunch with my mom and had shown up a little early for class. The room was quiet when I walked in, only a few students had already arrived. Mr. Brody raised his gaze and gave me a small smile as I slid into my seat. I grinned back, loving how easily the man blushed. He was dressed in charcoal gray slacks today, and a dark blue button down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His inky hair fell over his right brow as he lowered his steel-colored eyes to his laptop. It was an absolute crime for a man to be that hot and adorably clueless at the same time. His shyness made me think of James and how much he’d opened up to me this past Saturday. I hadn’t thought anything would happen when I texted him after I’d gotten home from the bar that night. I thought he’d be asleep and had been pleasantly surprised by how the night unfolded. But between work and school, we hadn’t had the chance to text as much as I would have liked. Our conversations were never too personal, and most always sexual. We had a repeat of Saturday night again on Monday. Two days had passed, and I was already craving more.

Like an addict, I pulled my phone from my backpack. Swiping my thumb over the screen to check the time, I smiled. Class didn’t start for another ten minutes. And instead of using my time wisely to go over the flash fiction story Mr. Brody had asked us to write last class, I opened up the Pegasus app.

@TheL0stB0y: Can’t stop thinking about Monday night.

I looked over my shoulder as the classroom door opened and a few more students filed in. I set my phone on the desk and reached into my bag for my notebook. My fiction piece wasn’t my best work. Telling an entire story in less than fifteen-hundred words was damn near impossible, but I wanted to impress Mr. Brody, prove to him my first two assignments weren’t a fluke. I pulled out the paper and started to read over what I’d written when my phone vibrated loudly on the desk. The girl in the row in front of me turned in her seat with a judgmental raise of her brow.

“Sorry,” I whispered, giving her an apologetic smile, as I checked my messages.

@MeAndMyShadow33: You’re all I think about.

@MeAndMyShadow33: Happy Birthday, Michael.

He remembered.

A stranger should not have had the power to make me smile like this, to make my stomach drop like I was a kid all over again, riding my bike with my arms stretched out to my sides, coasting down the giant hill behind my mom’s house. Lust had turned me into an adrenaline junkie again.

@TheL0stB0y: Thanks… I don’t feel any older.

@MeAndMyShadow33: That starts after you turn thirty.

I laughed quietly as I typed out another response.

@TheL0stB0y: I have a few things I need to do but was hoping you’d be around later.

I pressed send and lifted my gaze briefly, checking for Marcos, and my gaze snagged on Mr. Brody’s radiant smile. Unrestrained and candid, it opened him up, relaxed his entire posture. It was one of those smiles that would have knocked me on my ass if it had been directed my way. His eyes were glued to the phone in his hand, and it made me curious who might’ve been on the receiving end of that perfect smile.

“Quit staring at the teach like that, it’s fucking creepy,” Marcos said as he sat down next to me.

“But look at that smile.”

To my chagrin, when we both looked toward the front of the classroom the moment had passed. Mr. Brody’s brows were pinched together as his thumbs tapped against the screen of his phone.

“He looks the same to me.” Marcos leaned back in his chair. “You finish his assignment?”

“Yeah,” I said as another notification from Pegasus came through. “You?”

Marcos started rambling about not having enough time, and something about a customer at the boutique, and like an asshole, I checked my message instead of paying attention to him.

@MeAndMyShadow33: I’m having dinner with a friend, but the rest of my night is yours.

Dinner with a friend.

I had no claim on him, no right to feel possessive. James was free to have dinner with whomever the hell he wanted. And wasn’t I literally just crushing on my professor. But the idea of someone else getting to spend one-on-one time with him made me realize how much I wanted that too. I wanted more than a quick release, more than dirty talk in the dark cover of night. I wanted to know him, to touch his actual skin. A shadowy shot of his come covered abs wasn’t enough for me. His middle name wasn’t enough. I wanted first names and real lips. Fingers and hot hands. I wanted more than his favorite color. I wanted history and details, to know what he looked like when he smiled. It had only been a week, but I was ready to meet in person, and hell, I hoped he was too.

@TheL0stB0y: Text me when you get home. There’s been a change in my lesson plan.

“Oh my God, you’re not even listening to me.”  Marcos’ sharp elbow dug into my rib cage.

“Ow, what the fuck?” I hissed under my breath, and he snickered. “Glad you think it’s funny I might have a cracked rib.”

“And I’m supposed to be the drama queen.” He rolled his eyes as I rubbed my side. “Tam and a couple of friends from work want to go out for drinks tonight. Do you think you could pry yourself from your precious phone for a few hours?”

“I can’t tonight.”

“It’s your birthday.”

“Exactly, it’s my day, and I don’t feel like getting wasted.”

“Why? Got a hot date with your hand again?” he asked, and if we weren’t in a classroom filled with people, I might’ve tackled his smug, smiling ass. “Don’t look at me like that, mijo. It’s not my fault the walls in our apartment are thin.”

“I have homework, dipshit.” Irritated by how close he’d come to the truth, I flipped my hat backward on my head, keeping my eyes trained toward the front of the class.

“Oh… I didn’t get the memo. We’re calling it homework now?” He dropped his voice as Mr. Brody called the class to attention. “Okay then, I have homework, too, but I’ll do mine in the shower before I head out for drinks.”

I raised my fist to my mouth to cover my laugh. Only Marcos could have me pissed one second and laughing the next.

“Pay attention,” I said. “You might learn something.”

Marcos hummed under his breath but kept his comments and attitude to himself.

“I have exciting news,” Mr. Brody said as he walked over to his desk and held up a book for the class to see. It was a copy of The Street Vendor’s Son, by Wilder Welles. “We have a special guest speaker coming today, he’s running late, but should be here soon.”

“Holy fuck,” I whispered. “Remember that author from the club the other night?”

“Yeah.” Marcos couldn’t have looked less enthused.

“That’s the guest speaker.”

“I should have skipped class.”

“You could always leave.”

“I think I’ll stay. Watching you fan girl should be interesting.” An evil glint flickered in his eyes. “I promise not to embarrass you too much.”

“Marcos, I swear you better—”

The classroom door opened, and I forgot what I was about to say as Wilder fucking Welles strolled past me. Mr. Brody smiled at him as he made his way down the aisle to the front of the room.

“I’m sorry I’m so late.” Wilder huffed, as he set his bag on Mr. Brody’s desk. “I had to drop Sam with Jax.”

“Not a problem. I’m glad you could make it.” Mr. Brody gave him a few seconds to settle in before he introduced him. “Class, I’d like you to give Mr. Welles a warm welcome. He’s taken time out of his busy writing schedule and from his family to be here this evening.”

Wilder’s face turned beet red as he swallowed and gave a reluctant wave. “Thank you.”

“Mr. Welles is a—”

“Christ, Van. Call me Wilder. I’m not that old yet.”

Marcos quietly laughed as he leaned toward me. “I don’t care if he kicks you out of this class, I dare you to call him Van.” I shook my head and strained to hear Mr. Brody. “Just once, it’s all I’m asking.”

“Shut the hell up so I can listen.”

“...is a New York Times Best Selling Author. His debut novel, Love Always, Wild topped the charts its first week, his second book is being adapted into a television series as we speak, and he just released a new book last Tuesday.”

“I sound busy,” Wilder teased. “I swear… Most of my time is spent sitting around a coffee shop staring at a blank screen, second-guessing myself, and growling at unsuspecting customers who happen to walk by during one of my many panic attacks. I promise my life isn’t glamorous.” He reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a few Cheerios. Laughing, he threw them in a wastebasket near Mr. Brody’s desk. “My daughter Sam loves these.”

Daughter? He seemed way too young to have a kid. Dressed in tight black jeans and an expensive-looking, oversized shirt, he could’ve passed for a freshman.

“I ran into Wilder yesterday at the agency and asked if he would mind going over his writing process with us. He graciously accepted, and hopefully if there’s enough time, we’ll get to torture him with questions.”

“Shit, should I be scared?” he asked, and Mr. Brody’s eyes filled with mirth as the class laughed. “I probably shouldn’t swear either.”

“We’re adults,” someone in the front row said. “Swear all you want.”

“Thank you, Ms. Billings.” Mr. Brody chuckled. “The floor is yours, Wilder. But please try and keep the profanity to a minimum. I’d like to keep my job.”

Wilder pushed his heavy curls from his forehead, and with an anxious smile he told us about what he called his “writing journey.” He talked about how he’d met his husband Jax in college, and how his relationship with him had paved the way for his first book. Hearing his story, learning about how he’d started, it was like Wilder had opened up this private door and asked us to climb inside his heart.

“Writing stories is giving life to your dreams,” he said, and the room was silent, breathless as he continued. “Van can teach you about the eight elements of fiction, teach you the definition of a metaphor, but your process is something that belongs only to you. Your words and how you choose to sew them together isn’t something that can be taught.” Wilder ran his hand through his hair again and leaned against the desk. “I hope that’s okay to say, Van… no offense.”

“None taken.” Mr. Brody waved him off with a smile from where he stood in the corner of the room.

I kept my gaze on him as Wilder continued, watching as he stared at the author with what could only be described as awe. It made me want to ask him why he hadn’t written a book. Why he’d chosen to sell them, instead.

“I’ll go ahead and take some questions before you get sick of the sound of my voice.” Wilder glanced around the classroom, his smile dimming when no one raised their hand.

“I have a question,” I blurted, and Marcos nearly choked on his laugh.

Wilder’s dark eyes held mine, and it was the first time I noticed he had on eyeliner. Intimidated as fuck under the weight of his stare, my words caught in my throat, and I stuttered. I was sure Marcos would never let me live this moment down.

“D-did… you ever worry about hiding your sexuality in order to sell books?”

“I’ve always been open about who I am, but my parents wanted me to use a pen name. Asked me to not write the book at all, actually.” Wilder laughed without humor. “And there was this brief but big moment where I hesitated… when I thought maybe they were right. I thought maybe I couldn’t have both. I couldn’t be out and proud and have my dream. But then I realized writing was like love. I didn’t get to choose. I couldn’t stop writing any more than I could stop loving men, and eventually said fuck it and published anyway.”

Almost all the students applauded except for the two guys at the end of our row. Indignant, they sat with their arms crossed, with disgusted looks on their faces. The world could evolve, and time would continue to push its way forward, but no matter how far we’d come, there’d always be a select few ready to drag us back fifty goddamn years.

Once the applause died down, Wilder answered a few more questions before it was time to go. Mr. Brody thanked him again as everyone started to pack up. “Don’t worry about sending your flash fiction stories into me until Friday. Any submission received after that will not be graded.”

Marcos stood and lugged his bag over his shoulder. “You’re really going to stay home tonight?”

“I’ve got a history quiz to study for, stats to do, and I think I’m going to rewrite this story,” I said, slipping it into my notebook as I stood.

“Shit… I forgot about the history quiz.” He clapped me on the arm. “You’re the murderer of dreams.”

“Me?” I asked and zipped up my backpack. “I didn’t make you take history.”

“No, you made me take this fucking class. Which eats up a lot of my social time.”

The classroom emptied around us as I pulled my bag onto my shoulders. “Then, drop it. You still have time.”

“Mr. Mills, do you have a moment?” Mr. Brody asked, his expectant gray eyes a much better visual than my best friend’s stupid smirk.

“Of course.”

Marcos squeezed past me. “Try not to drool on the cute author.”

Mortified, I made my way down the aisle, hoping Mr. Brody and Wilder hadn’t heard his commentary.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“I was hoping to receive your fiction piece. I’m surprised you haven’t turned it in yet.”

“Uh…” I pushed my hands into my back pockets, and in my peripheral, I saw Wilder set down his phone on the desk. One of my idols stood less than ten feet away from me, and Mr. Brody wanted to talk about my amateur fiction piece? “I… I finished it, but it sucks. I’m rewriting it tonight.”

“I want to read both, then.”

“That sort of defeats the purpose,” I said, and holy shit, Wilder laughed.

“How so?” Mr. Brody seemed genuinely confused.

“The first one is garbage, and I’d rather you not read it, hence the whole reason I’m rewriting it in the first place.”

“Mr. Mills—”

“Parker,” I reminded him, and his smile mirrored mine.

My gaze flicked between his eyes and his mouth, lingering on the curve of his bottom lip as the seconds ticked by. One, two long breaths passed between us before he spoke again.

“Send me both. I want to see your progression.”

“Do the other students have to write two papers?” I asked, knowing this was my choice, but wanting to tease him anyway.

He made it too easy.

“You can turn in what you have,” he said, his tone professional and even. “I’m not requiring you to—”

“Got it… I’ll send both.”

“Good. I’m eager to see what you came up with.” He turned to look at Wilder. “This is the student I was telling you about the other day. Parker Mills.”

To my utter horror and thrill, Wilder walked toward me. “It’s nice to put a face to the name.” He held out his hand and I stared at it, totally starstruck. “I think he might be in shock.”

“Oh shit… I’m sorry.” I took his hand, probably more aggressive than was socially acceptable. “You’re Wilder Welles.”

He smiled at Mr. Brody. “God, he’s cute.”

I let go of his hand and rubbed the back of my neck. “I’m overwhelmed, I guess. I’ve never met an author before. Your work is... inspiring.”

“Thank you,” he said, the tops of his cheeks dusting with a pale shade of pink. “I’m lucky I get to do what I love.”

Mr. Brody picked up a booklet from his desk and handed it to me. Bright purple and gold script unraveled across the page. “Did you know the school has a literary magazine?”

“No. I had no idea,” I said, skimming through the pages.

“They take submissions every quarter. I think you should enter.”

“I don’t know.”

“Think about it, look over the content, and then make a decision. The deadline is a month from now. You have time.”

“Trust me. Van is an agent…” Wilder laughed as he spoke. “If he didn’t think you were talented, he wouldn’t even bother.”

“Yeah… okay. I’ll look at it.” I rolled up the magazine and tucked it in the side pocket of my backpack, knowing I wouldn’t submit anything, at least not anytime soon. My work was private. I wasn’t ready to share it with the entire school. “Thanks.”

“And I’m a professor before I’m an agent when it comes to my students. It’s my job to help you grow.”

“I stand by my previous statement.” Wilder grinned, setting a stubborn hand on his hip. “You can water a plant all fucking day, but if it has weak roots, it’s gonna rot.”

“Am I the one with weak roots in this scenario?” I asked and they both laughed.

“Definitely not.” Mr. Brody nodded toward the classroom door. “We can talk more about this after you’ve thought it over.”

“It was nice to meet you,” I said, and managed to shake Wilder’s hand like a normal human being this time.

“Likewise.”

“Don’t forget, you have till Friday to turn in the assignment. Don’t rush it.” Mr. Brody gave me another one of his lopsided grins. “I want both drafts, Parker.”

I nodded and bit the corner of my lip, trying like hell not to smile when he’d said my name.

“Talk to you on Monday, Mr. Brody.”