by Nicole Deese
She covered my hand with hers and smiled. Its warmth checked all my neglected approval boxes, allowing me to mull over my commitment the way I’d done when I first started the process with Small Wonders International over a year ago. Nothing had changed since then. It was still the right decision. The only decision.
I would be a single mother by choice, and that relationship was the only one I needed to be focused on.
chapter
five
Despite the invisible tether that linked our two first-grade classrooms, I’d managed to steer clear of any extracurricular socializing with the sub across the hall since Monday. An effort that accounted for nearly four days of not reacting when his signature laugh reverberated through the auditorium during rained-in recess. Or when he awed the students in the cafeteria with a straw trick from his college years. Or when the morning announcements came on, opening the school day with the Pledge of Allegiance, courtesy of Mr. T-Rex himself.
How Joshua could teach after such a gravelly rendition, I had no idea, but every teacher I passed seemed absolutely smitten with him. Even Mrs. Dalton had come around since he broke her quiet rule in the library. Maybe she had a secret affinity for dinosaur impersonations. Or maybe . . . maybe she saw what everybody else saw in him: a man who brought a fresh dose of cheer to every room he visited in our school.
With the weekend countdown firmly in mind, I assisted my last student into her father’s SUV and closed the door, giving them a slight wave as they drove off. It was then I spotted him, my arm bent in a mid-wave, at the end of the carpool line. He was holding the gloved hand of a sobbing child. Little Mason Grady.
On instinct, I moved toward the pair, hugging my jacket tighter around my middle as a strong gust of wind stung my eyes. The weather had made a sharp turn this last week, the crisp autumn air mimicking winter’s bone-chilling drop in temperature.
“Hey, Mason, what’s going on, buddy?” I glanced up at Joshua before crouching to eye level with the boy.
He sniffed and wiped his snotty nose against his knit Spiderman glove. “My . . . dad . . . didn’t come.”
Understanding twisted my gut. Mason’s parents’ divorce finalized at the beginning of the school year, and the back-and-forth of rides and overnights had been taking a toll on Mason and his older sister.
I tipped his chin so his eyes met mine. “Let’s go call him together, okay? I’m sure he’s on his way.”
A big sniffle paired with a teary nod were the precursor of Mason’s arms shooting around my middle and nearly knocking me off-balance and onto my backside. Joshua placed a steadying hand on my shoulder, and the firmness of his grip created a ripple of awareness down my spine.
I patted Mason’s back and spoke soothingly into his ear. “You’re okay, buddy. We’ll work this out. I promise.”
Both his parents were good people. Stressed and burdened, yes, but hardworking and dedicated to making a new and healthy normal for their kids. Even so, Mason’s emotional response to a late-arriving pickup wasn’t unusual. I’d seen similar heartbreaks in dozens of children over upsets at home. I understood them well. After a shudder passed, he pulled back and wiped his eyes along his blue coat sleeve one more time.
“Okay.” He reached for my hand. “Do you have any suckers in your classroom, Miss B?”
I chuckled at this quick transition. “I believe I do.”
It was then I noticed Mason’s other hand still latched onto Joshua’s. Joshua, whose gaze was acutely affixed on my face.
Thanks, he mouthed as our eyes met.
I nodded and promptly glanced away.
Hand in hand in hand, we strolled as a trio into Brighton, Joshua opening the heavy metal door so we could enter ahead of him.
“I only like the red, orange, and blue ones,” Mason said, rerouting my thoughts from the gentlemanly manners of one Mr. Avery to the prize bag in my classroom. “Not the brown ones.”
“Not the brown ones, huh?” Joshua repeated. “I can’t remember, are those chocolate or root beer flavored?”
“I don’t know. They’re just super yucky.”
“Fair enough. That’s how I feel about orange circus peanuts. Have you tried that candy?”
Mason shook his head.
“They look like squishy peanuts the color of peach flesh. Naturally, one would assume the flavor to be either peanut butter or fruit. But nope, it’s neither. Those candies taste like chewing on a giant, flavorless foam finger.” He shuddered. “It’s the worst kind of false advertising.”
“Gross.” Mason’s firm agreement as we entered my classroom had me holding in a laugh.
I retrieved my rainbow sequin prize bag from the hook above the cubbies, then held it out to Mason. He rummaged through it for several seconds until he pulled out a blue Tootsie Pop.
“Good choice!” Joshua affirmed with a pat on Mason’s back as I picked up my phone and dialed the front office to let Diana know Mason was waiting in my room. She confirmed that his father had already called the school and was on his way. I relayed the news to the sweet ginger-haired boy sucking happily on a lollipop and watched from my periphery as Joshua meandered through my classroom.
“Can I have a sucker for my sister, too, Miss Bailey? She’s in the sixth grade. Sometimes she pretends that she doesn’t like candy anymore, but I saw her sneak a piece from the pantry last week. So she actually really does like it.”
And this was why I adored children so much. They could flip from inconsolable to insightful in a matter of minutes. Of course, offering them sugar on a stick might have something to do with that. But still. There was nothing I loved more than the innocence of a child. I offered him another blue sucker for his sister.
Shamelessly, Joshua continued his stroll to the back half of my room. He’d peeked behind shelves and inside cubbies, perusing my classroom like an open house on the market. If he hadn’t looked so darn fascinated by it all, I may have tossed my dry eraser at the back of his head for being such a snoop. Or at least, I would have threatened to. Violent acts weren’t really my kind of thing.
“It appears all the rumors from Brighton’s students are correct. Your classroom is totally awesome, Laur—Miss B,” he corrected with a sharp glance in Mason’s direction. He rolled a yoga ball out from one of the desks and bounced on it several times, right before he transitioned to a wiggle board and extended his arms like a surfer riding a wave. “I want this setup for my home office.”
“She has a huge game closet, too. We got to play in here once for a pizza party.” Mason popped his sucker out of his mouth and used the slobbery blue orb as a pointer. “It’s over there in the corner.”
Only once had Mrs. Walker allowed her class in my room for a party after one of her students won the guess-how-many-jelly-beans-are-in-the-jar contest we held the week prior to Fall Break to practice estimation. Out of a handful of prize options, the winning child chose a joint pizza party for the combined first-grade classes. Mrs. Walker spent the entire time grading papers in the corner while I refilled glasses of apple juice and handed out bowls of popcorn along with the room moms.
Joshua’s gaze tracked back to the far corner closet. If eyebrows could plead a case, his would have won unanimously. I gave a single nod at his nonverbal request and he sprang into action. The instant he swung the closet door open, he released a whooshing sound through his teeth.
“Whoa.” He looked as if he’d just entered the Cave of Wonders and had spotted Aladdin’s golden lamp on a pedestal.
He searched the labeled game shelves. “Is this . . .” He reached inside and touched one of the faded boxes. “It is. This is the original Rock ’Em Sock ’Em Robots game. My brother and I played this so much we broke the red robot’s head clean off. They started making it in the mid-sixties. Ours wasn’t quite this old, but, wait—” He paused and slid his finger down a dozen more vintage board games: Scrabble, Monopoly, Clue, Candy Land, Life. “These games are all at least forty years old. This is a collector’s jackpot. How do
you have all these?”
“My mom.”
He popped his head back out of the closet. “Please tell me she’s looking for a son. Because I’m adoptable.”
The irony of his statement bubbled up in my throat and exited in a choked laugh. “Honestly? I’m not even sure she wants to claim the kids she has. But to be fair, if I hadn’t intervened, she would have given all those away to a thrift store.”
His appalled expression sent Mason into a fit of giggles. “That’s criminal.”
“Probably. But she’s a closet cleaner for the rich and hoardy. Nothing shocks her anymore. You wouldn’t believe the stuff I’ve rescued from her dumpster pile.”
“Where can I apply for that job—the dumpster pile sorter? Because I’d be happy to take any original Atari or Nintendo consoles off her hands. Or any vintage action figures, if we want to get super specific.”
“I’m pretty sure you can find those kinds of things on eBay.”
“I’m pretty sure they banned me as a bidder two years ago.”
Who is this guy? “Now that sounds like a good story.”
His grin reminded me of one of my more rascally male students of the past. “Not sure about good. But a story, no less.”
The intercom shrilled with a sudden burst of static. “Miss Bailey? Mason’s father is here waiting for his son in the office.”
“Thanks,” I said in reply while Joshua moved toward the sweet boy who was slinging his backpack over his shoulder and merrily chomping on the last bits of his lollipop.
“Guess that’s our cue, Mason.” Joshua directed him to my open door.
“Have a great weekend, buddy,” I called. “You too, Mr. Avery.”
They flashed me a return smile in tandem and exited my room with a wave.
I picked up my phone from my desk and shot Jenna a quick text, asking when she would be ready to leave for the day. It wasn’t common for her to stay this late without communicating it, but she must have had a last-minute project pop up, or a phone call to make on behalf of a student. Whatever the case, I could sure use a good Jenna parking lot stroll right about now.
My screen lit up with her face and number.
I swiped to answer.
“Lauren!” The excited shriek of my best friend through the phone caused me to spin around, half expecting to find her rushing through my doorway with her arms flailing. “He did it! He totally tricked me!”
“Did what? Who? Where are you?” I pressed my finger to my ear, trying to hear over the loud staticky sound in the background. What was that? Wind?
“Brian!” A cascade of laughter trickled through my phone’s receiver. “He bought me a car! He showed up at the end of the carpool line with a huge red bow plastered to the roof and everything! I looked for you, but I couldn’t find you anywhere. It’s my dream car—”
“A red Mustang convertible?” Jenna had swooned over that car for years. It was an easy guess.
“Yes! He got a great deal on it seeing as it’s nearly winter, and eeek! I’m just so, so excited!” Another glorious round of giggles followed by the low, unmistakable murmuring of her doting husband.
“So, I take it your old Acura didn’t actually need a visit to the mechanic, huh?”
“No, he was working on trade-in paperwork with the dealer. So sneaky! Anyway, we’re out for a drive in it now—we have the top down, which is freezing, but our heated seats are blazing. Who says you can’t own a convertible in Idaho? I can’t wait to take this thing on a girls’ trip with you next summer!”
“A girls’ trip? What about me?” Brian teased in the background. “Do you hear what I have to put up with, Lauren? I buy her a new car, and she plans a vacation without me.”
“Oh, you stop it,” Jenna baby-voiced back. The unmistakable sound of smacking lips caused me to pull the phone away from my ear and grimace.
I spoke directly into the speaker. “Um, hello? I’m still here, and I really hope at least one of you is watching the road right now. Kissing is a known driving hazard.”
“One of the best, if you ask me.” Joshua’s voice at my back nearly launched the phone from my hand into the closed window.
I whirled around, eyes wide. “You scared me!”
His lips curled into a smile, hands raised in surrender. “Sorry. Couldn’t resist.”
“Who’s that?” Jenna demanded in my ear. Her lips were apparently now freed from their previous captivity. “Is that Joshua? Is he in your classroom?”
“I gotta go, Jen. Send me a pic of your new ride when you get a chance. Happy for you.”
“Wait—did he ask you out again?”
“Bye.”
“You better call me the second you leave there—”
I clicked off before she could finish her threat and cleared my throat, hoping with every cell in me that Joshua hadn’t heard the last part of that conversation.
“Hey again,” I said, far more breathless than was necessary at the sight of the grinning man parked on Lilly Andrew’s desk. “Did everything go okay in the office with Mason?”
“Yep. His dad felt awful. Seems like a nice guy.” There was something in Joshua’s hand, laid across his lap. A notebook? A calendar? “But I’m actually here because I need help. And seeing as I just watched you cure an emotionally distraught six-year-old with a piece of prized candy, I’m hoping you might have a good solution for me, too.”
“Well, I do happen to have the best prize bag at Brighton.” Wait—who did this flirty voice belong to? It couldn’t be me. I am not a flirt.
He handed me the spiral-bound book. “I consider myself to be a fairly intelligent guy. But I’m lost as to what all these abbreviations stand for.”
“Abbreviations? What is . . . oh.” I flipped the rigid cover page open. “This is Mrs. Walker’s planner.”
“Yes. And it might as well be written in Swahili.”
I focused on the shortened words and phrases written inside each calendar block. Until that moment, I’d never seen Mrs. Walker’s planning system. She was a lone ranger at Brighton, refusing to attend any of the shared teaching engagements I’d invited her to. I’d asked at least a dozen times if she wanted to team up and work as partners for our students, but I was always told she was better off doing things her own way.
I turned the inked pages as if I were holding a long-lost manuscript that belonged in a museum. Would Mrs. Walker dust this for fingerprints once she was back? I wouldn’t put it past her. Many of the abbreviations she used I recognized. After years of deciphering my mother’s messy shorthand, these seemed fairly straightforward to me, but all pointed to worksheets and textbooks I rarely used in my own classroom.
Joshua dipped his chin, bringing his head closer to my own. “I gather you and Charlotte don’t share much in common when it comes to teaching techniques.”
I let out a long sigh and closed the book. “No, we really don’t, I’m sorry.” I bit my tongue from adding, “She isn’t exactly what you’d call a team player.”
“So the chances of you having an abbreviation decoder in that magical prize bag of yours are . . . ?”
“Hmm . . . a decoder? Slim, I’m afraid.”
“And what about the chances of you having a spare set of lesson plans you can share with me while I’m here at Brighton?” He gestured around my room. “It’s easy to see you follow a much more modern and innovative approach in teaching, which is a better fit as far as my research goes.” He pressed his hand to his heart. “I’d be honored if you confided some of your wisdom with me.”
“My wisdom?” I nearly choked on the word. “But your father is—”
“A bit dated. He hasn’t taught inside an elementary classroom for years, and though his theories and practices were cutting edge a decade or two ago, you’ve managed to merge his techniques with modern technology and STEM stations. As far as the app I’ve helped create, I think I could learn a lot from you.” He paused and stared at me intently. “I could be free to meet up anytime tomorrow
if you are. At a coffee shop maybe? I’ll buy the drinks, and you bring the plans. What do you think, Lauren?”
What did I think? About meeting him for coffee, or the fact that my brain had sputtered out two seconds after he suggested it. Because neither were clear.
As we both waited for my mouth to speak a coherent response, a dangerous charge rippled between us. The proposal itself seemed harmless enough, and yet . . . and yet the idea of sharing space with this man, drinking coffee in a relaxed, non-school setting together while explaining the ins and outs of my teaching preferences, created a tension I hadn’t felt in . . . maybe ever.
I hesitated for a moment, sorting through what was actually being asked of me. Not a romantic date. But a work date. A business meeting with a fellow comrade in need of what I had to offer him professionally—first-grade lesson plans. It couldn’t get much more platonic than that, could it?
“I live near Porter’s Coffee House on thirty-first and Bramble. I could probably meet you late morning for a bit.”
“Sounds great,” he said, standing up and grinning like I’d just agreed to pay off his mortgage. “Should we say ten, then?”
“Ten it is.”
chapter
six
Wait, you’re telling me you don’t drink coffee . . . ever?” I leaned back in my chair, staring at him over our shared corner table in disbelief. I must have heard him wrong. Maybe the steam from the espresso machine had fogged over a few key words, because an admission to not being a coffee drinker was not only counter to our age group, but also to our Northwest culture.
Joshua took another easy swig of his pulp-free orange juice and tapped my purple teaching folder splayed on the table top between us. So far, we’d only managed to gloss over a few pages. “Listen, if my not drinking coffee is gonna be a deal breaker for you, then I’ll stand up right now and order myself a”—he scrutinized my cinnamon dolce with extra whip and caramel drizzle—“whatever it is you’re drinking there.”