by Celeste, B.
“I know I talked too much the night we were all out, but I swear I’m not usually like that. I’ve always been a nervous talker.” If that’s true, I’d probably find it cute if I weren’t internally freaking out right now. “And I know you usually keep to yourself, but I’d really like to get to know you better. All I’m asking for is one date.”
Doing controlled breathing as I’ve learned in yoga, I finally pick my head up to meet his hopeful green-blue eyes. Miles really does seem like a great guy, but not somebody I can picture dating.
He’s also determined, a trait I should probably admire but don’t in this instance. “What’s the worst that can happen? You don’t like me? At least you’d get free food out of it.” His humor does make me crack a smile, which he quickly notices and looks triumphant over. “One date, Stevie.”
If Vickie were here, she’d push me at him or give him my number without me having a say. She’s been trying to get me to go on dates since at least six months after Hunter and I separated. Then, the wounds were so fresh that any little thing would make me sob. I was a wreck. I couldn’t even imagine looking at a guy at that point. It may not be easy now, but the idea of going out with Miles this weekend wouldn’t be horrible in theory.
I have no idea why “okay” slips out of my mouth. None at all. Because Miles may be attractive and a seemingly nice guy, but I already know I’m not interested. He’s younger than me, probably has a different lifestyle, and has no clue that I’m a 32-year-old-divorcee with serious emotional baggage.
My coworker beams. “Great. I can pick you up if you give me your number and text me your address.”
I already regret my decision the second that charming, boyish smile tilts his mouth. The same one he’d shown off at the bar before he spent all his time talking my ear off and stealing my food.
Deep down, I tell myself this is a sign.
A good one.
One that tells me I’m letting myself heal.
Move on.
Even if it’s not with Miles, it’s a big step in a direction I would have never seen myself in months ago.
So, I give Miles my number and watch him walk off with a victorious look on his face even though my expression must be anything but.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The date is lackluster at best, nothing to write home about. I’m secretly glad that I didn’t tell anyone I was going on it, even though the smart thing to do would’ve been texting Vickie in case I somehow wound up missing or in a ditch somewhere.
When Miles pulls into my driveway at almost eleven o’clock at night, I’m so relieved to be home that I practically bolt out of his car. He spent fifteen minutes talking about the car because there were a ton of custom features he apparently paid a lot of money for. Money I’m not sure how he has knowing our salary at the school, but I never brought that up. All I could think throughout the entire date was how much he’d get along with my ex-husband, and that wasn’t particularly a good thing.
I silently hope he had a bad time, but when he gets out and walks me to my door like a gentleman, I nearly deflate when he says, “I had a great time tonight.”
What am I supposed to say to that? Thanks, but this won’t work out in a million years. I don’t want to be rude, but I also don’t want to get his hopes up or lead him on. The fact we have to work together is something I should have considered after passing him my number.
“Er, I’m glad.” Internally, I slam a palm against my forehead. If he thinks that’s a weird response, he doesn’t tell me. Instead, his eyes go to my lips, and before I can even blink, his lips are on mine. Firm yet soft and eager for more as he tries to pry my mouth open despite my frozen body locking up with every second he doesn’t pull away.
I can’t think. Don’t respond. He doesn’t seem to care that I’m not kissing him back as his tongue traces the seam of my lips until one of his hands presses into my lower back and tugs me into his body. Only when I gasp in surprise does he slip his tongue inside to touch mine experimentally, causing a shiver of nerves to rush down my spine that gives him the wrong idea.
His hips tilt forward and something hard presses into me as he weaves his fingers into my hair and tries getting me to respond.
Stop this.
Stop him.
It’s only when a dog barks from somewhere close by that we break apart. I’m startled for more than one reason, and Miles looks smug. If he thinks the flush of my skin and wide eyes are because he blew my mind, I wonder how he’d feel if I started sobbing like I desperately want to.
It’s not him.
Miles isn’t Hunter.
They have different lips.
Different smiles.
Different eyes.
Yet, they look at me all the same.
With cockiness.
Certainty.
Confidence.
And me? All I can think about is how the man in front of me is nothing like my husband. Ex-husband. He doesn’t kiss the same or hold me the same or react the same way as Hunter did. He kissed me with a plan, even though our plans aren’t the same. That’s how they’re similar.
I glance over at the sidewalk to see Admiral and Fletcher standing there.
Staring.
Well, Admiral is wagging his tail as always, but his owner doesn’t look as friendly.
Not that he usually does.
Clearing my throat, I squeak out, “Thank you for tonight. It was…” I don’t want to lie. “It was good to get out of the house.” Not untrue, but also not a five-star review on his behalf, not that he seems to care. So, I clear my throat again, and add, “I think it may be better if we’re just friends, though. Since we work together and all.”
He blinks.
Scrubs his jaw with his palm.
Then blinks again.
“Oh.” He sounds disappointed. “Okay.”
I blow out a breath and smile, but the curl of my lips feels as heavy as the weight sitting on my chest. “Goodnight, Miles.”
He murmurs a “goodnight” before heading to his car. I quickly escape inside, turning off the porch light and glancing out the living room window to watch his car back out and head down the street until the taillights are officially out of view.
I also notice the man and dog walking away but refuse to wonder why they stopped there in the first place.
I haven’t been worried about parent-teacher conferences because there’s never anything bad to report. And that still stands true. Mostly. It’s just certain people that I know I’ll have to face that make my hands a little clammier than usual and my reactions a little jumpier over the silliest things.
Like when Sonia stormed into my room and made me nearly empty my bladder from all the coffee I’d downed earlier in the morning. She’d wanted to know why I hadn’t told her about Miles because, apparently, everyone knew about our date from the man himself.
Not wanting to go into detail, I told her it was a spur-of-the-moment decision, and she looked as disappointed as him when I made it clear there wouldn’t be a second one. Obviously, he hadn’t told anyone that part.
I’m not surprised at all that the man who’s always first in line to pick up his child is the same parent who’s first to get a progress report on him. The good news is, after our meeting is done and he leaves, I’ll be fine. I don’t want to think about why I still get so nervous around the person who insisted we were okay—someone who apologized to me when he didn’t need to and went out of his way to help me even though he didn’t have to.
I’m straightening up my desk for the umpteenth time when a knock sounds at the open door before a large body fills the frame in the same clothes I’m used to seeing him in. Slightly stained, well worn, and molded to his body in dangerously delicious ways. I turn in my chair and quickly stand, offering a smile. I fidget with the floral blouse I put on along with my favorite pencil skirt, which looks professional yet cute according to my mother after she’d convinced me to buy it on a girl’s day we’d had together.
<
br /> “Hello, Mr. Miller,” I greet, gesturing toward the chair I set up in front of my desk.
He doesn’t move right away. “Fletcher is fine,” he says before walking in and taking a seat across from me. “I’m early.”
I sit after he does, flattening my blouse nervously. “That’s fine. You’re the first appointment anyway. And it’s a force of habit to address the parents that way. Though I won’t lie, for a while, I was calling you Lieutenant Colonel in my head.” The admission makes my cheeks heat, and I hope they aren’t turning red as I grab Nicki’s folder.
Feeling his eyes on me, his voice cuts through the silence. “I didn’t think we were talking about that.”
I cuss to myself, cringing at my stupidity for even bringing it up. “You’re right, I just…” My shoulders drop a little as I look at him, his son’s folder finally placed in front of me. “I didn’t mean to make it sound like you couldn’t say anything about that. I mean, it’s your life. Who am I to tell you what you can talk about?”
He’s quiet for a moment. “It’s hard for you, though,” he notes. No question about it. A simple, sure statement. Though, if memory serves, that’s exactly what I told him. That I struggled. “I get it. It’s not an easy lifestyle to live, no matter how long or in what way you’re involved.”
My nostrils twitch as I pick invisible lint off my shirt and shift in my seat. “You’re right,” I say quietly, clearing my throat. “Anyway, we’re here about Dominic. I have a folder of a few things we can discuss and—”
“How’s your friend?” he asks abruptly.
Eyes darting from the report in front of me to the man who asked the random question, I blink at his crossed, tense arms draped across his chest. Then I blink again. “Excuse me? My friend?”
“Your friend,” he says slowly, as if hearing the words slower will help me understand the second time around. “The one who dropped you off the other night.”
Oh.
Oh.
Miles.
I don’t appreciate the roughness of his voice, or the way he felt the need to bring it up given we’re here to talk about his son. With only half an hour for each meeting, it doesn’t offer a lot of free time to catch up. And this certainly isn’t a conversation I want to have, least of all with the man who’s staring a little too intensely at me. “We’re not here to talk about me,” is how I reply calmly, fighting the heat from settling into my face.
A sound rises in his throat, and I can’t help but notice how…unimpressed he looks. With me? I didn’t even do anything wrong, so I can’t see why he looks that way. “The people I choose to hang out with isn’t any of your business, Mr. Miller. So, how about we go over Nicki’s report?”
I almost think he’s going to agree, be sensible, but I’m sadly mistaken. “I told you it’s Fletcher. None of that Mr. Miller crap. I’m 42. Not old enough for all that bullshit formality.”
I make a face to myself as I wet my thumb and start going through the papers, pulling out a small essay Nicki wrote a week ago that I felt the need to highlight. Unfortunately, now I’m beginning to rethink whether it’s worth it. “For the record, I’m divorced. Which is the reason why talking about the life I used to live is hard for me. I did nothing wrong by going out, so I highly suggest you stop looking at me like that and start treating me like the grown woman I am. A woman who’s simply sitting here at her job trying to do what she’s paid to because her old life doesn’t exist anymore.”
The sharp edge to my voice as I deliver each word with my hazel eyes locked firmly on his dark ones has his eye twitching. “I never said you did anything wrong.”
I sit back, reeling. “Then wipe the judgmental look off your face because whether you said it or not, your unjustified attitude tells a different story.”
He blinks.
I blink.
Then he says, “I just think the guy is a tool, that’s all. Surprised you’d go for someone like him. It’s none of my business.” He lifts a shoulder at his casual statement, as if saying something like that isn’t a big deal.
Is Miles a tool? Maybe.
Is that any of Fletcher’s business? No.
Do I want his opinion? Definitely not.
Deciding against continuing the conversation, I begin talking about the real reason we’re here. “Dominic is a smart boy as I’m sure you know. He’s been acing all his tests and done well on most of his homework assignments. Besides that one incident, he seems to be integrating well.”
I pass him the paper, which he stares at for a few seconds before leaning forward to take it from me—those long, wide fingers wrapping around the edge before sitting back and scanning the handwriting. “The class was asked to write about somebody they admired. It could have been anybody. Family, friends, maybe a celebrity. Nicki’s paper stood out to me, and I thought you’d like to read it after what you’d told me the other day.”
I notice his lips pressing together as his eyes skim the paper, stopping, blinking, and then continuing. After a few minutes, he scrubs his smooth jaw with his palm and leans back in his chair. “He wrote about me?”
I nod. “Whether or not you believe he wants to be here, those words should tell you everything you need to know. He loves you, looks up to you.”
He shakes his head in disbelief as he lowers the paper, his eyes going back from the penciled words on the page to me.
When he doesn’t say anything, I give him a small smile. “I don’t know what it’s like to have children or what your situation is with your family. All I do know is that your son is happy to be with you, so you shouldn’t worry about him being otherwise. Just spend time with him. That seems to be enough for Nicki.”
“Why do you call him that?” he asks, something off about his tone. It’s curious and fishing, his gaze scoping out my face as I take in the question.
The answer is simple. “Because that’s what he wants to be called.”
All he does is dip his chin, his jaw ticking as he remains silent. His eyes go back to the paper he’s holding, the edges wrinkling under his grasp. “Can I keep this?”
I nod, even though he isn’t looking. “It’s yours to do whatever you want with. Frame it, put it on the fridge. Whatever.”
The telltale sign of a long, inhaled breath has his shoulders loosening from there otherwise tense stature they were in as he exhales. “Thank you.”
I hum. “You’re welcome.”
When he picks his head up, the brown tone of his eyes is softer than before as they meet mine, like this was exactly what he needed today.
After finishing up the rest of the report I want to highlight, I close my folder and put it in the ‘done’ pile before standing as he does. Part of me hopes he’ll just tip his head as usual and leave, but he chooses to do the opposite.
Folding the piece of paper his son wrote, he pulls out his wallet and tucks it inside, sliding it into the back pocket of his jeans. “For the record, I didn’t mean to insinuate you were doing something you shouldn’t have been before.”
This again. I sigh internally, not willing to let it go so quickly. “I’m sure you’ve seen, or even done, far worse than go on a date with somebody you knew wasn’t right for you.”
I’ve heard the horror stories surrounding military men and women, especially when they’re deployed. Sometimes things happen—infidelity being the biggest threat against a serious, long-distance relationship. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have my worries when Hunter and I were still married and thousands of miles apart from each other. But I believed him when he told me he’d never cheated. After all the fighting, the horrible things we’d said back and forth toward the end, I still took his word with the same seriousness as I did since the day we exchanged vows.
Licking my lips, I look away and add, “I already feel bad enough trying to move on, so I’d appreciate it if you kept your opinions to yourself instead of making me feel worse about simply trying to live my life again.”
He’s silent, but those
eyes…
They’re heavy and pinned to my face when I dare another peek, but I don’t hold his gaze because then he’d see how much his silent accusation hurt my feelings. I know it shouldn’t, that this man has no hold over me, but it doesn’t stop the sting buried in my chest.
His eyes burn, willing me to look at him.
But I don’t.
And when he realizes I’m not going to, he decides to leave without another word.
CHAPTER NINE
“If you could be any kind of fruit, which one would you be?” one of my students asks in the middle of my lesson.
I try not to show my amusement over such a random question, but it’s hard when something like that is asked in the middle of solving math problems. What’s even more challenging is not to laugh when other students start answering with random pieces of fruit like oranges, bananas, apples, and dragon fruit—the little boy who’d said it proceeded to roar and pretend to spit fire. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t even know what dragon fruit is. What nearly made me crack my calm demeanor was when Connor said he’d be a blackberry and when a few kids looked at him and asked why, he’d simply pointed to his dark skin and said, “Duh,” with a roll of his eyes.
If Vickie were here, she’d lose it.
Taking a few deep breaths, I clear my throat and set the textbook I’m using down on the corner of my desk. “How about we save the questions for our free period,” I suggest lightly.
They all groan. “You have to answer!” one of the girls tells me.
A bunch of the others nod in agreement.
It’s not the weirdest question I’ve been asked, so I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to indulge in their inquiry. “Fine, but after I answer, then it’s back to work. We need more help on our division before we start long division in a few weeks.”
More groans.
I laugh to myself. “I’ve never thought about this before, but I guess I’d have to go with a peach.”