“She just has to,” I murmur under my breath, dragging a hand through my hair. Unable to stare at the numbers any longer, I slap my laptop closed, tuck it under my arm, and use a wet rag to wipe off the table where I was just sitting. I do one last sweep of the floor before I shut the lights off and head upstairs.
I’m almost past Kyle’s room before I realize the light is still on. That’s peculiar; he’s usually sound asleep at this hour. Quietly, I tiptoe to the door, jostle the handle, and open the door just enough for me to peek my head inside.
The illumination comes from his desk lamp in the corner where my son is passed out with his cheek smashed against one of his textbooks. No longer tiptoeing, I make my way over to him and place my hand on his back. I rub it in a circular motion as I bring my voice to a low whisper.
“Hey, why don’t you go get ready for bed,” I instruct. I can’t help but smile as I watch him slowly stir awake and wipe the small amount of drool from the corner of his mouth.
“Uh—Mom, what time is it?” His groggy voice sounds almost unrecognizable to me. I’m still getting used to his voice now that it’s changing. Gone is the sweet, higher-pitched one that used to call me Mommy and asked me to kiss his boo-boos to make them feel better. It’s been replaced with a deeper, raspier one. And that saddens me a little. My baby boy is growing up too fast, and I’m having a tough time keeping up with him.
I rub his shoulder. “A little past midnight. Now, go get ready for bed.”
With one last pat on his back, I step aside, allowing him to scoot his chair away from his desk and get up. Once he’s out the door, I decide to tidy up his desk a bit. I put his pencils in their holder and the bookmark in his textbook and slam it closed. That’s when I see it—the very thing that shatters my heart into a million tiny pieces.
Underneath the textbook is a piece of scratch paper. All his work is scratched out, not erased, but still very much illegible. The phrase beneath it, however, I can make out clear as day. In big, bolded and underlined letters, are the words…I’M SO STUPID!
I can’t fight back the tears welling in my eyes. I feel like I’ve just been sucker-punched in the gut. What kind of a mother am I that my only son is struggling, and I didn’t even notice? A horrible one—that’s the only correct answer. How could I let this happen? He hasn’t struggled with any class before. What class even is this?
I slide the notebook paper with the clear evidence aside to find the homework assignment beneath it. Quickly, I scan the top of the page until I find what I’m looking for. Chemistry.
Well, I’ll be damned if I let my son suffer in silence any longer. I am going to figure this out and get to the bottom of what exactly is going on. Carefully, I put everything back where I found it and leave his room.
Down the hall, I march to my room like a woman on a mission. With my head held high, my posture straight, and determination driving each footstep, I have the confidence of a woman in heels and a miniskirt entering a club, even though I’m wearing flats and a pair of sweatpants.
Once I enter my bedroom, I close the door, fire up my laptop, and search my email for a copy of Kyle’s class schedule. It takes me a good minute or two to find it and open the attachment, but I find what I’m looking for almost immediately when I do—Chemistry, Mr. Ashford. Searching the school’s online directory, I find Mr. Ashford’s email address and start typing away.
It’s like my fingers have a mind of their own as they fly across the keys, typing whatever comes to my mind before I have the chance to overthink it. The sound of rapid typing cuts through the air until I finish and click send immediately. I don’t read it back; it’s best I don’t. I’ve learned that when I go full Mama Bear mode, it’s better that I don’t overthink and overanalyze everything. If I do, I end up coming off as shy and timid—which is my true nature.
Content with my actions, I close the laptop and decide to check on my son again.
I head out of my bedroom and manage to take the several steps necessary until I’m standing right in front of his bedroom door. Slowly, I jostle the handle and swing the door open, careful not to release my grip until the door is just ajar enough for me to squeeze my frame through.
Ever since he was born, the sight of him sleeping is the most relaxing thing in the world to me. Seeing him in this peaceful state just puts my constantly worrying mind—that I think all mothers have—at ease. A warm, serene feeling stirs in my chest as I watch him for a minute. He’s asleep on his stomach. His blond hair—a shade or two lighter than mine—is strewn across his pillow.
With soft movements, I tiptoe to the edge of his bed. And like every night since the day he was born, I brush the hair off his face and plant a kiss on his forehead.
Then, I lean in and whisper the words of encouragement I haven’t uttered since he was a newborn. “It will all be okay, my baby. I promise.”
Chapter Five
Lucas
The knock on the door causes me to lose focus. The sting of a headache is beginning to settle behind my eyes as I stare at the exam resting on my knee, red pen in hand, desperate to find the exact spot where I left off. There’s another knock, which causes me to give up altogether.
I toss the stack of my students’ latest Chemistry exams onto the coffee table and bring the mug of coffee to my lips. The hot liquid warms my insides as it travels down my throat. After one more gulp, I make my way to the door, curious as hell to see who’s on the other side.
I’m not expecting anyone, especially at this late hour. But that only piques my interest even more. With a flick of my wrist, I unbolt the deadbolt and swing the door open. I’m instantly taken aback by his appearance.
His dark blond hair is tousled all over the place—a very stark contrast from his usual styled look. For as long as I’ve known him, Ethan Lance has been known for his overtly expressive eyes. They give away whatever emotion lurks beneath the surface. Usually, they’re full of so much joy that it’s almost as if they’re smiling themselves. But tonight, their hazel pigment is murky, clouded by the catastrophic rainstorm raging within them. Something’s wrong, but I know he’s not going to come right out and tell me what it is just yet—at least, not before some snarky, sarcastic comment escapes from his lips.
“Ethan? What are you doing here?”
“Oh, God, I’m such a jackass. Please, tell me I didn’t wake you?” I glance down at my clothes, confused as to what part of my appearance would cause him to think I just rolled out of bed. I’m still wearing my work clothes: a pair of pressed khakis, a white button-down rolled up at my forearms, and a knitted burgundy V-neck sweater over the entire ensemble. Ethan must follow my gaze because he adds, “What am I saying? Of course, you didn’t fall asleep in that.”
“What’re you doing here?” I repeat, letting my curiosity get the better of me.
“I decided to check out the infamous small-town life you’re always raving about,” he teases. As expected, sarcasm drips from each syllable.
I shake my head. “Not buying it. I know you grew up in a small town before you moved to Manhattan. So, why don’t you just cut the facade and skip to the part where you tell me why you flew all the way here.”
He smiles for a split second before it falters, sagging along with his shoulders. “Why do I always forget that your bullshit detector is so strong?”
I shrug my shoulders. “I teach for a living. Being able to sense bullshit when it’s being flung at me is kinda part of the job.”
Tucked off to his side is a black suitcase that I overlooked when I first opened the door. Whatever his reason for visiting, it has to be really serious for him to pack more than a duffel bag.
He sucks in a deep breath as he bows his head toward the floor. “It’s over.”
“What’s over?”
“My marriage.” He barely chokes out the words out before his body betrays him, convulsing as he silently sobs in place. Without a second thought, I yank him into my embrace. We remain like this for a while. It could
be a few seconds, a few minutes; I’m not quite sure. But I know I won’t let go or pry for more information until he is ready.
“Can we go inside now? I’m freezing my balls off out here,” Ethan mutters against my sweater.
I clear my throat to stifle a laugh. I will not laugh when he is hurting like this, even if his sense of humor always did have a way of making me laugh at very inappropriate times.
“Sure, Buddy. Come on in.”
I wheel his suitcase into a corner of the room while we make our way into my living room. I take a seat in my armchair and gesture toward the couch.
“I don’t want to impose. I can stay at a hotel. I just wanted to—needed to—see a friendly face first,” he admits as he takes a seat on the couch.
“No. None of that shit. You’re more than welcome to stay here as long as you need. And…look at me.” I pause until his hazel irises lock onto mine. “I fucking mean every word of that. You hear me?”
He nods.
“Yes, Mr. Ashford,” he teases with a smirk.
I roll my eyes to distract from the smile I probably cracked. “Don’t call me that. I was never your teacher.”
“No, but you were my English tutor at some point in college.”
“True, but that’s only because your writing was shit.”
He taps his temple with his pointer finger. “And because of you, I’m all smarticles now.”
I know he’s joking, but the use of the word smarticles causes me to facepalm my forehead involuntarily.
I know he’s using humor to hide his pain. I get that. Hell, I’ve been guilty of that. But I know firsthand that that’s not going to help the pain go away, only mask the discomfort. As much as I hate to do this to him, I need to pry. That’s the only way he’s going to cope, and I need to do it to understand better how I can help him to do so.
“Are you going to tell me what happened between you and Melanie?” Hearing her name causes him to freeze for a moment. Perhaps I was too blunt, too brash, but he needs straightforwardness from a friend more than anything else right now. But most importantly, he needs to let this all out. Keeping his emotions bottled beneath the surface will only make things much, much worse.
“She wants kids; that’s it. That’s all there is to this tragic ending to our love story.”
I quirk a brow. “And I’m assuming you don’t?”
He closes his eyes for a brief moment, probably to hold back tears. “Not exactly. I do want kids, but I can’t have them.”
“Oh, shit, I’m so sorry,” I say on a shocked exhale.
“I can’t really blame her too much. I knew she wanted kids the moment I met her. On our first date, that is the first thing she asked me. Do you want kids, because this will just be a waste of both of our time if not. We were fifteen at the time,” he pauses for a moment before he continues. “I guess I knew this would happen as soon as I got the news last month. That’s why I hid it from her until now. I couldn’t take the guilt of hiding it. Of her tracking her cycle and tackling me every time the moment was just right. So, I told her. We argued. I mentioned adoption. She didn’t like that idea. Then, when I got home from work the next day, she and the dogs were gone. All I have left of our seven-year marriage is her wedding band.”
I can see the tears welling in his eyes, so I try my hardest to tread carefully. “Does your family know?”
He shakes his head vehemently. “Just my twin sister, Aly. She begged me to fly back home to stay with her. But I’m not ready to. Not yet.”
“And why is that?” I lean forward, resting my elbow on my knee as I prop my head up. I focus all my attention on him as I analyze his body language—from each tick of his jaw to every hitch in his breath.
“This is going to sound horrible, but I guess I’ll just come out and say it anyway. She has a newborn son. And my older brother just had twin girls a couple of months back. As much as I want to see my new nieces and nephew, I just don’t think I’m emotionally ready to be in an environment that will serve as a constant reminder of why my marriage ended. That’s why I came here. Although, admittedly, it’s been a while since we last spoke. I was terrified that you might have popped out a kid recently as well.”
I raise my right hand in the air. “I solemnly swear that I have no little Ashfords running around.”
I take a quick swig of my coffee.
He arches a brow as he gestures to my cup with his chin. “There doesn’t happen to be any vodka in there, does there?”
I shake my head. “No, but I can fetch the Goose from the freezer for you.”
“Bless you.”
“But while you’re still lucid and thinking clearly, I want you to know that everything you’re feeling is perfectly valid and reasonable. It certainly doesn’t make you a bad person, brother, or uncle for saying that you’re not ready yet. But I know you. You will hop on a flight to Sandy Heights as soon as you’re ready. And you will be the best damn uncle those kids could ever ask for.”
He smiles, but I can tell it’s forced. “Thank you, Lucas. It really means a lot.”
A little while later, Ethan hops in the shower after who knows how many glasses of liquid courage, and I get back to grading. I’m three exams deep when I come across a particular student’s name. Kyle Hayden.
This exam, in particular, is the hardest to grade. Sure, the content is no different than the rest of the ones in this stack, but that’s not what makes it more difficult. It’s the fact that I know this is a transfer student who missed the first three weeks of class where we reviewed the fundamentals necessary to succeed in my class. Without that knowledge, I don’t feel like I can properly assess his performance.
I put the cap on the pen and decide just to look his exam over for now. Reviewing the exam, I find that each problem has his work scratched out. The phrase I’M SO STUPID is written underneath each one. And that breaks my fucking heart. I’ve spoken with my colleagues about this student in particular. My class is the only one he is struggling in. In fact, my colleagues all sing his praises on how he is excelling academically in each of their classes. That tidbit of knowledge only breaks my heart even further, causing a knot to cramp in my stomach.
I can’t sit idly by and watch any student suffer, especially one of my own. Even if that means driving to his house every day to tutor him one-on-one, I have to do something. Sure, I don’t really have the time to do that. But dammit, I will make time if I have to.
As if on cue, I hear my iPad alert me of an incoming email. I swipe it off the coffee table, surprised by just how much of a coincidence it is when I read the sender’s name: Chloe Hayden.
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: We Have a Problem
Dear Mr. Ashford,
I’m not quite sure if it should be “we have a problem” or “I have a problem.” Either way, I am concerned about my son’s progress or lack thereof in your Chemistry class. I would like to apologize in advance for going all Mama Bear on you and for sending you the most unprofessional email you probably ever received in your entire academic career, but I have no control over myself when I’m in full-on concerned Mama Mode. It’s late, and I’m sure you’re a very busy man. But I am a very busy woman and concerned mother—so, I win! Ten points to Hayden!
Anyway, to the matter at hand. Tonight, I found my son passed out on your Chemistry homework. Long story short, what sparked my concern is when I noticed the only thing written on his assignment were the words “I AM STUPID!” I know every mother says this about their child, and I certainly don’t expect you to take this to heart when I say it either, but as a proud mother, bear with me while I state it anyway. My son is NOT stupid! He’s not only received good marks in all his classes, but I would often hear at parent-teacher conferences how academically gifted my son is. Again, take that with a grain of salt or a shot of tequila—I don’t care. What I do care about is my son. And now that I have been made aware that
he is struggling in your class, I’m beyond determined to guide him down the right path to correct this issue. How I do so is very much up to you and your professional advice. How can I go about making sure my son grasps the material in your class better before it’s too late to turn things around? Please advise.
Thank you in advance,
Chloe Hayden
CEO & Owner of Kyle Hayden
This has to be the funniest email I have ever read. I can’t stop myself from chucking and smiling like an idiot as I read it. I’m very grateful that my sister isn’t here to make fun of me for smiling at my iPad like an idiot as I type out my response and click send. And on that note, I should probably call it a night.
Chapter Six
Chloe
The bright light wakes me up as it illuminates the dark room. Begrudgingly, I open my heavy-lidded eyes and check the screen. Still feeling groggy from the allergy pill I took last night, I check my notifications. Shit! He responded to me last night, and I didn’t notice. Without wasting another second, I tap the screen and read the email from my son’s teacher.
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: RE: We Have a Problem
Dear Ms. Hayden,
WE do have a problem. Believe me when I say that I desperately share your concern over Kyle’s recent performance. Your son has been heavy on both my mind and heart lately. I want to ensure you that I will do everything I possibly can to help him grasp the material and excel in my class.
Chemistry: An Everyday Heroes World Novel (The Everyday Heroes World) Page 3