by Kelsie Rae
“Hmm…,” she hums. “Has he made a move or anything? Or do you only know any of this because he opened up to a random girl on a dating app? I mean…that’s a little weird, right?”
“Yeah. Super weird. And no, he hasn’t really tried anything with me personally. We’ve talked a few times. But every time he’s approached me, I end up biting his head off for something. It’s not like he’s really had a chance to do anything anyway, ya know?”
“Do you want to give him a chance to do anything? To ask you out, or apologize, or maybe buy you a coffee or something?”
“I don’t know what I want anymore,” I admit, though our conversations through the dating app rear their ugly heads as I actually consider what I would do if he tried anything with me. It’s been nice talking to him. Connecting with him. Letting down my walls under the guise of a fake revenge plan. Until I remember that he isn’t talking to Saylor. He’s talking to Slytherin4ever. But who’s fault is that? Is it mine because I created the profile in the first place? Or is it his because he broke my heart and expects me to forgive him for it?
In small circles, I massage my temples and close my eyes. “I hate him, Skye.”
“Yeah, but you love him too.”
My teeth dig into my lower lip, but I don’t bother to argue. There’s nothing I can say.
With a sigh, she hooks her arm through mine, then guides me to the teacher’s lounge. “Come on. Let’s get this meeting over with and start the day. We’ll dissect your current predicament when we get home tonight. Deal?”
“Deal.”
“Good.”
My low heels click against the linoleum floors before we reach the teacher’s lounge. The smell of coffee wafts through the air as the heavy oak door swings open. A few teachers are hanging out on olive green couches while others are sitting at the wood tables scattered in the small room. Their laptops are sprawled in front of them as they prepare for another day in the classroom while we all wait for Principal Wells to start our usual Monday morning meeting.
My breath hitches when I catch myself scanning the room for a certain sexy ex-football player, but he’s nowhere in sight.
I could’ve sworn––
“Excuse me,” a deep voice murmurs behind me.
Goosebumps pebble my skin as I look over my shoulder and find Owen.
“Oh. S-sorry,” I mumble, fumbling with my giant-ass black purse to make myself smaller so that he can pass me through the small entrance. Heaven forbid I actually take a step inside the break room and let him follow. Nope. Instead, I gotta act like a lunatic.
Good one, Say.
“No worries.” Owen’s hand slides along my lower back as he slips past me, his familiar scent lingering in the air while my gaze follows him to the coffee machine.
With a gentle shove from behind, Skye pushes me forward and snaps me out of my reverie.
“Yo. Let’s go find a seat.”
“Uh, yeah. Yeah, let’s go,” I mutter, still clutching my purse to my chest as I take a seat on the edge of one of the couches.
Skye tries to make small talk, but I’m too distracted by a certain someone’s presence to pay attention. He’s talking to Sarah and Taylor. Both are pretty. Both must’ve decided he’s fresh meat and want to find out if he’s single so they can sink their teeth into him. And I shouldn’t care that Sarah just touched his shoulder or that Taylor flipped her hair back and is laughing at something he just said.
I shouldn’t care that I’m over here. That he hasn’t looked at me since he walked into the room. That he doesn’t know his favorite creamer that he got me addicted to in high school is tucked in the fridge with my name on it.
Focus, Say.
A throat clears, followed by Principal Wells’ crisp voice, and for the first time ever, I’m grateful for it.
“Thanks for being here for our weekly meeting. Let’s dive right in, shall we?” With a clipboard tucked under one arm, he rubs his hands together and waits for the room to quiet down. Once all eyes are on him, a satisfied Artie continues. “As most of you know, Owen Daniels has filled the gym teacher opening. Make sure he feels welcome. Anything you’d like to say, Mr. Daniels?”
With his arms folded across his broad chest, Owen smiles sheepishly. “Thanks for having me. I look forward to getting to know all of you better and hope you can be patient with me as I figure out teaching. I’ve never done this before, but I’m excited to stick around and hopefully make a difference to a few kids while I’m at it.”
A round of hellos rumble through the air before everyone’s attention returns to Artie. Well, everyone’s except Taylor’s and Sarah’s. And mine, but that’s beside the point.
“I’m sure I speak for everyone when I say that we’re excited to see what you can do,” Wells returns before looking down at his clipboard. “Let’s see…Miss Swenson has offered to head up the Boo Bash and will need volunteers. There’s a sign-up sheet on the bulletin board if you’re interested in helping out. I’ve also updated the regulations for costumes this year, so be sure to make it clear that….”
My skin prickles with awareness while my thumping heart drowns out Wells’ voice. It bangs against my ribcage like a bull in a china shop as a very familiar set of eyes penetrate the side of my face. I can feel Owen watching me, but I’m not about to confirm my suspicion. With my spine straighter than a steel rod, I keep my gaze glued to the center button on Principal Wells’ white dress shirt and try to focus. But all I hear is static.
Don’t look at him. Don’t you dare look at him.
My purse vibrates from my phone receiving a notification, and I pull it out, grateful for the distraction until a little bird flutters across my screen.
OD: How’d you sleep?
I lick my lips, then glance toward Owen. But he isn’t looking at me anymore. He’s tucking his phone back into his front pocket. My hands shake as I slip mine back into my purse before attempting to focus on Principal Wells, who’s still rambling about the dress code and the importance of enforcing it.
After another minute, he claps his hands and dismisses us.
“I’ll see ya later,” I mutter to Skye, then I dart toward my classroom like a bat out of hell. Because whatever that was? Well, it was too much.
8
Owen
“So, how’d your first day go?” Sarah asks. She’s cute. Straight brown hair. Plaid skirt that definitely doesn’t meet the dress code Principal Wells was reminding everyone about this morning. But she’s nice. Thoughtful. Friendly. And she’s offered to help me with anything I need.
Clicking the cap back onto the pen in the break room, I answer, “It was good.”
“You’re really signing up to help out with the Boo Bash?”
The ink is still drying on the volunteer form where a single name is scrawled on the white paper. Mine.
“Yeah,” I answer.
“Well, that’s…thoughtful of you.”
“I’m happy to help.”
Twirling her hair around her finger, she bats her long, lacquered lashes up at me. “I would’ve signed up, too, but I have a family thing.”
My mouth quirks up on one side. “No judgment here.”
“Then, what’s with the smirk?” She waves her manicured finger a few inches from my face.
“No smirk.”
“I can see it,” she flirts.
The door slams open before a certain Swenson sister sways into the break room and cuts off our conversation.
“Hey, Sarah,” Skye greets her. Her voice is sickly sweet as she leans against the counter beside us and folds her arms. “There’s a cute little kid waiting in the hall that was asking about you.”
Sarah’s brow arches. “You sure about that?”
“Positive. Asked for you by name and everything.”
“Hmm,” Sarah hums, unconvinced, before turning back to me. “It was good chatting with you today, Owen.”
“You too. Thanks for showing me the ropes.”
“Anytim
e.” Her little fingers wiggle back and forth before she sashays out the door like a runway model, leaving me alone with a very astute, very prickly woman named Skye.
“Why, hello, Big O. Fancy seeing you here.”
The girl might be the youngest of the Swenson sisters, but she used to be the fieriest. It seems things haven’t changed since I left.
“Hey, Skye. How’ve you been?”
She shrugs before reaching for the pen in my hand, then scrawls her name beneath mine. “Crappy. Got married to help a guy out, fell in love with him in Tuscany during our honeymoon, then found out he was a big, fat liar, and am in the process of getting divorced. But I think the real question here is, how have you been? Seems like a pretty small world for you to show your face back here after everything you put her through.”
“Skye––”
“Why are you here?”
I grab the back of my neck and squeeze.
Why the hell does everyone ask me this?
“Answer the question,” she pushes.
With a sigh, I lean my ass against the counter where the coffee machine sits. “I’m here because I had a great childhood and want my son to have one too.”
“There’s a lot of places your son could have a great childhood,” she argues, sounding a hell of a lot like my sister. “Why here, Owen?”
“I missed her.”
“And?”
Apparently, small talk isn’t what she’s looking for.
“And I know that breaking up with her was the biggest mistake I’ve ever made, and I want to make it up to her,” I divulge.
“Then, what? Let’s say you miraculously manage to win her back. Are you going to leave again?”
“What? Of course not, Skye––”
“Then, what? Tell me the plan.”
“I don’t have a”––I rub my hand across my face, the familiar sense of desperation settling into my bones––“plan.”
“Then, I’m not going to help you.”
My eyes widen. “You’re offering to help me?”
“I was thinking about it.” She looks down and starts picking at her trimmed nails as if she has all the time in the world and didn’t just blow mine up with a single sentence.
“You serious?” I rasp.
As she sucks her bottom lip into her mouth, I can almost see the wheels churning in her head. The indecision that simmers just beneath the surface while she weighs the pros and cons of helping me out when we both know I don’t deserve it.
“Please,” I murmur, towering over her petite frame as I push away from the counter.
She purses her lips but holds my stare. “Saylor deserves to be happy after the hell you put her through. And even though I’ve been rooting against you since you broke up with her on our front porch, I’ve yet to see anyone who makes her feel anything. At all. She’s been numb, Owen. And it’s all your fault.”
“I’m sorry––”
“Let’s see if you can wake her up.” Then she snatches the volunteer form from the bulletin board and folds it into her purse before tossing a smirk back at me. “Don’t be late to the planning meeting on Thursday.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“And find a sitter for Grady,” she adds.
Pulling out my phone, I wave it back and forth. “Already on it.”
“Good. And Owen?”
“Yeah?”
“If you break her heart again, I’ll neuter you with a dull spoon.”
I’d laugh if it weren’t for the dead-serious expression painted across Skye’s face that dares me to try it.
My smirk vanishes. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Skye.”
“Good.” She sniffs. “At least one of us will get a happy ending.”
Then, she’s gone, and I send a quick text to Mandy.
Me: Hey, Mandy. This is Owen Daniels, Grady’s dad. Miss Swenson suggested I reach out to you the other day, and I’m sorry I’m just barely getting around to it. I was wondering if Turner would like to have a playdate with Grady sometime?
Her response is almost instant.
Mandy: Hey! Saylor mentioned you might be reaching out. Turner would love to play. Does Grady want to come over sometime this week? I’m free on Thursday or Friday evening.
Me: Thursday sounds great. I’m actually getting together with Miss Swenson to help her plan a Halloween party for the sixth grade. Could I drop Grady off around 4 or something?
Mandy: Why doesn’t he just come home with Turner after school? I have the day off and will be with them the entire time. Then, you can just pick him up when your meeting is over.
Me: Sounds great. Thanks, Mandy.
Mandy: Anytime. Thanks for being so understanding about Turner being a butthead. We’re working on it.
Me: Trust me, I get it. You’re doing great.
Mandy: I’m trying, though I know I have a long way to go after letting his dad stick around as long as he did. Anyway…I’ll see you Thursday.
Me: See you then.
I go to slide my phone back into my pocket before unlocking it a second time and pulling up my conversation with Slytherin4ever. She still hasn’t responded to my message during Wells’ morning speech. I can’t decide if it’s because she knows I overheard her in the hall or if it’s because she’s been too busy at work to message me back. Or maybe she feels guilty for lying to me.
She should feel guilty.
And I should be pissed. But I’m almost…flattered. Now that I know who Slytherin4ever is, I’m dying to talk to her. To open up to her. To let her know how I feel.
But it’s dangerous. And I’m afraid we’ll both end up getting burned if I let her keep up the charade when I know the truth. Unfortunately, my willpower has never been very strong when it comes to Saylor. Especially when she’s been giving me the cold shoulder any time we’re face-to-face. The fact that we’ve been talking, connecting, joking with each other like old times…it’s addictive. And not very smart. Because even though I’m dying to connect with Saylor, if she thinks I’m falling for Slytherin4ever, then where does that leave us? But when she won’t give the real me the time of day, what else am I supposed to do?
With the knowledge that I’m definitely playing with fire, I type a quick message to Slytherin4ever and hit send.
OD: How was your day?
I stare at the screen for a few more seconds, but she doesn’t reply. Defeated, I slip my phone into my pocket, then head to Saylor’s class to pick up Grady. When I spot Say sitting at her desk with her phone in her hand, my chest swells with anticipation before I shake it off.
Act natural, dumbass.
“Hey, Grady,” I call out.
His head snaps up from whatever he’s coloring at his desk. “Hey, Dad.”
“Let’s get going, okay? Can you pick up your things?”
Markers are scattered in front of him, so he starts gathering them to put away while Saylor sets her phone face down on her desk and smiles tightly at me.
“Hey,” I greet her as I take a few steps into her classroom.
“Hi.”
“How was he today?” I tilt my head toward Grady.
“He was good,” she breathes, giving me a one-shouldered shrug. “He’s always good.” Her teeth dig into the pad of her thumb as her eyes collect with moisture.
“You okay?” I ask as I fight the overwhelming need to protect her from whatever’s bothering her.
She ignores my question and tucks her hair behind her ear. “You raised a good one, Owen.”
The compliment hits me harder than I expect, and I rub my hand against my chest before tucking it into my front pocket. “Uh, thanks. Not sure how much I had to do with it, but….”
“More than you probably know,” she clarifies. Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes.
“What’s wrong?”
She shakes her head. “Nothing.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
I step closer. “You can talk to me, Say”––I grimace
––“Miss Swenson.”
A breath of laughter slips out of her, though it’s more of a whimper than anything else. “I think the fact that I can’t even hear you call me by my first name proves that I can’t. Especially about this.”
Rocking back on my heels, I glance over my shoulder toward Grady and find him at the doorway with his backpack hanging off one shoulder. And even though it kills me, I step away from Say to give her the space she’s obviously desperate to have. “I’m still here for you.”
A light pink color spreads up her neck and into her cheeks, hinting that she’s seconds from breaking down, but she doesn’t answer me. Just stares. Waiting for me to walk away. Just like I did all those years ago.
And it makes me feel like shit.
“If you can’t talk to me, I hope you find someone else you can open up to,” I tell her.
More silence.
“I’ll see ya tomorrow, Miss Swenson.”
“Bye, Owen.” She holds my gaze for a few seconds before she looks down and shifts a few papers around on her desk, desperate for busywork that’ll end our impromptu conversation that feels way too heavy for a Monday afternoon.
And even though it kills me, I turn on my heel and head over to Grady.
“Say thanks to Miss Swenson, bud.”
“Thanks, Miss Swenson!” Grady calls. Then we walk to the car while my little man talks my ear off about the soccer goal he scored at recess and that he has already finished his homework for the day. Meanwhile, I try to push aside the worry that eats at my lower gut, along with the sight of Saylor holding back tears.
For some reason, I feel like it’s all my fault again. And that isn’t acceptable. I’ve already made the girl cry enough.