Open House

by TC Matson

  I peek over his shoulder and put my fingers over part of the word to help him break it down.

  “Gi…gan…tic. Gigantic!” He looks to me surprised.

  “Ah. Not as hard as you thought, huh? You know all these words, kiddo. Just break them down and sound them out. Do all the ones you can and I’ll help you with the rest.”

  I gave him the confidence boost he needed because he finishes all the words quickly and without my help. But one thing is for sure, Mr. Bratcher is going to get a kick out of the sentences Lucas put together. I’m going to make a strategy to end all homework.

  I head outside with Lucas and watch him kick the ball around. Soccer practice will start soon and, of course, he’s excited about it. When Lucas was born, Brian no longer played but still had the love for it. Once Lucas started walking, Brian taught him how to kick the ball, even though it was more Lucas’ foot running into the ball as he clumsily tried taking steps. But once Lucas got just a little bit older, Brian had him in the backyard teaching him the basics. They would stay out there for hours and before I knew it, Brian had instilled the same love he had for soccer into our son. Unfortunately, it wasn’t long after, work consumed Brian and he doesn’t come out here often anymore.

  Lucas kicks the ball straight to me and instinctively, I stop it. “Come on, Mom, show me what you got.”

  I purse my lips. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing and you know I don’t.”

  He talks me into it anyway even though I’m horrible at it. My kicks have no direction and I send Lucas chasing the ball every time. Don’t worry, he purposely returns the favor. Needless to say, I’m about to die from all the running.

  You’d think with all the soccer love in this house, I’d know how to play. You’d think wrong…

  Chapter 5

  The school is quieter than during the day as I pass under the humming lights toward Lucas’ classroom. Only a few teachers remain with different groups of children participating in their afterschool activities. Soon, Lucas will be one of those kids, staying after twice a week for practices.

  I swallow hard when I pass by the blue lockers and enter the classroom. Mr. Bratcher is at his desk clicking away at his computer when he notices me and grins.

  He stands, pushing out his chair with his legs. “Miss Stallings.”

  Navy blue doesn’t do his eyes any justice.

  “I’ve got us set up over here.” He strides to the tan half-moon table by the back of the room. “Where’s Lucas?”

  “I didn’t know if I needed to bring him or not. Sort of figured he was in trouble.” I sit and place my purse on my lap.

  He sits across from me with several papers in his hands and shakes his head. “He isn’t in trouble. A lot of parents worry whether their child is adjusting well and I like to relieve them of that concern with an early sit down. After this, I’ll only do conferences when requested and with every report card. If you’re ever unable to make it to one, I can do it over the phone as well.”

  As he’s been talking, I’ve taken in every swooping strand of his hair, every moving muscle in his forearms, and the way his lips shape around each word.

  “Okay,” I say.

  His eyes hold a curiosity lit by attraction as the left side of his lips pull up, assaulting me with the sexiest smirk I’ve ever seen in my life. “Where would you like me to start?”

  Oh, the dirty thoughts…I clear my throat, trying to rid myself of them. “Wherever you prefer.”

  He delves into all the things every proud parent wants to hear. Lucas listens well, participates often, and turns in his assignments completed and on time. He’s adjusting well and excelling. He extinguishes any concerns I have about the two boys sitting beside each other, explaining how they actually add to many of the discussions and how they unbelievably are not causing any disruptions. Which is surprising since last year they spent more time in the principal’s office than class and they weren’t even sitting close.

  “He’s really a great kid,” he concludes folding his hands on the table. “I think I went over everything. Do you have any questions?”

  I don’t know if he went into perfect detail or if I’m still stuck in a stupor, but sadly I’m at a loss for words. I shake my head. “I think you’ve covered it all.”

  He raises his left eyebrow, dropping the right one so strongly it shades his eye.

  But just then, a question finally wiggles out from the depths. “Lucas will be starting soccer soon and it will dredge into his homework time during the week. Last year the teacher gave homework on Monday and expected it back on Friday. Lucas hasn’t said what your schedule is.”

  A small flicker flashes in his eyes for a brief second. So minute that if I had blinked, I would’ve missed it. “Normally, anything he doesn’t complete in class should be finished as homework and turned in the following morning. I won’t accept anything after class starts. Vocabulary words are given on Monday and expected to be turned in Thursday. I don’t assign many, ten to fifteen at the max with definitions and a sentence using the word. Shouldn’t take too long.”

  Lucas knows soccer will put a strain on school work and if his grades start to slide out of control, we’ll rip him from the sport. Thankfully, so far, he’s done great at balancing everything.

  “I don’t know what superpowers you hold or if you’re just an extremely patient man, but I’m warning you, keeping him and Josh so close could turn into your kryptonite,” I state with a small laugh.

  He grins. “The boys actually work really well together. And the times when they’re clowning around, they’re only adding flavor to my lessons instead of hindering them.”

  “You’re a brave man, Mr. Bratcher.”

  “Call me Trenton.” His tone drops to a sexy low.

  Suddenly, there isn’t enough air and I scramble to my feet. “Thank you, Mr. Bra-Trenton.” I correct myself. “I’m glad Lucas is doing well for you. He has nothing but nice things to say about you.”

  He pushes to his feet, flaunting a victorious expression like he just received an answer to an unasked question. He sticks his hand out for me to shake. His hand is warm and a little sweaty as he gently squeezes. A pulse jolts me, this time in my chest and my breath snags, getting caught somewhere in my throat. I jerk my hand back and stumble backward.

  “It’s, um, thank you,” I jabber nervously adjusting my purse strap on my shoulder.

  “Thank you for coming, Riley.”

  The way my name falls from his lips like he licked every damn letter that exited his mouth causes a shiver and my mouth falls open. I turn, praying my feet will quickly get me the hell out of this classroom when he calls out behind me.

  “These are yours.” He launches an alluring smile, one that’s gorgeous, sexy, flirty, and downright kissable.

  What the hell has come over me?

  I take the papers without looking at him and rush out.

  I wish I knew why he had this effect on me. Every time I get around him, I tumble over my bottom lip, my thoughts get jumbled, and I don’t hear a damn thing. I’m completely unable to concentrate while watching every movement his body makes like it’s the last time I’ll ever see them.

  Lucas knocks on the car window and I screech, grasping my chest.

  He’s doubled over in laughter when I push open the door.

  “How long were you going to sit in the driveway?” he asks through his cackle.

  It’s contagious and I begin giggling. “You scared the hell out of me.”

  “That was epic!” He snorts.

  I wave at Clarissa, a sweet older lady who watches Lucas from time to time, and head toward the house.

  “What’d Mr. B. say? I’m not in trouble, am I?

  I narrow my eyes. “Well,” I start, sounding as if something did go down. “He did tell me that you…” I stop. Curiosity always gives me the power I need.

  “What? He said what? What! I’ve been good,” he frantically scrambles out.

  I chuckle, placing my hands o
n his shoulders. “He said you were an excellent student and a joy to have.”

  Under my palms, his body relaxes and he starts in the house.

  Earlier today, I threw the ingredients to chicken fajita soup, one of our favorite meals, into the crockpot and when we push open the front door, the delicious aroma bombards us. The whole house smells amazing.

  I kick off my flip-flops and fish my phone from my purse to give Brian a call and find out when he’ll be home.

  “Yeah?” He started this crude, unaffectionate greeting years ago and I’ve hated it since the first time I heard it.

  “Hey, baby. Just wondering what time you’ll be home and if I need to wait on you for supper or not.”

  “I’ll, uh…” he pauses saying something muffled by his hand to someone else. “About two hours. Start without me.”

  Inwardly, I sigh. “Okay. I love you,” I say.

  “Yeah. Love you too.” And he hangs up.

  They’re apathetic words I wholeheartedly despise worse than the unsentimental “yeah.” When these emotionless words started making a presence into our everyday conversations, I blamed it on “a guy thing,” but truth be told, he used to say them with such a deep affection regardless of who was around. I feel like I’m owed a loving mannerism instead of dull obligation.

  It’s after nine thirty and I’m in the bed watching a show on tiny houses when Brian finally comes home and heads straight for the shower. Since things haven’t been good between us lately, I can’t help but have untrusting, doubtful thoughts and I loathe that I do.

  I pop my head into the bathroom. “Would you like for me to warm you up a bowl of dinner?”

  He finishes washing his face and then wipes the water from his eyes. “No. I grabbed something on the way home.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  He opens the shower door wide enough to shoot me a warning glance. “If you’re going to start bitching—”

  A hurtful anger settles between my shoulder blades, but I bite my tongue. Quickly I shake my head. “I’m not. It was a long day. I figured you’d be hungry.” Why I sit here and try to be nice is beyond me.

  He shuts the door and I slide out of the bathroom back into the warmth of my covers and continue to watch the show about tiny houses. These things fascinate me. I’d love to live in one, or at least give it a shot, but I’d have to wait until Lucas moves out.

  Brian comes out in his boxers and crawls into the bed, leaning over to give me a weak kiss on the cheek.

  “Will you kill the TV? I’m beat and I wanna go to sleep.”

  “Did you have a bad day?” I’m grasping for straws to spend some time with him.

  “No. Just long.” He rolls over with his back toward me.

  “Do you think you could ever live in one of these tiny houses?”

  He chuckles. “The walls would close in on me. It would be like living in a shed.”

  “Some of them are really nice.”

  “Doesn’t mean I’d want to move into one.”

  “I think it would be neat after Lucas moves out,” I tell him.

  “Don’t expect me to join you in your midlife crisis journey,” he states unmoved by my opinion.

  I turn off the TV and roll over. “What if I got a burgundy Harley Davidson? Would you join me then?”

  “If I got my own, sure.”

  “You won’t ride on the back of mine?” I try asking straight-faced and without a giggle, but I’m unsuccessful.

  “I’m more likely to get a motorcycle or a Lamborghini than to move into a fancy jail cell. Don’t spend your time dreaming of these tiny houses. I’m not moving into one.”

  Of course it’s all about you, I want to say, but I don’t. I leave it alone knowing I have at least ten more years to change his mind.

  Chapter 6

  Yellow and blue uniforms scatter across the field. Kids holler encouraging words to their team mates while they practice their drills, and others cut up waiting for their turn at running the ball. The coach is shouting directions and blowing his whistle. It’s hot, sweaty, and humid. Yep. It’s officially the start of soccer season.

  I’ve parked my butt in my hot pink chair to the side of the bleachers where I can still see the kids. Lucas’ soccer playing is much different than Brian’s was. He’s more laid back and less intense. Brian, on the other hand, was extremely intense and wildly competitive. But I believe in the next few years, he’ll start to resemble more what Brain was—manically enthralled.

  The new coach orders the kids to begin running passing drills. He’s watching them intently so he can get a feel for their skill levels. At the beginning of practice, he got all the kids to introduce themselves and say why they’re playing. When it came to his introduction, he was very straightforward. He’s here to coach and better them in soccer. If you’re not here to practice, learn, and play the sport, don’t waste his and everyone else’s time. If you don’t listen, you’ll be on the bench. If you talk back, you’ll be on the bench. If you disregard the safety rules, have unsportsmanlike behavior, or deliberately try to injure another player, you may not make it off the bench and back onto the field. And his frank warnings weren’t just for the children. He also gave us parents a warning. If we get out of hand during practices or games, our child will suffer the consequences.

  He’s an older man with age shimmering in every line of his face. His chin juts out and his nose is crooked like it’s been broken before, but he’s clean cut. Coach Porter—I already like him better than the flimsy coaches from the past few years.

  The whistle blows and he pulls a few of the kids out of the passing drills and starts them on dribbling. I used to think this was easy. I used to think it was something natural. That’s until Brian had me try it in his backyard once. I ate the ground big time. I lost my footing, tripped over the ball, and landed flat on my face. Easy? Looks can be deceiving…

  “Why are you hiding over here?” April asks, dropping her chair beside mine.

  “It’s hot in the sun. I have shade here.”

  “You could’ve told me. You left me out there for the mom wolves,” she deadpans.

  “How many years have we sat in this very spot? Don’t blame me because you wanted to chit chat with all of them.” I point toward the other parents.

  “You’re right. I was looking for someone to replace you.” She snorts.

  I toss my head back in laughter. “You could never replace me.”

  “Doesn’t stop me from trying.” She smiles.

  Being best friends, we thoroughly enjoy a good banter and giving each other a hard time.

  “I like the new coach,” she says. “He’s pretty candid.”

  “It’s just what the boys need. He sounds like he wants them to go to the Olympics.”

  “At least he’ll weed out the kids who don’t really care and focus on the ones who do. I think it’s going to be an interesting season.”

  Thirty minutes of practice remaining is all that separates me from the cold AC of my car. I’m wiping the sweat from my brow when something catches my eye from across the field and causes a funky racket in my chest. He’s striding up the bleachers taking two steps at a time and sits in one of the empty rows across the top, directly in the blasting path of the afternoon sun.

  “Ooh…” April sings, nudging my elbow. “Hottie at twelve. Wait? Is that Mr. B?” She pulls her sunglasses down her nose.

  I pretend I haven’t seen him and scan the bleachers. “Where?”

  “Top middle,” she says.

  “It is him,” I say like I’ve just spotted him.

  She glances at me over her sunglasses and then shoves them back up her nose. “I didn’t feel the ground shake. Wonder how long he’s been sitting there.”

  “I’m sure he just got there.”

  “You’ve been watching him,” she says knowingly. “I bet he is sitting there to watch you.”

  “Why would he watch me?”

  “Why wouldn’t he?” she replies.

/>   “Why do you always answer my questions with the same questions?” I chuckle.

  “So he hasn’t spotted you?” she giggles mischievously. “Should I grab his attention?”

  “No!” I quickly scold, grabbing her arm and preventing her from doing anything humiliating. “Don’t. He might get the wrong idea.”

  “Now we wouldn’t want that, would we?” Facetiousness laces her tone as she playfully cuts a shit eating grin and shoves her tongue into her cheek. She settles back into her chair. “You have to admit, he’s pretty hot.”

  “He is very handsome,” I answer honestly.

  My view shifts from Lucas to Trenton and then back to Lucas many times. I’ve lost my focus. I pull my sunglasses off and squeeze the bridge of my nose, trying to relieve the pressure the sunlight has given me. Too much of it has always been the quickest route to headache-ville. You’d think by now I’d be used to it…

  I open my eyes to Trenton staring directly back at me. This isn’t one of those instances when you wonder if someone is just looking in your general direction. This is very clear. He smiles and throws his hand up in a smooth wave. Dummy me, waves back. Guess whose attention I just got?

  April clears her throat compelling me to quickly shift my view to Lucas. “He’s very friendly,” she says.

  “I agree. He spoke very highly of Lucas and Josh at the parent teacher conference this week.”

  “He’s already having those?” She sounds surprised. “I didn’t get anything about it. Did he send a note home? Dammit, Josh. I bet it’s at the bottom of his book bag.”

  “No. He sent out an email.”

  “I didn’t get one.” She pauses. “I bet you’re the only one who did.”

  “What? That’s ridiculous.”

  She scoots to the edge of her seat. “You know how I hound teachers for Josh’s information and updates. If he was setting up PTCs, I’d be the first to know.”

  It’s my turn to pause because she’s one hundred percent right. She always knows about these things before I do…always.