Spreadsheets and Bedsheets (Havenwood #1)

2

elliott

T he hum of fluorescent lights buzzed faintly in my ears as I stood at the front of my classroom. The rhythmic scratching of pencils filled the air, each sound deliberate and steady. This room was my sanctuary, a reflection of who I was, meticulous, intentional, and quietly welcoming. Maps of historical trade routes adorned one wall; their edges precisely pinned to avoid curling. On the opposite wall, portraits of underrepresented historical figures stood as silent sentinels: Audre Lorde’s gaze brimming with resolve, Harvey Milk’s infectious grin radiating optimism, and James Baldwin’s penetrating eyes challenging anyone to dig deeper, think harder, and never settle.

At the center of it all was me, glasses perched on my nose, hands clasped loosely in front of me. The students leaned forward slightly in their chairs, a small but telling sign. They were listening.

“Now,” I began, my voice calm but deliberate, “let’s talk about Bayard Rustin.” I turned to the whiteboard, where the words Intersectionality in the Civil Rights Movement stood in neat, precise handwriting. Below them, bullet points charted our discussion: Rustin’s critical role in organizing the March on Washington, his lifelong advocacy for nonviolence, and the unique challenges he faced as an openly gay Black man in a time of widespread prejudice, even within his own movement.

“Most people know about the March on Washington,” I said, letting my voice rise slightly, “but what they don’t realize is that Rustin was the mastermind behind its logistics. He was openly gay at a time when that alone could make him a target, not just from outside forces, but within his own community.”

The weight of those words hung in the air. I scanned the room, gauging the students’ reactions. Amelia, always the first to dive in, shot her hand into the air. I nodded in her direction.

“Why didn’t we learn about him before?” she asked, her voice tinged with frustration and wonder. “This is so important!”

A faint smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. “That’s a good question,” I replied, pausing to let the thought settle. “History isn’t just about what happened, it’s about who gets to tell the story. Too often, those in power decide which voices are heard and which are silenced. That’s why it’s our job to dig deeper, to make sure voices like Rustin’s aren’t forgotten.”

The bell rang, jolting us from the moment. Backpacks zipped, chairs scraped, and the students began filing out. A few lingered, as they often did, eager to ask follow-up questions or share their thoughts. I answered each one carefully, appreciating their curiosity. For a brief moment, the room buzzed with energy, and I felt a flicker of satisfaction.

But when the last student left and the door clicked shut behind them, silence filled the space. I stood at the front of the room for a long moment, staring at the whiteboard. Slowly, methodically, I picked up the eraser and wiped away the lesson. The words disappeared, one by one, leaving behind a blank slate.

It was mid-March, that grueling stretch between winter break and spring break when both teachers and students felt like they were crawling toward the finish line. The days seemed longer, the energy in the classroom thinner, and even the most vibrant lessons struggled to cut through the collective drain. I felt it too, the heavy pull of exhaustion, the relentless countdown in the back of my mind to those few precious days off.

“Another day,” I murmured to myself, my voice barely audible. The weight of the week pressed down on my shoulders, a familiar exhaustion that had become routine. I ran a hand through my hair, staring at the blank whiteboard like it might offer some profound insight, but all it reflected back was the same restless energy I couldn’t shake.

Before I could fully retreat into my thoughts, the door creaked open again. I turned to see Sam Ortiz leaning against the doorframe, his trademark mischievous grin in place. Sam was a fellow teacher and one of my closest friends, a rare bright spot in the sometimes-isolating world of high school education.

“Well, don’t you look introspective,” he teased, stepping into the room and plopping down into a student desk near the front. He stretched his legs out, tapping his fingers against the desk in an uneven rhythm. “What’s up, Brooks? Deep in thought, or just zoning out?”

I chuckled, setting the eraser back on the tray. “A little of both. The existential crisis that comes with grading a hundred essays will do that to you.”

Sam whistled. “Brutal. Any diamonds in the rough?”

I shrugged. “A couple. But mostly, it’s just a lot of ‘the symbolism of the green light in *The Great Gatsby* represents dreams’ kind of analysis. It’s like they all read the same SparkNotes summary.”

Sam snorted. “Gotta love it. Maybe you should give them an assignment on something more exciting. Die Hard , perhaps? ‘Analyze the use of holiday cheer as an ironic counterpoint to violence.’”

I laughed, shaking my head. “Yeah, somehow I don’t think the department head would go for that.”

Sam leaned back, crossing his arms. “Just thought I’d check in. See how you’re holding up. Also, we’re grabbing drinks this weekend, and you’re coming. No excuses.”

I smirked. “Oh, am I? Didn’t realize my social calendar was already filled.”

“Filled with what? More grading? Staring at your ceiling and contemplating your life choices?” Sam arched an eyebrow. “Come on, man. One night won’t kill you.”

I sighed, leaning against the desk. “You know, I could use a break.”

Sam grinned triumphantly. “Now you’re talking. I’ll even let you pick the spot.”

I pretended to consider. “Anywhere that won’t involve you challenging strangers to dance-offs this time.”

Sam gasped in mock offense. “I stand by that. I won.”

“You absolutely did not.”

He shrugged. “Debatable. Anyway, it’s settled. You, me, drinks. I’ll text you details.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “Fine, I’ll be there. Someone has to make sure you don’t get us kicked out of wherever we go.”

Sam grinned as he stood, pointing at me. “You’re not just the voice of reason, my friend. You’re the life of the party; you just don’t know it yet.”

As he left, the silence returned, but it felt a little lighter now. I glanced back at the blank whiteboard, then at the empty desk Sam had occupied, a faint smile tugging at my lips. Maybe this weekend will be a good break after all.

The sun dipped low over Havenwood as I pulled into the driveway of my small, single-story home on the edge of town. The clapboard siding gleamed faintly in the fading light, freshly washed just last weekend. Potted marigolds flanked the porch steps, their vibrant orange blooms standing like cheerful sentinels. Above, the branches of the old oak tree swayed gently in the evening breeze, its budding leaves hinting at the spring’s promise of renewal.

I lingered for a moment, taking in the serenity of the street. The occasional bark of a dog or the distant hum of a car punctuated the stillness. This, at least, was familiar, predictable. After gathering my leather messenger bag and coat, I climbed the steps and unlocked the front door.

Inside, the house greeted me with its usual quiet. The faint scent of lavender lingered in the air from the candle I’d lit earlier that morning. Everything was as I’d left it, neat, orderly, intentional. I hung my coat on the hook near the door, placed my bag on the hall table, and bent to straighten a pair of shoes that had shifted slightly out of place.

In the living room, my gaze settled on the mantle, where a row of carefully arranged frames captured fragments of my life. Caleb’s photo always stood out first, a candid shot of him grinning at the camera, his gap-toothed smile brimming with mischief and joy. The boy’s energy had a way of filling every corner of the house when he was here, but in his absence, the quiet felt heavier. Beside his picture was a more formal photo of me and my ex-wife on our wedding day, our smiles cautious but kind, the weight of our shared history etched in the space between us. A black-and-white portrait of my late parents rounded out the collection, their faces serene and timeless. But it was always Caleb’s photo that held my attention the longest, a vivid reminder of warmth and vitality in a house that often felt too still.

I sighed, running a hand through my hair, the weight of the day settling into my shoulders. The house was quiet, but not the comforting kind of quiet, more like an emptiness that stretched through the rooms. I thought about calling Caleb, just to hear his voice, but I knew it was close to his bedtime. Instead, I stepped into the kitchen, the soft pad of my footsteps the only sound accompanying me.

In the kitchen, my windowsill herbs thrived in neat terra-cotta pots, basil, thyme, rosemary. I brushed my fingers over the basil’s leaves, the sharp, clean fragrance grounding me in the moment. The act of tending to them was small, but it gave me something to focus on, something alive and growing in my space.

“You’re growing well,” I murmured to the plants, my tone soft and conversational. “Better than I expected this season.”

Filling the kettle, I set it on the stove and waited for it to heat. The ritual of making tea had always been a small anchor for me, a way to transition from the structured demands of the day to the solitude of the evening. I leaned against the counter as I waited, letting my gaze wander to the small window above the sink. Outside, the night had fully taken hold, the sky a deep indigo with scattered stars beginning to emerge. A porch light flickered on across the street, momentarily illuminating the figure of my neighbor, Mrs. Tate, as she watered the row of daisies along her walkway. She did that every evening, rain or shine, a routine as steadfast as the ticking clock in my living room.

When the whistle sounded, I poured the water over loose leaves, steeping the tea just long enough to coax out its full flavor. Carrying the mug to the living room, I settled into my favorite armchair, the leather creaking softly beneath me. The warmth of the cup seeped into my hands, a welcome contrast to the coolness of the room. On the side table lay Queer History in America, its pages dog-eared from use. I flipped to a section on the Stonewall riots, underlining passages and jotting meticulous notes in a small leather-bound journal. But my focus wavered, my gaze drifting to Caleb’s photo on the mantle, then to the garden outside.

I sighed, tapping my pen against the open journal. The words in the book blurred together as my mind drifted. I thought about the last time Caleb had been here, his laughter echoing through the house as he built a pillow fort in the living room. He had declared it his “castle” and insisted I be his loyal knight, wielding a foam sword with exaggerated bravado. That kind of joy was infectious, the kind that lingered long after he had gone.

The house felt different when he was here, alive, filled with a kind of lightness I hadn’t realized I needed until it was gone. My ex-wife, Anna, and I had managed to navigate co-parenting amicably, but the distance between my time with Caleb and the long stretches of solitude in this house still felt jarring. I reached for my phone before stopping myself. Another call might disrupt his bedtime routine, and I didn’t want to intrude. Instead, I let out a slow breath and turned my attention back to the book in my lap, willing myself to focus.

I sighed, tapping my pen against the open journal. My mind kept drifting back to the library earlier this week. Havenwood Public Library had always been a refuge for me, a place where polished wood shelves and the comforting scent of aged books greeted me like an old friend. It was orderly, quiet, predictable, everything I needed it to be. But, as was often the case, Aggie had disrupted the stillness in her usual fashion.

“Elliot Brooks,” she’d said, standing at my table with her hands firmly on her hips. Her tone was teasing, but there was warmth in it, the kind you only hear from someone who’s known you for years. “Let me guess, another deep dive into queer history? You’re single-handedly keeping our nonfiction section in business.”

I hadn’t looked up right away, choosing instead to underline a particularly striking passage. “I like to stay informed,” I replied evenly, the response as measured as she’d likely expected.

Aggie had chuckled, pulling out the chair across from me and lowering herself into it. “You’re too young to be spending every evening in a library,” she quipped. “Ever thought about trying something a little more… social?”

I sighed, finally meeting her gaze. “Aggie, you know I’m not exactly a social butterfly.”

Her grin widened, undeterred. “No,” she admitted, leaning back in the chair. “But even caterpillars leave the cocoon eventually. There’s more to life than books and basil, you know.”

She’d left me with that parting shot, patting the table as she rose to walk away. I remember watching her go, the sound of her low heels fading against the polished floors, her words hanging in the still air.

Now, back at home, they lingered still. I closed the book on my lap, the weight of its cover pressing lightly against my thighs, and stared at it for a moment. Aggie had a point, though I wasn’t ready to admit it, not even to myself. She always had a way of challenging me without being confrontational, just enough to unsettle the stillness I so carefully cultivated.

The ticking of the wall clock marked the time with precision, the rhythm both soothing and unnerving. Outside, the stars had begun to punctuate the indigo sky, their faint glow casting a soft light through the windows. I set the book and journal aside and closed my eyes, exhaling deeply.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, Aggie’s words echoed again. There’s more to life than books and basil . Was there? The thought felt foreign, almost intrusive. But it lingered, stubborn and insistent, as I sat there in the stillness, contemplating what might come next.

I glanced at the unopened text on my phone. Aggie had sent an address for a community event at a local café tomorrow night, an open mic night, she’d said. Something fun, something different. Something outside my usual carefully structured routine.

I closed my eyes, letting out a slow, measured breath. The faces of my students flickered to life behind my eyelids, Amelia, with her eyes lighting up when she made a connection during class, and Anthony, who always stayed behind to ask about the figures left out of the textbook, his questions quiet but determined. I could hear their voices, their eager curiosity breaking through the structured lessons, the way Amelia would practically bounce in her seat when she had an idea, the way Anthony’s forehead creased in concentration as he considered a difficult question.

For all my reserved tendencies, I knew I mattered in that classroom. It was my sanctuary, a place where curiosity could thrive, where I could guide inquiry and challenge the narratives most people never questioned. It felt good to make an impact there, to feel useful, but even that wasn’t enough to fill the gaps. There were parts of me, parts that teaching couldn’t reach, parts I wasn’t sure how to tend, that felt persistently untended.

The ticking clock on the wall seemed louder in the silence, each second an unrelenting reminder of time slipping by. Outside, the sky had deepened to a velvety indigo, the stars beginning to dot the darkness, their light faint but steady. I glanced down at the cup of tea on the side table, untouched and cold now. I didn’t move to warm it. Instead, I stared out the window at the garden below, its familiar lines softened by the silvery glow of the moon. The mint I’d planted last spring had spread more than I expected, its green leaves a stubborn reminder that things could grow even when left alone.

Havenwood murmured faintly in the background, the distant hum of voices, a car pulling into a driveway, the gentle trickle of Rivermere Creek weaving its way through the quiet. The town had a way of settling into the edges of my solitude, a presence both comforting and suffocating.

Aggie’s words from the library came back to me, uninvited but insistent. There’s more to life than books and basil. I thought of Caleb, his laughter echoing in my memory from our last visit, his grin so full of life it was impossible not to smile back. I could almost hear him now, the way he called my name excitedly when I picked him up, the way his small hands had tugged at my sleeve when he wanted my attention.

It had been two years since my divorce after coming out to Anna, and while the separation had been amicable, the adjustment to shared custody still caught me off guard at times. Caleb spent most of the school year with Anna for the sake of consistency, and though I knew it was best for him, the quiet moments without him still felt hollow. My thoughts drifted further, to my past, the years I spent trying to fit into a life that never quite felt like mine. I’d taken slow, cautious steps toward something more honest, more authentic, but it still felt halting, incomplete.

I opened my eyes, the question rising unbidden in the stillness: What’s next? It lingered, pressing against the boundaries of my carefully constructed world, seeking an answer I wasn’t sure I could give. My fingers traced the rim of my mug, the ceramic smooth and cool under my touch. A soft breeze filtered through the open window, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and blooming jasmine.

Maybe Aggie was right. Maybe there was more. But the idea of stepping beyond what I knew, beyond the carefully built walls of my solitude, made my pulse quicken. Change was slow, but it was coming, whether I was ready for it or not.

My gaze fell back to the garden, serene under the moonlight. It was thriving, but I knew it needed tending, just like the parts of me I’d ignored for too long. The rosemary had grown wild, stretching past its neat borders, and the basil was beginning to flower. I made a mental note to trim it back before it lost its potency. With a quiet sigh, I stood, the cold mug still in my hand. The deliberate sound of running water filled the room as I rinsed it out, my movements steady and methodical. The rhythmic motion was comforting, an act of control in an otherwise unpredictable world.

Tomorrow, I thought, setting the mug upside down to dry. Tomorrow, I’ll refill the bird feeder. Spend more time outside. Maybe even take Aggie’s advice… or at least consider it. The idea of change still unsettled me, but maybe small steps were enough for now.

The house exhaled into silence as I returned to the living room. My eyes drifted to the mantle, settling on Caleb’s photo. His smile had the same effect now as it did when he was in the room, filling the space with a kind of warmth no other presence could match. I traced the edge of the frame with my fingers, as if that simple touch could bring me closer to him. I smiled softly, then glanced one last time at the garden before turning out the lights.

As I moved toward the bedroom, a thought struck me, and I paused. I needed to write my weekly letter to Caleb and get it in the mail tomorrow. It had become our tradition; a small but meaningful connection that helped bridge the days we spent apart. I didn’t want to let the routine slip, not even for a week.

Making a mental note, I added another task to my list: pick up some stickers tomorrow. Caleb loved it when I decorated the envelope, dinosaurs last week, maybe space rockets this time. He’d once joked that he could always spot my letters in the pile of mail because they were the most colorful. I chuckled softly at the memory, imagining him sorting through the envelopes, his eyes lighting up at the sight of mine.

I reached for my notepad on the nightstand and jotted down a reminder. It felt good to have something to look forward to, even something as small as picking out stickers. Maybe, I thought, it was the little things that kept loneliness at bay.

With a faint smile, I headed down the hallway, the quiet weight of the day settling around me. The thought of Caleb opening his letter and laughing at the stickers made the lingering quiet in the house feel just a little less lonely. I pulled the blanket up around my shoulders as I sat on the edge of my bed for a moment, letting the stillness wash over me.

The night air was cool and steady, wrapping around the promise of another day waiting just beyond the horizon. Change might be slow, but maybe, just maybe, I was ready to take a step toward it.