Time Will Tell (The Improbable Meet-Cute: Second Chances #2)

Chapter One Georgia

Some emails require you to crack your knuckles before you begin typing them. This is definitely one of those emails.

“All right,” I say to my class of seniors, stretching my neck side to side as I sit up at my desk and lower my fingers to my keyboard, “here goes nothing!”

Dr Lewis, I type. I hope this—

“Wait! Miss Anderson, you forgot to write a subject line!” Zoe, my third favourite student, points to the smartboard my laptop is projecting onto.

“You told us every email needs one.” Zoe may be moving up in the ranks.

Ornell, who is usually in second place, has been throwing a lot of shade my way that is typically reserved for my older colleagues who can’t keep up with his chronically online references or quippy tongue.

“Especially because this guy has, like, zero clue who you are,” the student next to her, Drake, drawls, before scoffing.

“He’s not going to open a spammy-ass email from some random chick.

” Drake has made it abundantly clear that he’s only taking this elective because Zoe, his girlfriend, is.

But he, like the fifteen other students in this class, has been participating more since I brought in my grandmother’s time capsule last week.

“Valid point. Still, we should probably not use words like chick to refer to women,” I say, lifting a brow at him.

“Especially not your teacher.” I move my cursor to the empty subject box.

“Okay, how about . . .” I watch the text cursor blink, taunting me as seconds drift by without a single worthwhile thought.

How the hell would I summarise this? I click my tongue, leaning farther back in my chair as I allow my eyes to scan the room, finding several expectant stares. “Any suggestions?” I ask.

“I’ve got one,” Ornell says, his tone verging on mocking as he raises his hand.

“Okay . . .” I narrow my eyes on him ever so slightly, bracing for impact. “What have you got?”

Ornell’s eyes light up with a subtle excitement that turns up the corner of his lip. “Happy Valentine’s Day! Did you know your grandma was a vagitarian?”

I drop my chin, delivering him a withering stare, as a few of Ornell’s classmates grant him the snickering sort of laughter he clearly wanted. He smiles, smug, irreverent, and completely unfazed by my glare.

“Maybe something a touch more subtle?” I suggest pointedly.

Phaedra raises her hand before she speaks, which is one of the many reasons she’s currently sitting at the top of the leaderboard.

Another reason is the essay she handed in last week.

While most of her classmates submitted half-baked assignments, covering subjects I’ve already taught them this semester, Phaedra chose to write her paper about the arrival of the Vikings in Newfoundland during the eleventh century.

I’m really hoping that she’ll take my not-so-subtle suggestions and consider studying history after her graduation this spring.

She’s got a knack for research, and her reference pages are simply divine.

I’ve never had a student practise such flawless MLA formatting—she nearly brings tears to my eyes with every assignment.

If she did choose to study history, Phaedra would be the first in my five years of teaching to do so.

I’m not intending to keep track, per se, it’s just a fact I’m growing eerily aware of.

My coworkers often talk about their past students who have gone on to study in their fields, and return to thank them years later.

English teachers share stories about finding their names in the acknowledgements section of novels.

Science and math teachers receive invitations to graduation ceremonies and donated classroom supplies.

Drama teachers get shout-outs in playbills and sent free tickets to shows.

As for history teachers? I’m not sure what we “get” just yet.

I’d settle for my students showing up on time, honestly.

Actually, if we’re making requests, having them not giggle when I say that the moon landing happened in 1969 would be great.

I’m beginning to worry that I lack the inspirational qualities my fellow teachers seem to have.

Every year, fewer senior students take this elective. So much so that I’ve had to quite literally beg my principal to continue letting me teach it with the ever-dwindling class size. I narrowly saved the class this year by agreeing to oversee the yearbook committee on Tuesdays after school, unpaid.

I can’t blame the kids for their lack of interest in the past. After all, how many generations have had to witness this many “once in a lifetime” events unfold from a screen that fits inside their pocket?

It’s hard to get them to care about history when their futures seem to be constantly hanging in the balance.

Most of my students have constant unfiltered access to the internet and its infinite well of doom, gloom, and opinions that often get misconstrued as fact.

It’s a terrifying reality, but they’re growing numb to what led to their moment in time because so many of them are already overwhelmed by the times they’ve had to grow up in.

Hell, my very first year of teaching was online because of the pandemic.

But every worthwhile professor I had in university taught me that studying history is really about gaining critical-thinking skills.

It’s learning how to cut through the bullshit and research for yourself by using sources to gather evidence, recognise their individual bias, and identify why it’s there.

So, whether they decide to go on to study history or not, I’ll be sure to teach them that.

It’s a skill they’ll need to navigate this world that inundates them with information day in and day out.

“Great, Phaedra! What are you thinking?”

“How about, our grandmothers’ special bond?”

“Special bond,” Ornell repeats incredulously, rolling his eyes towards the panelled ceiling that I’ve decorated for the holiday.

He glares at the red and pink paper chains and strung-up glitter hearts with such concentrated disgust that I wouldn’t be surprised if they began to shrivel up under his stare.

Eventually, after a pouted lip signalling his repulsion, he turns his focus towards his classmate. “They were lovers, Phae, not—”

“Ornell, that’s a warning,” I say, bringing my hands back to my laptop’s keyboard. “That was a great suggestion, Phaedra, thank you . . . but maybe something a little more specific?”

Ornell raises his hand while lifting his leg, crossing one knee over the other.

I sigh, silently pleading with him to be kind as I soften my gaze. “Yes, Ornell?”

“How about . . . the G in LGBTQ stands for Grandma.”

I resist my laughter, running my tongue across my teeth. “I think we’re getting a bit carried away and—” I break off, my lip twitching into a grin. Damn, Ornell’s got me now. He knows it, too, I see it all over his face. His proud expression reads: Permission granted.

“Or . . .” he says, practically giddy, “you can’t spell Granny without g-a-y?”

I shake my head as I lose the battle, letting out a breathy laugh. He’s a pain in the ass, sure, but he is clever, I’ll give him that. “Thank you, everyone, for your suggestions . . . I’m going to go with Time Capsule Belonging to Martha Bennett,” I say, typing for all of them to see.

I look over to the silver metal box at the edge of my desk. It is rusted and the lid is slightly warped from being weighed down by soil for so many years. But the lock, annoyingly, is firmly in place.

My grandmother Bonnie was a gentle, soft soul.

Despite my sister, Phoebe, and I spending our summers with her and Grandpa at their lake house every year growing up, I never knew much about her.

I understand now, with everything I’ve learned in the last few weeks, that she was habitually a private person.

Not shy, as I’d previously thought her to be.

I’ve been making a list of all of the things I did know about her before now, to offset my guilt.

For example, I know that Grandma Bonnie made fantastic shortbread.

She loved puzzles, enjoyed a long walk every morning at sunrise, proudly hung all of our terrible drawings on the fridge, kept the neighbourhood birds well fed, and could make one hell of a quilt.

Most of all, I know she loved me and I loved her. She was a steady, welcoming presence. Throughout childhood tantrums and teenage drama, she was there. Always calm, cool, and collected with a tin of cookies on the counter and a blanket to wrap me up in when I needed it most.

My grandpa Henry, on the other hand, was a live wire and an open book.

As a proud Canadian Air Force veteran of the Second World War, he told me story after story about his time stationed in Yorkshire.

When he realised I’d taken a liking to history, he started recording documentaries on VHS tapes for us to watch together on rainy summer days.

When it wasn’t raining, he’d take us fishing on the lake or let us drive his truck around the property.

He was electric. I used to wonder if Bonnie didn’t talk as much because Henry never seemed to stop.

When I was eighteen, Grandpa Henry passed away from a heart attack in his sleep.

It was devastating, of course, but we all knew it was coming.

Mom had been trying to get him to eat better and take his heart medication for years to no avail.

According to him, life was “too damn short and hard” to die without enjoying cheese and red meat—the two main staples of his diet.

Grandma Bonnie sold the lake house that following year, took the three of us grandkids on a trip to Nova Scotia with some of the money from the sale, and moved into a retirement community walking distance from my mom and dad shortly thereafter.