Maggie
SEVEN
I was absolutely soaked in apple cider.
I’d tried to laugh it off, pretend it wasn’t bothering me…but the wind was cool, and it wasn’t drying, and I was just—the dress was ruined. And I was sticky, which I hated, which I knew was very weird for an elementary school teacher and probably a massive problem, or would be at some point—
I went to my classroom first to grab wipes and see if I had a spare change of clothes, which I normally kept handy, but I hadn’t re-upped them since Owen Tate had puked on my slacks a week ago.
So…wet wipes and bathroom it was.
I took the wipes with me, looking down and already trying to get some of the cider out. My thighs were so sticky I thought I might just have to go home—I was going to lose my mind over this if I didn’t get changed. I guess I could just go home, change, come back for teardown—
All my thoughts evaporated as I turned the corner and ran headlong into a muscular chest.
I grunted in surprise; so did he. A second later, I smelled that familiar aftershave, looking up and finding—
Of course. Of course it was him.
Garrison Nash stood just inches away from me, his hands on my shoulders, looking just as confused as I was. I blinked, opening my mouth and closing it again, before I finally figured out what to say.
“Mr. Nash,” I blurted out. “Sorry—I was just—”
I gestured down at my stained dress. He laughed a little, stepping back to look at me.
“Yeah…thought I saw the kids make a mess of you.”
“Job hazard,” I shrugged. “It happens.”
We didn’t say anything. It was clear we were both trying to get to the bathroom, but it was a single room, no men’s and women’s. The school wasn’t big enough for that.
“I was—” I paused. “My thighs are all sticky now—”
“Right,” he said. “Bathroom. Duh.”
“Yeah.” I paused again. He wasn’t moving. Neither was I. “So…”
He stepped aside, finally. “I’ll leave you to it, then—”
But I caught his wrist.
What are you doing, Margot?
I’d had a lot of time to think about this. What I was doing was showing him that I didn’t need him. That if it had been casual for him, it had been even more casual for me. He didn’t get to just ask if we were good. Of course we were good. We were great. I was thriving.
“I just wanted you to know,” I said, staring directly into his eyes, “that you don’t have to feel awkward. You should be able to talk to me about your daughter, and what happened between us…it was casual. It didn’t mean anything.”
He looked at me for a long moment, his brow furrowed. I got the impression he was confused…then maybe a little hurt? Which—yeah, good. Great. He didn’t get to be the only one with an Effect, I could have one too.
“Right,” he said. “Of course.”
“So,” I smiled. “No awkwardness necessary.”
He cocked his head, a smile curving his lips. His shoulders relaxed as he turned toward me again, his eyes skimming over me.
“In that case…”
I held my breath. Was he going to proposition me again? Would I say yes? I would probably—
“I’ve been wanting all day to thank you,” he said.
For the sex? Was it really that good? I hadn’t had that much practice—
“For how good you are with Nell,” he clarified.
I let out the breath.
“She’s always been a little shy,” he went on. “I was afraid sending her to kindergarten that she would be way too nervous, but you’ve always made her feel comfortable. I like seeing her with you. Watching you with her.”
His words made me feel things I didn’t necessarily want to feel…warm and cozy and flattered and—other things.
But I blushed anyway and said, “I’ve always loved kids. Always wanted my own, really.”
My eyes darted down to his crotch when I said it.
What the hell is wrong with you?!
He did not miss it.
I watched his expression shift—just slightly, just enough—the almost-smile arriving with devastating timing.
He saw that. He definitely saw that. You looked at his crotch while talking about wanting babies. You have a doctorate level understanding of how to make things worse.
“I mean—children,” I said. “I love children. In a—in the teaching sense. Professionally.”
“Right,” Nash said.
“Kids are great.”
“They are.”
“Nell especially.” I was still holding his wrist. I released it. “She’s exceptional. Academically and socially. Very well adjusted.”
Stop talking.
“You should be proud,” I finished.
Nash looked at me for a long moment with those hazel eyes and that almost-smile, and he looked way too satisfied with himself when he replied.
“I am,” he said simply.
Silence.
“Bathroom,” I said.
“Bathroom,” he agreed.
Then I went in and locked the door and stood in front of the mirror and said to my own reflection, very quietly: what is wrong with you?
I had no idea if I was ready to face Nash when I came out again—kind of hoped he’d left, because all I could think about now was the fact that I’d said I wanted kids and looked directly at his penis, which was…
you know, very me, very clever, very subtle.
I fluffed my dress, tried to dry it with the hand dryer, with paper towels, walked out, ready to face the world—
“You have to tell me what’s going on.”
I nearly jumped out of my skin, my hand flying up to cover my pounding heart, my eyes darting toward the voice.
Delia was waiting by the water fountain, wearing a pair of mushroom-print overalls that somehow looked chic, her arms crossed.
She had her black hair up in a messy half-up, one eyebrow cocked.
“You scared the heck out of me,” I breathed. “What are you—”
“I’ve been waiting way too long and I need the details,” she said, coming toward me and pointing an accusing finger.
Her nails were even painted with tiny mushrooms; it caught me a little offguard.
“I just saw Garrison Nash walking out of here smiling like a kid on Christmas, and the only common factor is you.”
“Common factor between what?”
“Every day,” she said. “Especially that one day, the day after your breakup? He was grinning. That man does not grin, Maggie.”
My face flushed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about—”
“You are blushing, ma’am, you are blushing!” She shook her head, then let out an exasperated sigh. “Look, Maggie—I know you’re private, I know this is your business, but I also…”
She paused.
“Yes…?”
“I’m new here,” she said. “You’re new here. The only other folks here are married locals, tourists, or old people. Come on…please give me the gossip, I’m begging.”
I frowned…a little overwhelmed but also dying to talk about this.
She was right; I didn’t have anyone. The only person in town who ever really talked to me was Mrs. Petersen, and she clearly had some beef with Nash.
I could always call my little brother Lucas, but he lived halfway across the country and he also obviously didn’t want to hear about me hooking up with the local bartender…
“We had sex,” I blurted out.
Delia’s eyes went bigger than I thought possible. “Maggie Laine—you—and you’ve been sitting on this?!” She shook her head. “Okay…I guess this isn’t the only thing you’ve been sitting on.”
“I already regret telling you—”
“When?!”
“The night Bryce and I broke up.”
Delia stared.
I glanced toward the door to make sure there were no kids or parents coming in—but the event seemed to be winding down, people leaving and hugging.
“I wandered into Rick’s Bar that night,” I said. “I didn’t know he owned it. I just saw the light on and I needed a drink and then he…well, we—”
“You hooked up with the hottest dad at Juniper Hills Elementary in a legendary act of revenge sex, yeah,” she said.
“It really wasn’t revenge sex,” I said. “Bryce wasn’t even on my mind by that point—”
“That’s even better! That’s worse for Bryce. He broke up with you and you forgot about him within the same evening. That man should be absolutely humbled.”
“Delia, please—”
“And you just did it again right?”
My eyes felt like they were going to pop out of my skull. “Delia, we are at school.”
“Tell me you don’t think that would be hot,” she said. “Actually—don’t, you would be lying—”
“We didn’t have sex,” I said. “I’ve been in here trying to clean cider off my dress, and we bumped into each other.”
“Carnally.”
“No.”
The door opened, and we both looked over to see Mrs. Petersen leaning in from outside. She gave us a quizzical glance.
“I’ve been looking everywhere for you two,” she said. “We’re starting teardown. I got a few parents to stay and help.”
“Coming,” I said immediately, probably too quickly, stepping forward.
Delia fell into step beside me, and as we filed past Mrs. Petersen and back out into the October afternoon, Delia leaned close and murmured in my ear: “This conversation is not over.”
“It absolutely is.”
“It is not.”
“Delia—”
“He’s over there,” she said, very casually. “Stacking chairs. Just so you know.”
I did not look.
Then I did.
Nash was at the far end of the field, sleeves pushed up, moving folding chairs into a neat stack. He’d shed his jacket somewhere, and I could see those forearms and I could remember the way he’d leaned on the bar, then boxed me in against it, then—
“Maggie.” Mrs. Petersen appeared at my elbow with a garbage bag. “Can you start collecting the tablecloths?”
“Yes,” I said, very professionally. “Absolutely.”