11. Delaney
DELANEY
Faculty lounge coffee sucks ass. I know I’ve got expensive taste, but there’s no way I’m the only one who realizes how bad this is. But desperate times, desperate measures, and all that, and I’m somehow on my second cup before Mrs. Rutledge calls the morning faculty meeting to order.
“Alright people. We’re heading into the end of the first month of school, and I’m proud to say, this might be our strongest start yet. We’re setting ourselves up for a really incredible year.”
I zone out as she runs through various stats that somehow prove what a great three weeks it’s been. I glance around the room and, surprisingly, most of the staff are locked in. There’s a genuine love for this place that’s almost palpable. I think most of the teachers here truly love their jobs.
I wonder what that's like.
That thought is followed quickly by a wave of guilt.
People would do crazy things to trade lives with me.
The sold out shows, fans singing along to the lyrics I poured my heart into, the beautiful dresses I get to wear on red carpets all over the world; I’m living out every little girl’s pop star dream. I know I should be grateful.
But the shine is starting to wear off. Like those fireflies the other night, the glow I chased for so long feels dimmer by the second.
My phone pings and I swipe up to a text from Matty.
Matty: Send more pics! We need to post something good on your socials. See inspo below.
Half a dozen Pinterest-perfect pictures pop up on my screen in rapid succession. Some black and white, a few a little blurry, and all oozing romance. None of the couples in the pictures show their full faces. It’s all profiles and close angles.
I see the vibe Matty is going for. An out of focus selfie with Connor partially in the frame should fit the bill.
I let out a little sigh of relief. Something about sharing all of Connor makes me nervous. He’s my oldest friend, and even though things between us are complicated, I still feel a little protective.
And, okay, maybe a little territorial. I don’t need the vultures descending on him just yet.
I reply to Matty and pocket my phone as Rutledge finishes her spiel to a round of applause from the staff. Whatever she’s selling, they’re clearly all buying. I catch Caroline’s gaze from across the room and she rolls her eyes but claps along with the rest of the group.
I scan the room for Connor so I can snag him before the bell for this picture, but he’s nowhere to be found.
“He had to run home.”
I jump at the deep voice booming behind me. Wells.
“I assume you’re looking for Connor. He texted me that he had to deal with something at the orchard.”
“Why can’t his dad do it?” Mr. Majors was the heart and soul of that place growing up. I know Connor’s taken over a lot of the work, but I can’t imagine a world where he’s not still deeply involved with the orchard.
Wells shrugs and turns his attention back to the front of the room.
Unsatisfied with that non-answer, I pull out my phone again.
Me: Everything okay? Wells told me something was up at the orchard???
I tap the edge of the phone with my perfectly shaped pale pink nails, willing a speedy reply. My attempt at telepathy is unsuccessful, so I send another.
Me: Really need to get some pics this morning with my BOYFRIEND.
The bell rings before I get an answer. Mrs. Crane locks eyes with me and my fate, at least for the morning, is sealed. I flash her a tight-lipped smile.
While the rest of the faculty seems to live and breathe for this school and its crappy coffee, I’m not sold. Sure, the other day with the senior choir was pretty cool, but the majority of the past three weeks has been monotonous and dull.
One more time, to lock in my role in Connor’s life as an impatient brat, I shoot off a text.
Me: pls come find me as soon as you get back. It’s urgent!
I don’t try to hide my annoyance as I stomp after Mrs. Crane to the choir room, stuffing my phone away in my pocket. And like I expected, the morning drags. Running vocal warm ups, making copies of sheet music, and another cup of disgusting coffee for good measure.
I don’t even try to fight off the urge to wallow.
On the contrary, I’m reveling in the suck.
I should be in Atlanta right now, getting ready to open for Molly Jo tonight. And frankly, I should’ve been headlining the whole damn tour in the first place.
By third period, I’ve worked myself up enough that I’m about to send a string of nasty texts to my entire management team when Connor bursts through the choir room door.
His blue dress shirt, crisp and clean when he picked me up this morning, is rumpled and rolled up past his elbows. There’s a soft sheen of sweat across his forehead and a smudge of dirt streaked across his cheek. Instead of his loafers, the tips of his work boots peek out beneath his brown slacks.
Teacher Connor is undeniably hot.
But this version of Connor? Fresh off the orchard from doing manual labor?
Holy shit.
I make my way across the room towards him.
His rough hand wraps around my bare upper arm as he pulls me into the hallway. The point of contact sends a shiver through me.
“What’s wrong?”
I blink up at him, throat suddenly going dry as I take in the concern etched across his features. His brown eyes are wide and that smudge of dirt is even more manly up close. His body language screams protector, and I find it far more attractive than I care to admit.
He gives my arm a squeeze, trying again.
“Delaney, what’s so urgent that you triple-texted me? I was in the middle of fixing our freakin’ ancient forklift.”
The irritation in his voice snaps me out of my stupor.
“Oh.” I shrug like I wasn’t being a pain in the ass via text a few hours earlier. “We need to take some selfies to post. Matty was bugging me about this morning. And you went MIA when I needed you.”
I cross my arms, shaking free of his grasp, and do my best to pin him with my glare.
Now it’s his turn to blink in silence. Aggravation, worry, and exhaustion battle it out in his eyes. After a beat, he huffs out a sigh, concern winning.
“Okay yeah. Of course.” He softens “Whatever you need.”
His willingness to help me does something funny to my already racing heart, but I shove those feelings to the side, the words contractually obligated flashing in my mind.
The bell rings and the still hallway thunders to life with students scurrying to their next class.
“I gotta go relieve my sub, but come down to my office at the next bell. We’ll take whatever pictures you need.”
Connor turns to go, but I catch his arm, holding him in place.
Wordlessly, I swipe my thumb across the spot of dirt on his cheek.
His eyes track mine as I slowly clean it away. His skin is rough, stubble threatening to make an appearance, but warm and inviting in a way that makes me want to linger.
His gaze drops to my lips and the slight change in pressure against my hand tells me he’s not ready for this moment to end either.
“Lanie,” he grinds out, voice low and heated, leaning just a little more into my touch.
“Ahem.” Mrs. Crane clears her throat loudly from the doorway and we both jerk away from each other. “Miss James, Mr. Majors, this is not the time for canoodling.”
Teenage laugher ripples around us as we both mumble an apology, suddenly aware of our audience. Connor gives me a nod before disappearing into the bustling hallway.
Mrs. Crane continues her scolding as I dutifully follow her back into the choir room, but my brain doesn’t process a single word. I’m too focused on whatever the hell just happened between me and Connor.
There’s years of hurt simmering below the surface, but there’s also years of history there too. And for the first time, I can almost picture years to come.
That possibility scares me senseless.
“I need to really hear the altos during this movement!”
Mrs. Crane taps loudly with her baton, spittle flying for emphasis. The alto section blinks back at her wide-eyed, but their volume increases and the melody sounds infinitely better.
Small-town choir teacher or not, she just might be a musical genius. I still can’t decide if I’m obsessed with her or terrified of her.
Our incognito selfies the other day were a hit. Internet sleuths got to work quickly and almost immediately Connor’s identity was leaked. Two major tabloids picked up the story last week and now it’s been spreading like wildfire.
Delaney James Returns Home to Rekindle a Long-Lost Romance.
Honestly? It has a great ring to it. A hell of a lot better than the headlines all summer:
Delaney James Falling from Grace?
Is This Starlet Burning Out?
A Drunk Delaney Seen Stumbling During Recent Performance.
To my credit, I wasn’t all that drunk. Mostly just exhausted. Mostly.
The bell rings and the senior choir files out, with a few students wishing Mrs. Crane and I a good weekend. I’m about to leave too when the choir director catches my arm.
“I forgot to mention,” she says slowly, looking me up and down over the rims of her glasses, “you’ll be chaperoning the senior choir trip next week.
We stay in a cabin for a long weekend, perform at a local school and a nursing home.
Go to a local theme park. It’s a blast.” Her deadpan expression makes me think otherwise. She narrows her eyes at me, analyzing.
“Maybe you can, I don’t know, tone down the whole famous look.” Her voice drips with condescension and it’s almost laughable how serious she is.
I narrow my eyes right back.
“Not much I can do to change one of the most recognizable faces in America… but I’ll see what I can do.”
I flash her a disingenuous smile.
I bend to grab my bag when she adds, “Mr. Majors will be on the trip as well. I hear from the students you two are going together. No funny business, or this little gig is up.”
And there it is. A threat from yet another puppet master. Play the game, and play it right, or you’re out. And damn it, I was just starting to warm up to Mrs. Crane.
I straighten slowly, locking eyes with her. Can’t let her win.