Chapter 8
CHARLIE
The first time I had to call Myles for help with a student was hellish.
Picking up my classroom phone and dialing his extension was so much worse than just putting up with Mickey Dutch’s determination to derail my lesson on negative numbers in the order of operations that I almost just let it go.
Until a particularly loud, particularly fake cough from the ever-delightful Mickey sounded suspiciously like, “Homo.”
Every pair of eyes in the room jumped from the board or me or from whatever else they’d been focusing on and onto Mickey, who in turn had his eyes fixed on me. Hard and humorless, they dared me to react. To lose my cool.
Goddammit.
I wasn’t going to snap or cry or whatever else he apparently wanted to get out of me, but I couldn’t just ignore this. Especially since this wasn’t the first time I’d had to speak to Mickey about tossing slurs in my direction.
Unlike the rest of the kids in my classes who, even if some of them are squirmy or overly chatty or sometimes impulsive, seem willing enough to give me a chance, Mickey does not like me. And, since my first day, he’s made it his personal mission to make that unmistakably plain.
Attempting to handle his behavior on my own (aka continuing my avoidance of having to speak to Myles) had infinite appeal, but, alas, the school’s policy on repeat offences like Mickey’s was clear.
Unless I wanted to blatantly ignore the flow chart of consequences tacked up over my desk, per principal instructions, a call to Myles was inevitable.
In the end though, the call was painless. Quick and to the point and professional. A minute later, Myles was at my door, and yes, maybe I’d had to force myself to focus only on the fact that he was there to remove a disruptive student and not for any other reason, but nothing terrible happened.
I didn’t run away or melt into a puddle of embarrassment or blurt anything mortifying, like that I love him and miss him like a stolen piece of myself and that being so near him as strangers, not as friends, is breaking my heart.
Nor did I announce that the grey t-shirt he was wearing under an open dark green plaid flannel hugged his pecs in a way that reminded me (as if I needed reminding) of how drool-inducingly gorgeous his new (to me) muscles are.
From there, every interaction has been easier.
Now, four weeks into my stint in Riverside, and do I still get a thrill of nerves and that unhelpful swoop of excitement paired with a stab of longing despair every time I see his name on an email or pass him in the hallway?
No comment. But at least I’m well on my way to believing what I told him when I forced myself to face him in his office that morning he sent me the email apologizing.
Us working together doesn’t have to be awkward.
On the surface, at least.
Myles hadn’t addressed in his email why he’d vanished that summer, and I hadn’t had the courage to ask him. Partly because, if he wanted me to know, he would have told me. Partly because I already know the answer.
Whether it was that stupid, stupid note I’d written in the sketch journal I’d given him, or whether it was something else, I’d let him see my feelings for him.
Dragging that nugget of truth out of him is the last thing I want, and it’s definitely not going to do any good in the interest of reducing the still very palpable discomfort that blares through every interaction the two of us have.
No matter how much I wish I could switch it off and, somehow, rewind us back through the years to a time when being together was as easy as breathing.
Yesterday morning, the two of us managed to arrive at the door to the school at precisely the same moment, each from the opposite direction.
Myles had gotten there a split second ahead of me, and instead of just stepping in and holding the door behind him, he’d opened it then stood aside, holding it so I could go in before him.
I’d tried—I really had—not to glance over my shoulder at him as I’d stepped through the door. Tried, and totally failed.
Our eyes met for a split second before I ripped mine away, but he’d been doing that thing he’s always done when he’s uncomfortable, rubbing at the back of his neck with his free hand.
Seeing that hurt. It’s no surprise that being around me would make him feel unsettled, but it’s so opposite of the effortless comfort of the friendship we lost that it makes my heart ache.
Forget my hopeless crush on him and the fact that seeing him again has only gone and revived it with a vengeance; larger and deeper and more hopeless than ever. I just miss him.
It was the closest the two of us have been since my return to Riverside, and the moment I’d passed him, I’d felt this prickle of awareness creep over my skin.
A second before, I’d been freezing from the walk from my car in the morning’s sleety drizzle, but suddenly I was stifling under the weight of my coat as heat that was equal parts discomfort and yearning washed through me.
I’m not sure what the smile I’d tried to flash him ended up looking like, but I do know my choked out, “Thanks,” sounded like something between a gasp and a squeak.
Totally unfair, considering that the low, “You’re welcome, Charlie,” he’d rumbled in answer was not just completely unsqueaky, but the epitome of sexy.
However impossible it is to keep him out of my head, Myles Marlow is hardly the only thing I have to think about.
Outside of endless lesson planning, grading, and dodging Janice (who has only become more abrasive and difficult to avoid with each passing day), there’s the whole (admittedly rather overwhelming) bit about how I’ve upended my comfy city life and dumped myself out in the middle of nowhere.
The middle of nowhere, where one needs to worry about things one has no need to ever even consider in the city.
Purchasing and chopping firewood, for example.
“You’re about to what?” Gemma’s cackle of laughter is so loud, I have to pull the phone away from my ear until she subsides into breathless pants and giggles. “I’m sorry darling, but what? You? Chopping wood?”
Behind me, I can hear the sound of a car (or, more likely here in Riverside and given the level of engine noise, a truck) meandering past. Going way slower than the speed limit, I might add.
An unnecessary reminder of the fact that the wood chopping activities I’m about to embark on are to be performed in the direct line of sight of any and all of Riverside who so happen to drive past on the highway.
Did the wood really have to be dumped right in the middle of my front yard? Well, according to Byron Dutch who delivered it—yes, that is indeed the ever-charming Mickey’s father—it did.
“I can chop wood.” And no, I’m totally not pouting at Gemma’s lack of confidence in me as I pull on the thick work gloves I purchased expressly for this afternoon. Blisters hurt, alright? “Yoga makes you really strong, you know.”
Gemma only laughs louder. Longer. “Oh, you keep telling yourself that, babe,” she wheezes between bursts of laughter. “And then you call me back and tell me what happens, okay?”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“Anything for my fav cousin!”
“Ouch.”
“Ouch?” she echoes back. “Way to take a compliment, Charlie.”
“You have only one other cousin, Gem. Just one. And calling me your favorite compared to him? You might as well say, ‘I like you better than having my foot run over by a dump truck.’ Or Chickenpox. Or—”
“Okay, okay!” She’s laughing so hard she snorts into the phone.
“And you tell me I’m weird? But fine, point taken.
You, Charlie, would still be my favorite cousin, even if the only other option weren’t the human equivalent to being trapped on a twelve-hour flight between a crying, puking baby and a Karen who won’t stop talking, even when you pretend you’re trying to sleep. Happy?”
“You’re definitely still the weird one. But thanks. That is better. Slightly.”
“Any time!” She smacks me a kiss over the phone. “I’ve gotta run though. Rosa is picking me up in ten.”
“Is this your third date with her?”
“Fourth.”
I can’t help grinning from ear to ear at the dreamy smile I can hear in Gemma’s voice as I survey the truly daunting pile of wood mounded up in front of me. At least one of us is going to have the Saturday we deserve…
“You really like her, don’t you?”
“So much,” she sighs, right before snapping back to her usual snark. “But I’ve got to finish making myself gorgeous while you, my dear cousin, need to finish your transformation into the twinkiest lumberjack who ever lumberjacked. Byyyee!”
The call is gone before I have a chance to protest. Not that I really have much of a leg to stand on if it comes to denying her accusations of my twinkishness, but still. Twinkiest lumberjack?
Feeling infinitely glad that Gemma cannot see me at this moment—she’d probably literally fall on her butt laughing at me if she could see the combo of yoga pants, oversized old fleece, never-before-worn hiking shoes, and ultra-thick gloves I’m sporting—I warily pick up the axe.
Twinkiest lumberjack my ass.
Grinning at the thought of texting Gemma a photo once I’ve chopped my way through all this wood so I can prove her wrong about my ability to fend for myself in the wilds of rural small town America, I raise the axe up over my head and bring it down as hard and as fast as I can on the first hunk of wood balanced on the top of the cut stump I’ve decided is the best spot for my firewood chopping adventures.
Instead of the satisfying snap of wood splitting that I’d imagined, the blade of the axe comes to a sharp, startling stop, just barely buried in the piece of wood.
The impact rattles up my arms, jarring every bone in my body, and I’m left with a heavy section of log stuck at an odd angle at the end of the axe.
Oh. Well damn. That…wasn’t what I’d expected.
Lifting cautiously, I give the axe-log combination a good shake. The log doesn’t budge.
Next, I try to leverage the axe blade out by pushing the wood against the stump. Thank god that works as, with a cringy squeal of wood against metal, the axe blade wrenches out of the round of wood.
Oookay. So I must have done something wrong. But what else are you supposed to do other than just…chop?
I flip the wood over—because why not—and try again. This time, the axe literally bounces off the wood. Right back toward me…which is…alarming.
Oh, how very, very glad I am that Gemma knows nothing about this.
Maybe this is a bad piece? Can wood be bad? I have no idea, but trying a different one seems like a logical next step.
The fourth piece I try actually splits. Sort of.
Just enough to get the axe so totally stuck in the middle of where it stops splitting that I can’t get it out.
I’m left literally wrestling the damn thing with the wood trapped between the sides of my now very grimy new hiking shoes, axe handle grasped in both gloved hands, but it just won’t budge.
Even though it’s the middle of February, today’s one of those weird, mild western Washington days that just happen at random, and by now, I’m feeling totally claustrophobic and overheated in my fleece.
There’s sweat beading on my forehead and dripping down my back, and I’m just about to just give up and see myself through to the spring and warmer weather with a couple of space heaters—because who really needs to be able to have a fire anyway?
—when the crunch of tires on the gravel of my driveway makes my head whip up to see what miserably nosy person has stopped by to witness my humiliation.
Ugghh. Why did I have to rent a house where everything I do is on display for the whole town?
My hair is in my eyes, stuck to my damp forehead, but unfortunately, it’s not enough to stop me from instantly recognizing the man that’s hopping out of the battered old blue truck that’s now parked in front of my house.
And ohmigod, whyyy?