Chapter 32
Micah
It’s a terrible idea.
I should go home. Feed the ferret. Prep Sunday’s lesson. Do literally anything other than drive across town to a kindergarten art showcase for a woman who is, by every definition that matters, not mine.
But she sounded stressed last night. And I remembered her coffee order. And the devotional practically jumped off the shelf at me, which I’m choosing not to read too deeply into, even though I absolutely am reading too deeply into it.
Lord, if you’re trying to tell me something, I’m going to need you to be more specific.
I take a breath and walk toward the entrance.
I follow the signs that lead me to the Kindergarten wing. The hallway is quiet when I step inside.
A hand-lettered banner stretches across the entrance.
Welcome to the Kindergarten Art Showcase.
Warm string lights are woven through the ceiling tiles, and the hallway itself stops me mid-step.
Every inch of wall space is covered. Painted handprints border the doorframes.
Crayon self-portraits hang in crooked rows, each one labeled in careful teacher handwriting.
Paper Maché animals perch on shelves. Watercolor sunsets fill the windows.
Clay sculptures line a kraft paper table, each with a small name card in front.
I smile and keep walking.
Halfway down the hall, I find a small chalkboard sign on an easel outside the last door on the left, written in loopy handwriting:
Miss Mitchell’s Kindergarten Classroom
I lean against the doorframe.
She hasn’t seen me yet.
She’s at a table along the far wall, back half-turned, fussing with a spread of refreshments—straightening napkins, nudging a cookie tray an inch left, then an inch back.
Her hair is down, which surprises me. She’s wearing a soft yellow dress, and the string lights she must have spent hours hanging make the whole room glow.
She looks nothing like someone who was stress-eating ice cream on the phone with me twelve hours ago.
She looks completely in her element.
I stay there longer than I should.
Then I clear my throat.
She looks up, and her eyes go wide. “Micah? What are you doing here?”
I hold out the coffee. “You mentioned the showcase last night. You sounded stressed. So I thought—” I pause. This sounded more coherent in the car. “I don’t know. I thought maybe you could use this.”
She stares at the cup like I’ve handed her something sacred.
“You brought me coffee?”
“Vanilla latte. Extra shot.”
“How did you—” she stops. “You remembered.”
“Of course I remembered.”
Her fingers brush mine when she takes it, and I lose approximately four seconds of my life.
“And this.” I hold out the devotional.
Rooted: growing deeper, living fuller.
“I saw it and thought of you. That’s all.” That’s not all. But it’s all I’m saying.
She looks at the cover, and something in her expression shifts—soft and a little undone. “Micah.” Her voice catches. “This is perfect.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Then she sets both things down and hugs me.
I freeze for exactly half a second, where my brain registers what’s happening and tries to remind me of seventeen reasons why this is complicated—and then I wrap my arms around her and none of those reasons matter.
She smells like coffee and dry-erase markers and something floral that is very specifically Harper.
“Thank you,” she whispers against my shoulder. “For coming. For this. For everything.”
“Anytime, Freckles.”
She pulls back, hands still on my arms, cheeks flushed. And then I watch realization move across her face like a cloud passing over the sun.
“Wait,” she glances around. “There’s nobody here. To see us.” She drops her hands, stepping back. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—there’s no one around, so I didn’t need to—”
“Harper,” I catch her hand gently. “I wasn’t putting on a show.”
She looks up at me.
“I’m genuinely proud of you,” I say. “All of this—” I gesture to the hallway, the lights, the little name cards. “You made every single one of these kids feel seen. That’s not nothing. That’s everything. And I wanted to be here for that. Not for Collin. Not for anyone watching. Just for you.”
Her eyes are shining now, and I’m actively praying she doesn’t cry because I have absolutely no plan for that.
“Micah—”
“Miss Mitchell!”
A small boy with wild, curly hair barrels down the hallway and crashes directly into Harper’s knees. His mother is jogging behind him, already apologizing.
“I showed my mom the orange sun painting!” he announces. “I told you orange was better than yellow!”
Harper crouches down immediately. “You were absolutely right. Orange was the perfect choice.”
He beams. Then he notices me. His eyes narrow. “Who are you?”
I glance at Harper.
“This is Mr. Sanders,” she says. “He’s my...friend.”
“Your boyfriend?” the kid asks. No hesitation. No filter. Just facts.
Harper’s face goes red. “Actually…”
“Yes,” I say. Because apparently I have no self-preservation instinct whatsoever. “I’m her boyfriend.”
Ethan considers this for approximately one second. “Do you like art?”
“I love art.”
“Do you want to see my painting?”
“Absolutely.”
He grabs my hand, like we’ve known each other for years, and starts towing me down the hallway. I glance back at Harper, who has her hand over her mouth, shoulders shaking to hide a laugh.
“Go ahead”, she mouths.
So I let this five-year-old drag me through the kindergarten art showcase while he delivers a passionate scientific argument for why orange is objectively superior to yellow.
When we reach his painting, I crouch down and study it seriously, the way it deserves. “Ethan. The orange sun is without question the right call.”
“That’s what I said!” He turns to his mom. “Miss Mitchell’s boyfriend agrees with me!”
His mom gives me an apologetic smile. I wave her off.
“Are you a teacher?” Ethan asks.
“Sort of. At a church. I run the children’s ministry.”
His eyes go wide. “So you’re like Miss Mitchell but for church?”
“Exactly like that.”
“Cool.” He turns to Harper, who has caught up to us. “Miss Mitchell, your boyfriend is cool.”
“I’m glad you think so,” she says, in a tone that suggests she is barely holding it together.
“Can he come to show-and-tell?”
“We’ll see.”
“That means no,” he says, devastated.
“That means maybe,” I correct, crouching back down to his level. “And if Miss Mitchell invites me, I’ll bring something really cool.”
“Like what?”
“That’s a surprise.”
He accepts this with great solemnity and allows his mother to steer him away.
Harper watches them go. Then she turns to me with an expression I can’t quite categorize. “You didn’t have to promise him that.”
“I know.”
For the next twenty minutes, she walks me through the hallway and tells me about her kids.
The girl who decided cats are purple with green spots. The boy who spent three weeks changing his mind before landing on a dinosaur riding a rocket. The kid who cried for ten minutes over spilled glitter and then recovered to produce the most glitter-dense piece in the entire showcase.
I try to pay attention to the art.
I mostly pay attention to her.
The way she gestures when she talks. The way she remembers every detail about every single kid. The way her whole face changes when she talks about teaching—like something in her just opens up.
She loves this. Really, truly loves this.
You’re in trouble, I think. You are so deeply in trouble.
I know what this is. I’ve been trying to talk myself out of it for weeks—been praying about it, reasoning through it, reminding myself of all the relevant facts. She’s working through her feelings for someone else. I volunteered for this. I knew the terms.
“You’re really amazing at this.”
“At what?” she asks.
“Teaching. Connecting with kids. Making them feel seen.” I gesture to the hallway. “You did all of this, Harper.”
“It’s just kindergarten art.”
“It’s not just anything.” I pause, because I mean this and I want her to hear it. “You’re changing their lives. Even if you don’t realize it.”
She’s quiet for a moment. Something vulnerable moves through her expression.
“Thank you,” she says softly. “That means a lot.”
And I almost say something I shouldn’t.
Instead, a little girl with pigtails appears out of nowhere and grabs Harper’s hand, and the moment dissolves.
I step back and find a spot along the wall while Harper takes photos with her students—crouching down to their level, pulling them close, laughing at something a little boy says right before his mom snaps the picture. She’s fully present for every single one. No distractions, no rush.
But in between each photo, she glances over.
At me.
Every time, I hold her gaze for just a second before she turns back. And every time, I look away first and tell myself to stop cataloguing the way she smiles at me like that.
It doesn’t work.
“Harper!” I hear a familiar voice down the hallway.
I watch Harper’s posture shift—subtle, barely noticeable—and I know what it means. We’re back on. Performance mode.
I move to her side before she has to ask, my hand settling at the small of her back.
“Mariah. Shawn.” I extend my hand. “Good to see you both.”
“It’s so sweet you came to support Harper,” Dr. Bailey says, with the particular warmth of someone who has fully bought into this narrative.
“I wanted to be here,” I say. “She’s been working nonstop all week.”
Dr. Bailey looks between us with a knowing smile. “Harper, you’re lucky to have someone so supportive.”
“I know,” Harper says as she leans into me slightly. I keep my expression neutral and my hand steady and remind myself that I am a functional adult who is completely fine.
I walk with them through the hallway. I answer questions. I say the right things. I play the part.
I’m getting too good at this.
When Mariah and Shawn finally say their goodbyes and head toward the exit, Harper exhales slowly.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Yeah. Just...” She glances up at me. “Going from real to fake so fast is weird.”
I’m quiet for a beat. “Yeah. It is.”
She looks at me like she’s waiting for me to say something else.
I don’t.
Because what I want to say is it didn’t feel fake to me. But that is not information she needs right now.
So instead I say nothing, and the moment passes, and I tell myself that’s the right call.
It probably is.
Probably.