Chapter 2
Chapter Two
LILY
It’s seven A.M., and my classroom is quiet.
I love this time of day, before the chaos and joy of twenty kindergarten kids fill the room.
Morning light filters through construction paper fish hanging from the ceiling, casting blue and green shadows across freshly sanitized tables.
The room smells of disinfectant and yesterday’s art projects—a mixture of dried paint and glue that never quite fades.
I adjust the morning activity stations while my coffee cools on my desk.
‘Ocean Month’ always brings out the best creativity in the kids.
Yesterday, Marcus spent twenty minutes explaining how sharks are actually ‘just big swimming dogs,’ and I’m still finding glitter from Sophia’s interpretation of a starfish.
The sparkles catch the light like tiny scales scattered across every surface, impossible to completely clean up no matter how thorough I am with the vacuum.
My phone buzzes. I know before I even check that it will be another text from Mom asking if I’ll be going to hers for dinner on Sunday.
She’s been pushing harder lately about ‘meeting someone nice,’ as if being twenty-five and single is some kind of personal affront to her parenting.
She means well, and since Dad died, she’s been more aware of time passing, so I don’t take it too personally.
I send back a quick ‘can’t wait,’ and return to prepping the sensory bin with blue water beads.
The first sound of kids’ voices float through the windows just as Jenny from the front office appears in the doorway.
She’s practically vibrating on the spot, the way she always does when she has gossip she can’t hold in.
Her eyes are bright, and she’s doing that thing where she rocks forward on her toes, like the news might physically push itself out of her mouth.
My lips twitch and I have to hold back a laugh, while I wait for her to speak.
“You will not believe who Sarah just saw going into the Mitchell’s Law building.”
I carry on measuring out water beads. “Is it Mr. Peterson again? Who was he caught in bed with this time?”
“Not Mr. Peterson. Ronan Oliver.”
The measuring cup slips from my fingers.
Blue beads scatter across the floor, rolling under tables and chairs.
The sound of them hitting the linoleum is too loud in the silence following her words.
Thunder rushes through my ears, and my vision blurs as my breath catches somewhere between my lungs and throat.
I grip the edge of the table, fingernails pressing into the smooth laminate surface until the pressure travels up to my wrists.
I must have misheard. She did not just say that name. She can’t have.
“What?” The word comes out strangled.
Jenny crouches to gather up some of the beads closest to her.
“Sarah was opening up the office when he walked in. She said she didn’t recognize him at first. He looks completely …
well, he looks different. But Mitchell’s receptionist called him by name, and …
” She hesitates, probably finally remembering everything that happened before he left …
everything this town whispered about for months afterward.
Of course she remembers. Everyone remembers a version of what happened, even if none of them know the whole truth.
I force myself to breathe, and unclench my fingers slowly, then kneel to clean up the beads.
“I need to finish setting up before the kids arrive.” My voice sounds too high, too bright.
“Oh Lily.” Her voice is soft. “I’m sorry. I forgot. Are you—”
Forgot? I bite back a shrill laugh. She didn’t forget. No one in this town forgets anything.
“I’m fine.” I count the beads as I pick them up.
Seven.
Eight.
Nine.
“It was a long time ago. We were just kids.” I marvel at how detached I sound. How the words dismiss what happened back then as something unimportant to me.
Jenny pours the beads she collected into the sensory bin, then straightens. “I better go back to the office. Are you sure you’re okay?”
I nod, and she hurries away. Probably to share the news with others before class starts, with people who will remember different pieces of a story they think they know. They will speculate and whisper and create their own version of what it means that he’s back.
Why is he back?
I shove the memories of a dark-haired, dark-eyed boy with bruises under his eyes back in the mental box I keep them in.
Giving the room one final check for stray beads, I stop to reach a handful from under my desk.
Each one I pick up is cool against my fingers, solid and real.
I focus on that instead of the way my chest has gone tight, the lump in my throat, the burning behind my eyes, and the sickly feeling in my stomach.
But then my eyes catch on the calendar pinned to the wall.
Seven years.
I’ve spent seven years building a life that has nothing to do with him.
College, where I learned how to sleep through the night again.
A teaching degree that gave me purpose. This classroom, where I’ve created something meaningful.
This version of myself that doesn’t flinch at names, and memories.
Who doesn’t wake up crying in the night, or wonder about might-have-beens.
And now …
I shake my head.
Reaching back to press my palm against the small of my back where an ache has already started to settle, I return to the sensory table.
My hands are shaking as I pour the remaining beads into the bin.
Water sloshes over the edge, soaking my sleeve, and I’m reaching for a paper towel when there’s a knock on the door that makes me jump.
Heart in my throat, I turn. But it’s just Claire, another teacher, coffee in hand.
Who did you think it would be?
Steam rises from her mug, and she’s already wearing the paint-stained apron that means she’s been setting up art projects in her own classroom.
“This looks great!” She eyes the ocean theme. “Although … you might want to move that jellyfish mobile higher. Do you remember last month when Tommy tried to jump and grab the planets?”
I laugh, and I’m surprised by how normal it sounds. It’s scary how easily the teacher slides back into place.
“It’s already on my list. Along with ‘jellyfish don’t actually look like umbrellas,’ thanks to Zack’s marine biologist mom.”
But even as I finish setting up, as parents drop their kids off, as I smile and greet each small face, the knot tightens in my stomach.
“Ms. Gladwin?” Tommy’s mom appears in the doorway, her son’s hand in hers. Concern creases her forehead. “Are you feeling okay? You look pale.”
My hand goes to my cheek. “I’m fine. Just didn’t sleep well.”
“Well, make sure you get some rest this weekend.” She gives me that mom-look, the one that says she’s not entirely convinced.
I nod and smile until she leaves Tommy with me and heads out. Then I have to grip the edge of my desk to steady myself.
I tell myself it doesn’t matter.
I tell myself it’s been seven years.
I tell myself I don’t care.
And in return, my heart tells me I’m a liar.
The morning crawls by in a haze of small hands and big questions. I help Tommy tie his shoelaces three times, my fingers fumbling with loops that should be automatic. I guide Sophie through her fear of touching water beads, though my hands shake as I show her.
“But what if they’re fish eggs, and they hatch while I’m touching them?”
“They’re just plastic, sweetie. See how they bounce?” I drop one into her palm, and watch as her face changes from fear to wonder. It happens so quickly, the way it always does with children.
If only adult healing worked the same way.
I break up two arguments over who gets to wear the sparkly fish hat during dramatic play. I referee a dispute over crayon ownership that escalates to tears before I can redirect their attention with promises of extra art time. I help Zack spell ‘octopus’ for the third time.
I should be fully present and engaged. These kids deserve my undivided attention. Instead, I keep hearing Jenny’s voice in my head.
Mitchell’s Law offices … he was seen walking inside. Why? What would he need to see a lawyer about?
And why here?
During circle time, I mess up the words to our lunchtime song—a song I’ve sung a thousand times before.
The children look at me, confused, their small faces scrunched in concentration as they try to follow along with my jumbled lyrics.
I force a laugh, and turn it into a game so they have to correct me.
They giggle and sing louder, delighted to catch their teacher making mistakes.
When Jackson asks why octopuses have three hearts, I have to ask him to repeat the question twice before I can focus enough to answer.
“Ms. Gladwin?” Emma tugs on my sleeve, her face serious. “Why do you look sad?”
“I’m not sad. I’m just thinking hard about all the amazing sea creatures you’re drawing.”
She studies me for a long moment, head tilted to one side, with that unnerving perceptiveness some five-year-olds have. Then she hands me her marker-stained masterpiece covered in wild swirls of purple and gold that could be anything the imagination wants it to be.
“Here. It’s a rainbow fish. They’re magic, you know.”
“Thank you, Emma.” My voice shakes a little. “It’s beautiful.”
She beams at me and takes a fresh piece of paper, satisfied that she’s fixed whatever is wrong with my world.
If only it were that simple.
By nap time, I’m grateful for the dimmed lights and quiet.
Twenty small bodies are sprawled on their mats, breathing soft.
I sit at my desk, supposedly reviewing next week’s lesson plans, but my head is pounding and I can’t concentrate.
My pen hovers over the paper, while Jenny’s words from this morning repeat like a drum beat in my head, mixing with older memories I’ve tried so hard to bury.
Claire stops by, creeping into the room, two fresh cups of coffee in hand. “Rough day?”