Nick
My diagnostic medicine professor once set an apple on his desk and told us to write down ten observations.
Easy enough.
Then he asked for ten more.
And ten more after that.
We were literally calculating skin-to-core ratio and measuring negative space. The point, according to my prof, was that most people stop looking long before they stop seeing.
Kindergarteners do not suffer from this limitation.
I’m sitting cross-legged on a brightly colored rug in the middle of Leah’s classroom, a picture book balanced in my hands while twenty-two five- and six-year-olds study me with the unnerving concentration of a firing squad deciding where to aim first.
A little boy in the front points at me. “You have a crooked tooth.”
I run my tongue over my incisor. “Thank, pal.”
“And a worry line.” A kid announces from my right, tapping between his eyebrows. “That’s what my mom calls Daddy’s.”
Before I can defend my rapidly deteriorating appearance, a little girl squints at me. “You have really hairy arms.”
Jesus Christ. My diagnostic professor would’ve loved these kids.
“Now friends,” Leah calls from behind me, “remember, some thoughts are inside thoughts. We don’t have to let every thought come out of our mouths.”
“But it’s true,” the crooked-tooth kid argues. “It's right there.”
I glance back at Leah. “Strong classroom culture you’ve built here.”
She stifles her laugh, covering her mouth.
Every Friday, Leah invites a parent in to read to the class, and honestly, I’ve been looking forward to it all school year—not just because I get to invade Leah’s little world for an hour, but because I get to see Grady interact with other kids.
He’s still fairly introverted and prone to hyperfixating on whatever catches his interest, but over the past several months, he’s flourished in ways that make me damn proud of him.
I reveal the last page of the book, where an elderly cartoon penguin proudly holds what might be the worst pizza ever concocted.
“Okay, friends,” Leah starts, “Papa Penguin has made his party pizza. I need y'all to put on your thinking caps.”
Every student quickly taps their fingers to their temples, their restlessness melting away.
“Dr. Crawford is going to point to the ingredients in the picture. I’ll say each word out loud, and I want you to listen for what they all have in common.”
They all eagerly nod, leaning forward to watch me.
“Pepperoni … parmesan cheese … pineapple—” this earns a few giggles—“pickles … pasta …”
One little girl holds up her hand and blurts out, “They all start with P!”
The other kids immediately chime in, cheering that she got it right.
“You're right! They all start with the letter P.” Leah claps. “What do y’all think? Does it look yummy?”
A chorus of ewwws and giggles fill the room.
“I’d eat it!” One boy shouts, waving his arm.
“We eat that at my house all the time—”
“You do not!”
“Do too!”
Leah and I share a glance and chuckle.
“All right, friends. What do we say to Dr. Crawford for coming to read with us?”
Twenty-two little voices singsong in unison. “Thank you!”
“Thanks for having me.”
“All right, friends, let's line up for specials.”
The room erupts into controlled chaos. I push myself off the rug and fall into step beside Leah as she navigates an untied shoe emergency and a missing sweater.
“Thanks again for coming,” she says, grabbing a granola bar from the stash in her desk.
“Anytime.” I bump my shoulder lightly against hers. “Isn’t this your lunch period?”
“Yeah, but I need to go make some copies.”
“Leah …”
She gives me a sheepish smile. “What?
“You need more than a granola bar. Did you pack a lunch?”
“I … did not.” She snickers.“ I haven’t exactly had much time lately.”
“I can go grab you something—”
“No, no. You don’t have to do that. Besides, I really don't have time.” She turns the granola bar over in her hand. “And I’m not that hungry.”
My eyes narrow. “When’s the last time you ate an actual meal?”
“Probably when you and I grabbed sandwiches the other night—”
“Oh, good grief. That was a snack.”
She chuckles before slowly exhaling. “Everything’s just been … a lot.”
No shit. Leah spent the second half of winter break practically living at Matt and Rachel’s, then went straight back to school last Tuesday without ever getting a chance to come up for air.
Since then, half our phone calls have happened while she’s unloading somebody’s casserole dish from the dishwasher or folding laundry.
More than once, she’s fallen asleep on me before nine.
“I’m just trying to keep things running over there. Once the baby's discharged, her mom will be in town to help with everything.”
“Where's Matt?”
She hesitates. “He’s tired, too. He just… doesn’t do well with medical stuff. And the dishes, laundry—he tries, but I usually end up doing it again anyway.”
My jaw tightens.
Leah sees this as love—and it is—but she needs to learn to tell these people no. Her family has gotten far too comfortable using that to their advantage.
For now, I keep that thought to myself.
“How is Chloe Grace? Still feeding and growing in the nursery?”
Leah brightens. She loves the name her brother and sister-in-law finally chose. “Chloe Grace is still feeding and growing in the nursery. Can you believe she turns three weeks old tomorrow?”
I shake my head. “How is that even possible?”
“I know. They are talking about possibly discharging her next week.”
“That's good news.”
She slowly grins. “It will be.”
“Speaking of next week … I believe someone is turning thirty.”
Color creeps into her cheeks. “And on that note …” She giggles, locking up her desk and heading toward her students who are lining up.
I chuckle. “I better head out, too. Mrs. Santiago’s expecting me anyway.”
Leah glances over as she helps a little girl zip up her jacket. “What does Chelsea need you for?”
“Apparently she has some things that need to be hung from the ceiling.”
“Where's Julian?”
I chuff. “He has”—I hook my fingers into air quotes—“a bad back.”
“Well, be careful on that ladder, Mr. Crawford.” She casually steps closer, lowering her voice. “I might need you to have a nice strong back for my thirtieth birthday.”
My eyebrows shoot up as she gives me a playful wink.
Leah and I have only had sex that one time last month—and God, she was fucking perfect. We’ve shared a bed a handful of times since her niece was born, but we haven't gone beyond kissing.
And dry-humping. Lots and lots of dry-humping.
Fuck, she did take her top off the other night to let me suck on her amazing tits—but the point is we are moving at her pace, and she is worth every second we wait.
Needless to say, her mentioning the possibility of more has my cock twitching.
Leah gives me one last wicked little smile before turning back to her kids like she didn’t just completely derail my train of thought.
I clear my throat and make for the door. Suddenly, helping Chelsea hang shit from the ceiling sounds like an excellent use of my time.
***
“There. One Milky Way galaxy, painstakingly installed by yours truly.”
Chelsea steps back beside me, following my gaze. “Perfect. The kids are going to lose their minds when they come back from lunch.”
“I'm glad I was able to contribute to the chaos.” I chuckle.
The classroom door flies open. A little girl wearing a sparkly birthday crown barrels inside and makes a beeline for her backpack and begins to dig.
Chelsea blinks. “Uh, Miss Avery? Why aren't you in the cafeteria?”
“I forgot my candy.” She triumphantly pulls out a little bag. “I wanted it for my Yes Day.”
“Did you tell Coach Pham?”
Avery freezes. “No ma'am.”
“Now, you know you can’t leave the cafeteria without permission. Remember: we still follow school rules on Yes Day.”
The girl’s face falls. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Santiago.”
Chelsea’s expression softens. “Hey, it’s okay. We all make mistakes. We’re still learning.” She gestures toward the door. “Come on, birthday girl. I’ll walk you back.”
As they reach the doorway, Chelsea glances over her shoulder at me. “Press pause on that chaos.”
I casually stalk over to her desk, checking out her pens, the fluorescent sticky notes in the shape of a star, and a brightly-decorated bulletin board that hosts important school information.
Tucked between the district calendar and the cafeteria menu for the week are a handful of personal photos.
The girls posing outside of Six Flags. Lizzie holding a baby alligator with Julian.
A deeply-tanned Chelsea and Julian sitting across from each other at a candlelit table on the beach in Barbados.
I’m halfway past a picture of the twins with their arms around each other at their birthday party last year when my eyes snag on something in the background.
And smile.
Almost out of frame is Leah in my arms on the dance floor, her head thrown back laughing.
I can almost hear that moment all over again, the scent of her skin, the feel of her nestled perfectly in my arms—back when I knew she was meant to be in them.
But what catches me off guard is my own expression. So carefree and relaxed.
So happy.
"What do you think you're doing?”
“Jesus, Chelsea …” I jerk away.
She laughs, holding up her hands. “Sorry! I thought you heard me walk in.”
I rub my chest, pretending to be out of breath. “You're going to give me worry lines.”
“Good. It's about time we mangle up that mug of yours.”
We share a laugh as she grabs a stack of worksheets from her desk and starts laying them out for her students.
“So I've gotta know.” I lean against the edge of her desk. “What the hell is a Yes Day?”
“Ah, it's exactly what it sounds like. Hold on.” She grabs a book from her classroom library called Yes Day! byAmy Krouse Rosenthal and hands it to me. “It’s based on this. It's a cute little story where the parents establish a day where they have to say yes to whatever the kids ask.”
I raise an eyebrow, flipping through a couple of pages. “Whatever they ask for?”
“Within reason, obviously. Nobody’s buying a pony or setting the house on fire.” She laughs. “The whole idea is that kids hear no all the time. No candy before breakfast, no jumping on the bed, no staying up late. So for one day, they get to hear yes.”
“And you do it with your students?”
“A very watered-down classroom version. On their birthday, they get a few special requests as long as they don't disrupt learning and don’t break school rules.”
“Huh. Clever.”
“You know?” She taps the cover in my hands. “Leah introduced me to this book when she student taught with me.”
A smile tugs at my mouth. This sounds exactly like something Leah would do. She probably doesn’t even realize how many of these little moments her kids are going to remember years from now.
Chelsea tries to conceal her smile. “So … how are things going with you two?”
Heat swirls up my neck as a dopey grin pulls at my mouth. “Good, um—” I chuckle nervously. “She’s … really good.”
Chelsea watches me for a moment, and whatever she was about to tease me with seems to disappear. “You really care about her, don’t you?”
The question catches deep in my chest. I blow out a heavy exhale. “Yeah,” I admit quietly. “I do. I really, really do.”
“Listen, if you repeat this, I'll deny it.” She chuckles sardonically, her expression softens. “You are so good for her, Nick.”
I glance up at her, giving her a curious look.
“Hey, what’d I say?” She holds up her finger like a weapon. “I swear I’ll deny it.” We share a chuckle before she continues. “I know we give you shit all the time, but I hope you know we see you, Nick. We know how big your heart is.”
I shift the book between my hands, suddenly uncomfortable with where this is headed.
“My husband makes friends with everybody—you know that. He could walk into a gas station for a Coke and come out with three invitations to dinner.” Her mouth curves.
“But there’s a difference between people Julian knows and people he lets get close.
He keeps good people with good hearts close—and believe me, it's not easy.” She reaches over and squeezes my arm. “You’re one of them.”
I swallow, looking down at the book again because apparently Chelsea Santiago has decided to make me emotional in the middle of her second-grade classroom.
“So when I say you’re good for Leah, I mean it. She's precious to me … and I can't think of a better person for her.”
I clear my throat. “You know we're just dating, right?”
Chelsea hums knowingly. “For now.”
Yeah. For now.
“Just be patient with her, okay?”
“Did she say something?”
Chelsea shakes her head. “I just know she has a lot of hurt—some of which, I don't even know she realizes she's carrying.” She sighs. “All I'm saying is let her set the pace. She's worth it.”
She is.
I slowly nod, my attention dropping to the book still in my hands. My fingers trace across the bright bold letters of the title.
My mouth slowly curves.
I’ve got an idea.