Chapter 1 #2
I pull into what I think is the right lot—faculty parking marked by a sun-bleached sign that's seen better decades.
Find a spot wedged between a beat-up Toyota and someone's ancient Buick.
Pull in carefully, checking my mirrors three times because Daniel's voice lives in my head: "Can't even park straight, can you? "
I put the car in park and just sit there, engine idling, hands still gripping the wheel like it's the only solid thing in the universe.
Getting myself ready for today.
I grab my phone to slip it into my purse and see a notification glowing on the screen, the blue light cutting through the morning shadows in the car.
Daniel: Come straight home after school, we have a dinner to attend.
The words sit there, innocuous to anyone else.
To me, they're a command dressed as information.
Oh great. Just what I want to do tonight after surviving my first day back in a classroom—smile through another political fundraiser while Daniel's colleagues ask pointed questions about why I'm working at a public school now.
"Teaching again? How... interesting." While their wives exchange looks that are judgy.
They don't do anything except gossip over their third glass of chardonnay about poor Mrs. Reid and her mysterious career choices.
But I text back more chipper than I feel, fingers flying across the screen with the ease born of three years' conditioning.
Me: I will come straight home, I look forward to dinner.
The lie tastes bitter even through text message.
I don't look forward to anything that involves Daniel anymore.
But enthusiasm is expected. Compliance is required.
The exclamation point I almost added would have been too much—I've learned the exact level of cheerfulness that satisfies without raising suspicion.
I slip the phone into a side pocket in my purse, turn the car off, and grab my other bag and travel mug.
Deep breath. You can do this. Eight hours of teaching literature to teenagers who probably don't want to be there, who'll test every boundary, who'll make this exponentially harder than it needs to be.
Still better than being home. Still better than sitting in that house counting the hours until he gets back, monitoring his mood through the particular way he closes the front door.
I get out of the car, slam the door with more force than I meant to—
A rumble erupts behind me, deep and throaty and visceral, making me jump so hard I nearly drop my coffee.
My heart hammers against my ribs as I spin around, searching for the threat, already calculating distance to the school entrance, already wondering if I can make it inside before—before whatever's coming reaches me.
My body remembers danger better than my mind does.
It remembers running never works but tries anyway.
It's just a motorcycle. Just a Harley pulling into the lot, engine growling through the morning quiet.
I press my free hand to my chest, willing my pulse to slow, feeling stupid and exposed and too visible.
Jesus. I'm jumpier than usual today. First day nerves mixing with the constant low-grade terror that defines my existence now.
The bike's engine cuts through the parking lot sounds—car doors, distant traffic, someone's car alarm chirping off—and I watch despite myself.
The bike flies through the parking lot, engine roaring, taking the turn way too fast for a school zone.
Reckless. Dangerous. I shake my head and start walking toward the building, watching as the rider pulls into a spot up front—not faculty parking, just the first available space like rules don't apply to him.
Student, probably. The kind who thinks traffic laws are suggestions.
He cuts the engine, the sudden silence feels almost loud, leaving my ears ringing with the absence of noise as he drops the kickstand with an ease that speaks of years on bikes.
He gets off with fluid grace that makes the movement look easy, even though the Harley has to weigh four hundred pounds minimum and removes his helmet.
Oh.
He's young. Maybe a senior? No—too old for high school, but not by much.
Early twenties at most. Tall and broad-shouldered in a way that suggests the gym sees him regularly, wearing a white t-shirt, dark jeans that fit in a way that makes me look away quickly because I'm a married woman and a teacher and ogling him is inappropriate.
His hair is lighter, sandy brown or dark blonde—hard to tell in this light—slightly messed from the helmet, falling across his forehead in a way that's probably effortless but looks deliberately styled.
Tattoos peek out from under his collar, dark lines crawling up his neck into his hairline.
More ink decorates his hands and arms, disappearing under his shirt.
He moves with the kind of confidence that comes from never questioning whether he belongs somewhere, never second-guessing his right to take up space.