Chapter 5 #2
Jude stared at me as he took a deep pull from his coffee and I couldn't escape the sense that I was supposed to hear something he wasn't saying.
"I still work with the big aeronautics and defense firms but as an independent contractor.
I have some breathing room in my schedule now, which is a big help, and I only take on the projects that interest me.
These days, I work mostly on fixed-wing aircraft and helicopters developed for Coast Guard use. "
"Oh, wow. That's—"
"Yeah, it's fascinating." He crossed his arms over his chest. "About that husband of yours."
"Ex-husband," I said automatically.
A harsh smile cut across his face. "You're damn right."
I didn't like talking about my ex. I went out of my way to avoid thinking about him.
Being reminded that marrying him was the compromise that cost me everything made me want to burrow into the earth and live out my days in a dark hole.
My ability to dig into those memories was shaky on the best of days but today all I could find were badly healed scars, tight and inflexible and splitting as they flexed over joints.
"I understand why you'd want to gloat," I started, "but believe me when I say I don't need anyone reminding me of my mistakes. I can do that all on my own."
"Is that what you think?" Jude eyed me, his brows low like he had to squint to see me properly.
"I don't know what else I should think." It hurt to speak, as if my throat was swollen shut from the memory of Jude pleading with me to run away from my wedding.
Shame rolled inside me, all broken glass and boiling heat.
All these bad decisions, all piled up around me.
"It seems like you're just waiting to say I told you so. "
He trailed a finger around the rim of his mason jar, his solemn gaze locked on me. "I'm not." He glanced away. "I didn't want to be right. About any of it." His eyes caught mine for a second and then they were gone again. "I'm sorry that I was."
I nodded and ripped the top off the chai muffin. "Okay."
Silence enveloped us for a minute and I could feel the dust settling. I didn't understand the ground we'd covered but I didn't feel like it was a trap when he asked, "You're in Boston now?"
"Yeah. I teach fourth and fifth grade and live a little ways outside the city."
"Only ballet? Or all kinds of dance?"
"No, no," I said, laughing. "I'm an elementary school teacher. Reading, writing, math, social studies. No dance."
His lips parted and I saw disappointment flash across his face.
I couldn't put my finger on exactly why his reaction said more than any fine-tipped comment could.
It left me feeling exposed, like he'd read the summary of my years since leaving him in that church and found it full of stale cheese and dead houseplants.
"What do you mean, no dance?" he asked.
"I haven't taught dance in—" I could tell the truth here and admit I'd stopped teaching after my parents informed me I'd be going to college in California and not Barnard in New York City as planned.
That they'd dropped me into an emotional wasteland and I proceeded to spend a decade not caring whether I lived or died, let alone danced.
Or I could do what I usually did and smooth down the sharp edges to keep everyone comfortable.
"It's been awhile. I haven't had much time for it. "
"You're going to have to do better than that, Saunders, because your entire life was ballet."
A shake of his head sent those unruly waves spilling down to his eyes, and I had to curl my hands into fists to keep from reaching out. He didn't want that from me. And nothing good would come of it anyway.
"I did live for ballet," I agreed. I'd lost a lot over the years but there wasn't much that hurt like losing dance. "And I loved teaching the little kids. But things changed. I changed."
He stared at me like he could reach across the table and wipe the lies off my face.
"I didn't go too far though," I said. "I worked at the San Diego Ballet after college. In development. Fundraising."
A whip-hard laugh cracked out of him. "How long did that last?"
"Long enough," I said, suddenly indignant up to my elbows.
"You're telling me your entire job was asking people for money, and you, the same person who allowed most teachers to get away with calling you Aubrey for the duration of your high school career, were successful at that? Apologies, but I have some questions."
"It wasn't like I was asking for money face-to-face," I argued. "There were galas for that. Silent auctions. Annual campaigns. And I can go on about dancers—their backstories, their talent, all of it—to anyone. They'd throw money at me just to get me to shut up."
He scooped up some animal crackers, tossed them in his mouth. "But you hated it."
"I loved the company. The shows were amazing. The directors were great."
"You hated it."
"I mean—" I held up my hands, hoping he'd let me off the hook. He went on crunching those crackers. "It wasn't the best job I've ever had. Okay? Happy now?"
"Delighted." The sharp arch of his brow said otherwise. "Elementary school, do you like that?"
"It's exhausting and infuriating and micromanaged to death but I can't even explain how much I love it.
" I reached for my mason jar, slicked my palms on the condensation.
"My school loops in fourth and fifth grade so I'm with the same kids for two years.
I wasn't sure about that part at first but now I wouldn't dream of anything else.
I'm sending my kiddos off to sixth grade at the end of this week and I'm very ready for summer break but not at all ready to say good-bye to them. "
"This is your last week of school?"
I nodded as I took a sip of my tea. "Yeah, wild week ahead. Field day, portfolio share day, art showcase day, stepping up ceremony."
His eyes brightened. "You do love it."
Another nod. "I do. I could write a hundred pages on the big and small problems gridlocking education right now, but every September is a fresh start for everyone, and that's what I love the most."
"That's—" He held up a finger as a chime sounded. He pulled a phone from his pocket, saying, "Give me a minute to check on this."
I split the halved morning glory muffin in two and ate small, slow bites while he scowled down at his screen. I pretended I wasn't watching or trying to read upside down. At last, a quiet laugh huffed out of him and he glanced at me, his eyes warm.
"Everything okay?" I asked.
He shrugged in a way that said yes and no and it's a pain but I'll deal with it later. Then, "Percy needed me to know that the toaster waffles at his grandmother's house are inferior and he'd like a care package sent immediately."
"Percy?"
Jude unlocked his phone, revealing a photo of a small, dark-haired boy with espresso eyes hidden behind round glasses. Eyes just like the ones watching me from the other side of the table.
"My son," he said.