Chapter 2 #2
It took some effort, but I turned to face Jack, who watched me with an amused expression. “That was a very, uh, formal apology for what went down.”
My eyes widened, unsure of his meaning, before sudden panic flared and I burst out, “Did we have sex?”
His expression went stony. “Sorry, comatose isn’t really my type. The snoring was mighty tempting, though.”
Then his frosty gaze held mine while he took another sip from his mug.
I blinked as initial relief bled into abject mortification. Of course, Jack would be insulted. I’d basically accused him of taking advantage of a woman in a vulnerable position. I might not know him very well, but obviously that would be offensive.
“Right. I didn’t mean to imply—” I cut myself off before I made it worse, and then concluded with a straightforward, “Sorry.”
I didn’t really know what I would have done if he’d said yes.
Obviously, my anxious, over-prepared brain could definitely have a list thrown together by the time I finished this too-sweet coffee.
Everything from scheduling a doctor’s visit for an STI panel to selling my house and leaving Kirby Falls to ensure I’d never run into Jack Ellis again.
Either way, I’d always been good in a crisis. I would have figured it out. But, overall, I was very relieved I didn’t have to. Despite my intentions last night, I wouldn’t have wanted to spend the night with someone when I’d been so out of control.
I risked a glance at those circular wire frames and swallowed. And maybe I would have wanted to remember whatever hypothetical things happened in Jack Ellis’s bed.
Just the brief thought had guilt and shame slithering down my spine, cold and clammy.
Despite removing my ring and being divorced for all of eighteen hours, and being separated for months before that, my brain still hadn’t gotten the message that I was no longer a married woman.
Or, more accurately, it just hadn’t accepted it.
I wasn’t beholden to vows I’d made when I was eighteen years old.
I didn’t have a husband waiting for me somewhere.
No more emergency contact. No one to share a home with.
Part of me thought I might hate Danny Jensen for the rest of my life, while the rest of me worried I was doomed to love him for the rest of his. I had a good heart, but I could hold a grudge better than anyone.
And wasn’t that the problem?
When your husband got drunk at a bachelor party ten months ago and accidentally slept with a woman at the bar, you couldn’t find it within yourself to forgive him. Even when he’d fessed up immediately and been genuinely remorseful.
Maybe forgiveness wasn’t the problem. Perhaps it was more accurate to say I couldn’t forget. Danny had apologized profusely. He’d said it never would have happened if he hadn’t gotten so wasted.
As a result, I’d wondered who let themselves get so drunk that they’d cheat. The spiteful person who lived under a bridge in my heart poked her head up and answered, Probably someone who’d already considered straying and had found a handy excuse.
And here I sat. Hungover in an unfamiliar apartment after a night of drinking to excess.
The irony was practically beating me over the head.
But, in the end, I hadn’t slept with Jack.
Something inside me had held on to good sense and rational decision-making—probably that judgmental bridge troll.
Or maybe I’d wanted to have sex with him and he’d turned me down.
That thought was not only mortifying in my present state, but also so embarrassing that teenage Bonnie wanted to crawl into a hole and die.
“Well,” I said, feeling phantom limbs tighten around my airways as my thoughts spiraled. “Thank you again for your help last night. I’ll get out of your hair.” His sweeping dark brown hair was probably long enough to pull back into a trendy little man-bun.
Jack nodded. “Your things are by the counter, on the barstool.”
I smiled stiffly and rose. Sure enough, my red cardigan was folded neatly. Stacked on top was my purse and cell phone.
I washed my mug in the sink, feeling the weight of Jack’s attention on me. When I turned, I caught him watching me curiously.
With my head down, I gathered my belongings and made for the front door.
“See you around, Clyde,” Jack called, amusement evident in his voice.
Something about that made my stomach knot uncomfortably, like the too-cool boy from my youth was making fun of me. Or maybe it was the very real possibility that I shouldn’t have downed all that sugary coffee.
Either way, I hastened my steps, repeating before I tugged the door closed behind me, “It’s Clark, actually.”
By Monday afternoon, I felt a little less like death.
Who knew that hangovers at age thirty-one were slightly more debilitating?
It was nearing four o’clock and the end of my workday. I just had to finish lesson planning and prepping supplies for my fifth graders. They were starting their self-portraits tomorrow—the first major project of the school year for my big kids.
While I loved all my students, the kindergarten through fourth-grade classes could be messy and loud, and chaotic.
Now in my tenth year as an elementary school art teacher, I’d explored a wide variety of media with my students.
I enjoyed the mess and chaos, but I also liked focusing extra attention on my fifth-grade students, who could stay on task for longer periods of time and really apply themselves to bigger projects, like a self-portrait.
Tomorrow, we’d go over the basics, discuss proportions and how to start with a light underdrawing. Then I’d hand out the photographs I’d taken of each student in class today so they had some source imagery to work from.
I sifted through the wallet-sized images of chubby grinning cheeks and gap-toothed smiles. My students really were sweethearts. I loved my job, and I was grateful for all the time I got to spend encouraging my budding artists.
A pang worked its way through my chest, heavy and familiar.
Danny and I had tried for years to get pregnant.
It just hadn’t been in the cards. And now, I didn’t know what the future held for me.
The old hurt took on a new, more desperate edge as I realized, once more, that my future looked very different than how I’d envisioned it.
“Hey, you almost ready?”
My attention snapped to the open doorway of my classroom. My teacher friend April Coolidge was grinning at me, waiting. We usually walked out together in the afternoons.
Despite the heavy turn my thoughts had taken, I couldn’t resist the smile that tugged at my lips as I took in my friend.
She had a new stain near her left shoulder, and half her bun had fallen out.
April taught second grade, and by the end of the day, she typically looked like she’d survived a battle.
I cleared my throat and stood from behind my desk. “Yeah, I’m packing up now.”
April approached and gave me a cautious once-over. “You holding up okay?”
I fought the urge to grind my molars and, instead, gathered my bag from my bottom desk drawer and snagged the loop of my water bottle. “Yep.”
Of course, she was going to ask. April was a year younger than me, and we’d been teaching at Kirby Falls Elementary together for the last eight years.
We went to lunch often and saved each other seats at staff meetings and in-service days.
We were friends. She didn’t know all the gory details of my divorce from Danny.
No one did. Not my family, not my sister, not even my best friend, Candace.
But April knew enough. And last week I’d been married, and now I wasn’t.
“I’m fine,” I insisted when she continued to watch me suspiciously.
As I turned off the lights and we exited my classroom, I felt guilty for dodging her question.
I knew she was only asking because she was concerned.
I couldn’t tell if the awkwardness I felt was really there—hovering in the air between us—or if I was just imagining it because I was so worried about keeping the peace all the time.
Finally, in an effort to smooth things over, I touched her shoulder near the orange smudge on her white blouse. “What’s this from, Coolidge? Paint?”
April looked down where I’d indicated and then brought the fabric to her mouth for a quick lick.
“Oh my God! Don’t do that,” I scolded, but I was laughing too.
“Not paint,” she replied, unbothered. “Cheeto dust from lunch.”
I chuckled. “Your Cheetos, at least?”
She grinned and nodded, what was left of her chestnut-brown bun flopping with the movement. “Oh yeah.”
We continued walking toward the front of the building, and as we drew closer to the school entrance, April murmured a familiar countdown. “And in three . . . two . . . one.”
Sure enough, as we passed the window that looked into the main office, our principal, Mr. Brinkman, glanced up from a stack of papers he was straightening. The office manager was already gone, and he was the lone occupant this late in the afternoon.
And just like every other day, he gave us a smile and a wave through the window.
April and I returned his greeting, waving until he was out of sight. My friend’s bony elbow found its way to my ribs in a teasing gesture.
“Don’t start,” I mumbled tightly. I couldn’t deal with her insinuations today. Not when I was technically single for the first time since I was fourteen years old. She’d been claiming Mr. Brinkman had a crush on me for years.