CHAPTER 10
Carla
A year later
The second-graders are restless. It's Friday afternoon, and they can smell freedom like bloodhounds on a scent trail. I'm trying to get them to focus on the math worksheet in front of them, but half of them are staring out the window at the playground.
"Miss Alexander," Brayden calls out. "When's recess?"
"Ten more minutes," I say. "If you finish your worksheet."
Groans echo through the classroom, but they bend back over their papers. I walk between the desks, checking their work, offering help where needed.
This is my third week as a substitute teacher at Riverside Elementary. It's not the same as having my own classroom, but it's a start. I'm taking night classes to finish my teaching certificate. Two more semesters and I'll be done.
The door opens, and Mrs. Kim, the school secretary, pokes her head in. "Miss Alexander? You have a visitor."
I look up and see Timothy standing in the hallway, holding a paper bag from the deli down the street. He's wearing jeans and a navy blue button-down, and the sight of him still makes my pulse kick up.
"I'll be right back," I tell the class. "Keep working."
I step into the hallway and close the door behind me.
"What are you doing here?" I ask.
"Lunch." He holds up the bag. "Thought you might be hungry."
"I have lunch in twenty minutes."
"I checked the schedule." He grins. "Figured we could eat in your car."
I should probably tell him to go away. That surprising me at work is unprofessional. But I'm grinning back at him anyway.
"Give me twenty minutes."
"I'll be in the parking lot."
He leans in and kisses me. Just a quick press of lips, nothing inappropriate for an elementary school hallway. But it still sends heat through me.
When the bell rings, I dismiss the kids and grab my purse. Timothy is waiting by my new Honda Civic, leaning against the hood. We totaled the old one. Insurance paid for most of it, and I covered the rest with money I'd saved.
"Hey," I say.
"Hey yourself." He opens the passenger door for me, and I slide in.
We eat in the car, sandwiches and chips spread out between us. It's a routine we've fallen into over the past few months. When Timothy has time, he brings me lunch. When he doesn't, I eat in the teacher's lounge with the other subs.
"How's the class?" he asks.
"Good. Energetic. One kid told me my hair looks like a horse's tail."
Timothy snorts. "Did you thank him?"
"I told him horses have very nice tails."
"That's diplomatic."
"I'm learning."
We eat in silence for a moment, and I watch a group of kids playing on the swings. They're laughing, carefree, and I remember being that age. Before everything got complicated.
"You still want to go look at that house tomorrow?" Timothy asks.
"The one on Maple Street?"
"Yeah."
"Yes. Definitely."
We've been looking at houses for the past month. Nothing serious yet. Just getting a feel for what's out there. But this one on Maple Street has three bedrooms, a big backyard, and it's in a good school district.
It's also way more house than I thought I'd ever be able to afford.
But Timothy keeps saying "we." Like it's a given that we're buying it together. Like it's a given that we're building a life together.
Which I guess we are.
"What time's your last class tonight?" he asks.
"Seven thirty. I should be home by eight fifteen."
"I'll have dinner ready."
He's been doing that a lot lately. Cooking dinner. Making sure I eat. Making sure I take care of myself. It used to annoy me, the hovering. But now I just accept it. It's how he shows love.
And I love him for it.
"Vincent and his wife are coming over Sunday," Timothy says. "Jonah too. We're grilling out."
"Sounds good."
"Yvette's bringing her famous potato salad."
"I've never had it."
"You're in for a treat."
I finish my sandwich and crumple up the wrapper. "I should get back."
"You've still got ten minutes."
"I want to prep for the afternoon."
He nods and leans over, kissing me again. Longer this time. Deeper. His hand comes up to cup the back of my neck, and I'm melting into him.
When we break apart, I'm breathing hard.
"You're trouble," I say.
"You love it."
"I do."
I get out of the car and head back to the building. When I glance over my shoulder, Timothy is watching me. He always watches until I'm inside.
Old habits die hard.
***
THAT NIGHT, I'M EXHAUSTED. The class covered fractions in the afternoon, and trying to explain them to twenty-three seven-year-olds is like herding cats. By the time I get to my night class, my brain is fried.
But I push through. Take notes. Participate in the discussion. Do what I need to do.
When I get home, Timothy is in the kitchen. The apartment smells like garlic and tomatoes, and my stomach growls.
"Pasta?" I guess.
"Spaghetti and meatballs. Your favorite."
"You're spoiling me."
"That's the plan."
I drop my bag on the couch and kick off my shoes. Then I cross to the kitchen and wrap my arms around him from behind. He's stirring the sauce, and I press my face between his shoulder blades.
"Long day?" he asks.
"Yeah."
"Tell me about it."
So I do. I tell him about Brayden asking when recess was every five minutes. About the fractions disaster. About the discussion in my night class on classroom management.
He listens without interrupting. Just stands there stirring sauce and letting me talk.
When I'm done, he turns and pulls me into his arms.
"You're doing great," he says.
"I'm tired."
"That's because you're working hard. But you're going to be an amazing teacher. Those kids are lucky to have you."
"I'm just a sub."
"For now. But in two semesters, you'll have your own classroom. And you're going to change lives."
I want to argue. Want to tell him he's being too optimistic. But the way he's looking at me, like he believes every word, makes it hard to doubt.
"Thank you," I say.
"For what?"
"For believing in me. For pushing me to go back to school. For making sure I eat and sleep and take care of myself."
"You're welcome. But you'd do the same for me."
"I would."
He kisses the top of my head. "Go shower. Dinner will be ready in fifteen."
I head to the bathroom and strip off my clothes. The hot water feels like heaven on my sore muscles. I stand under the spray and let the day wash away.
When I get out, Timothy has dinner on the table. Spaghetti and meatballs. Garlic bread. Salad. It looks like something out of a restaurant.
"You missed your calling," I say, sitting down. "You should've been a chef."
"I like my current job."
"Chasing down bad guys?"
"Keeping people safe."
His security consulting business is doing well. He has three employees now and more clients than he can handle. He's even started teaching self-defense classes at the local community center.
He loves it. And I love seeing him happy.
We eat and talk about our days. He tells me about a new client. I tell him about the house on Maple Street and how I'm secretly hoping we can afford it.
"We can afford it," he says.
"You don't know that."
"I do. I ran the numbers."
"Of course you did."
"That's what I do. I plan."
"Control freak."
"Recovering control freak."
I laugh, and he grins at me.
After dinner, we clean up together. Then we settle on the couch to watch a movie. But I'm asleep before the opening credits finish.
I wake up hours later to Timothy carrying me to bed.
"I can walk," I mumble.
"I like carrying you."
He sets me down on the bed and pulls the covers over me. Then he climbs in beside me and pulls me close.
"Love you," I say.
"Love you too."
***
SATURDAY MORNING, WE drive out to Maple Street to look at the house. It's a ranch-style with white siding and blue shutters. The yard is huge, with big oak trees and a swing set the previous owners left behind.
"It's nice," I say as we pull up.
"It's more than nice. It's ours."
"We haven't even seen the inside yet."
"Doesn't matter. I can feel it."
The realtor, a woman named Linda, meets us at the door. She's cheerful and talkative, and she walks us through every room.
The kitchen is updated with granite countertops and stainless steel appliances. The living room has a fireplace. The master bedroom is huge with a walk-in closet.
But it's the third bedroom that makes my chest ache.
"This would make a great office," Linda says. "Or a nursery."
Timothy glances at me, and I can see the question in his eyes.
"Someday," I say quietly. "Maybe."
He nods, and we move on.
The backyard is even better than the front. There's a deck, a fire pit, and enough space for a garden.
"What do you think?" Timothy asks when Linda steps away to take a phone call.
"I think it's great."
"But?"
"But it's a lot of house. A lot of commitment."
"We're already committed."
"Are we?"
He turns to face me, his expression serious. "Carla, I've been committed since the day I stepped between you and that truck in the Walmart parking lot. Hell, probably before that. This house is just making it official."
"Official."
"Yeah. You and me. Building a life. Making a home. All of it."
"You really want this?"
"I really want this. With you. Only you."
I look around the yard. At the swing set and the fire pit and the deck where we could have dinners with Vincent and Jonah and the rest of the team. At the space where we could plant flowers and vegetables. At the life we could build here.
"Okay," I say.
"Okay?"
"Let's do it. Let's buy the house."
Timothy's face lights up, and he pulls me into a kiss. It's not appropriate for the middle of a realtor showing, but I don't care. I kiss him back, pouring all my hope and fear and love into it.
When we break apart, Linda is standing on the deck, grinning.
"I take it you're interested?" she asks.
"We're very interested," Timothy says.
"Great. Let's go back to my office and start the paperwork."
We spend the next three hours filling out forms and discussing financing. By the time we're done, my hand is cramped from signing my name so many times.