Chapter Three
Katie
I’m not exactly sure when or how it happened, but sometime between graduating with honours in a degree in education and actually working in a classroom, I fell out of love with teaching.
Don’t get me wrong, the kids are great, and I learn a lot about the next generation with every new class I teach.
Yet, I can’t deny that sitting at a desk, in front of a class of twenty-six students staring expectantly back at me, has lost its allure.
My heart isn’t in it. My head is elsewhere.
It’s at the bar.
It’s in my office there, the one I turned into a small studio.
It’s in the music that I’m planning to record later when school gets out. It’s in the dreams of turning the space into something other than just a sports bar.
I guess I should be sad about the teaching thing.
Most people would be. They would be sad about losing the love for something they worked so hard on, for so long.
My parents spent thousands sending me to college so I could become a teacher, and it turned out that the moment I stepped into the classroom, I lost the love I once held for it.
Or maybe I never loved it at all. Maybe I chose it and then just decided it was easier to settle for it.
Like Grant.
I chose him. We got four years in, and I guess, somewhere along the way, I decided that I had to settle for him. It was fine. Teaching was fine. Being with Grant was fine … in the beginning.
But I wanted more. I still want more.
What that more is, who knows?
I sigh, trying my best not to disturb the room of quietly studying students. There are a few at the back on their phones, but I don’t really mind. They’re quiet. If they don’t get their work done, it’s on them.
I’m subbing for a history teacher today. One with a full schedule and a terrible habit of not leaving lesson plans for me. Today, I’ve mostly been asking kids what they’ve been learning, determining I don’t know enough about the subject, and then letting them use the period as a study session.
It’s giving me a lot, and I mean a lot, of free time to think about my life choices.
The current one plays over and over on repeat in the form of a video on TMZ’s Instagram feed. The short twenty-second video clip has been open on my laptop all day, and I have probably replayed it over a thousand times.
Flynn Reed, punching and then tackling a guy outside my bar a few nights ago.
The same guy who creeped me the hell out with the way he looked at me and leered over the bar.
The same guy who I had one of the other servers that night gently advise to head elsewhere if he and his friends wanted to be served.
Flynn fucking Reed.
Tight end for the Boston Broncos, my best friend’s fiancé’s best friend, and my rebound guy.
I didn’t mean for it to happen. It just sort of did.
I blame Italy. I blame the sun and the wine and the fact that I spent weeks with Flynn Reed without a shirt on.
God, he is so hot.
My eyes go back to the video as I gently hit play again.
My stomach clenches as I watch Flynn rear his fist back and then slam it into the other guy’s face.
I don’t normally condone violence. I hate when fights break out at the bar.
I hate that on game weekends, we have to double the security because a patron always takes it too damn far, but I can’t lie, watching him throw that punch is possibly the sexiest thing I have seen in a long time.
The more I watch it, the more the little details start to jump out at me.
The vein in his neck pulses just before he lunges forward. He flexes his hand after the first punch, but never takes his eyes off the guy. His instinctual dodge just before he takes the guy to the ground.
It’s all very attractive and all very, very annoying.
I didn’t mean to fall into bed with Flynn Reed. I really, really didn’t.
After Grant, I vowed to stay single for a while. My head was all over the place. It is still all over the place. My contract at school as a substitute was over, and I wasn’t sure I even wanted a new one. I was being pulled into two different directions, and then Grant and I … well, we fell apart.
I got on the plane intending to spend a summer in Italy with my best friend and figure out what I wanted. I did not intend to get on that plane, sit next to my secret football crush, and then spend the summer flirting instead of thinking.
I certainly never intended to sleep with him.
A quiet hum of chatter breaks out, and I sigh, close my laptop, and lean my cheek on my hand.
Most of the students are no longer paying attention to their own work and have decided to chat amongst themselves.
I glance at the clock hanging on the back wall of the classroom.
It’s ten to three. Ten minutes before today is over, and I can go home, crawl into bed, and likely watch the video another few hundred times.
Maybe I should just go to the bar after work. That will at least buy me more time away from my mother and her questions. I could go to the bar …
But Flynn Reed will likely be sitting in the booth in the back corner, staring at me all night if I do go. I don’t really feel like putting in the extra effort to ignore him and his lingering gaze tonight.
My phone vibrates, rattling against the desk. I turn it over, seeing a text from my mother.
Mom: Can you bring Sammy home? I’m stuck at the salon.
Well, there goes my bar plan.
***
Dinner at the dining room table in this house is rare.
We might have done it more when it was just Mom, Dad, and me.
They didn’t work as many nights when I was little because there wasn’t anyone to look after me, but even then, they normally alternated.
Then, my mom got pregnant with Sam, and it got a lot more hectic around the house.
The age gap was hard for them. I was turning into a teenager, and Sam was a toddler.
We didn’t exactly have the same schedule that allowed for family dinners.
When I was in high school, my parents both worked full-time at the bar, and I spent most nights babysitting my younger brother.
I went away to college, and then I met Grant.
Now, I’m back living at home for the first time since I was seventeen, and apparently, dinner at the dining table is a thing.
“What was the peak of your day, Katie?” my mother asks as she serves herself some vegetables.
I push a few peas around my plate. “Uh, I didn’t really have one. It was a boring day.” Untrue. This morning, I woke up to half a million subscribers on my YouTube channel.
Secret YouTube channel, that is.
“Oh, come on, pumpkin. Something good must have happened today,” Dad says.
“Uh—” Sometimes, I do wish I hadn’t chosen to keep the channel a complete secret.
But it’s my outlet. My safe place. And besides, Mom has a big mouth and too much time on her hands these days.
“Okay, well, when I picked up my coffee this morning, I was in one of those pay-it-forward chains. Someone had paid for my coffee, and sadly, but also kind of a peak moment, there was no one behind me. So, free coffee.”
My brother scoffs. “Tight ass.”
“Hey!” I stab a potato with my fork and point it at him. “Just wait until you have bills and rent you have to pay, then you’ll also get excited about free coffee.”
“I won’t have to worry. NFL money, baby.” Sammy dances a little in his seat, and it makes my dad chuckle. I simply shake my head but say nothing. Sammy is a great player. But an NFL-level player? Who knows. He’s just turned fourteen and is on the reserve varsity squad. Which he only just made.
“Work hard, son, and you just might make it to the NFL,” Dad tells him. Mom moves on, asking Sam what his peak was for the day. He, of course, says something football-related and then dives immediately into a story about some kid called Samson and another called Stacey. I tune him out.
Oh, to be in high school again and free of worries. Sam’s lucky. He’s only just starting out. I feel like I’ve run the full marathon and came in last place.
“Katie, have you given any thought to applying for the full-time opening I sent you? The one at the high school for the music teacher?” Mom’s question pulls me out of my thoughts.
“Huh?”
“One of the music teachers at the high school is retiring. They’re going to advertise for a full-time position there starting after Christmas break.
” Mom sets her knife and fork down, staring at me.
“Did you not read the text I sent you yesterday? Katie, come on now. You’re supposed to be looking for a full-time teaching job. ”
“Mary,” Dad warns her in a low tone.
“I never said anything about being a full-time teacher,” I correct her.
I work hard to keep my voice calm and non-combative.
I really, really do not have the energy to have a fight with her tonight.
“I like working at the bar. I think, well, I could do that full-time. You know … manage it properly. Formally, I mean. For you.”
My mother’s mouth drops open. “The bar? You want to work full-time at the bar?”
“Maybe. I like it there. I enjoy the work. It’s different every day, and it’s fun. Keeps me on my toes.” I sit straighter in my chair. “And I’ve got heaps of ideas on how we can drum up more business for the summer months—”
“You should apply for the teaching job. You belong in a school,” Mom states. I sigh and back down. It’s not worth it.
Dad clears his throat. “We were, uh—we were thinking about hiring a full-time bar manager. Someone to be there on a regular basis and manage the day-to-day. Most of the evenings and such.”
My cutlery slips from my hands, clattering against my plate. “What?”
“We, your mother and I, just thought it would be a good idea to have someone there when we aren’t. We’re getting older. We have the means now to get help at the bar.” He reaches over and covers my hand with his. I stare at it as he keeps talking, anger beginning to bubble away in my chest.
“I’m there most nights. I am the bar manager. You are literally getting someone to replace me,” I argue. I suck air through my teeth in an effort not to completely lose it. It feels as if my temper is at the end of its tether these days.
“You aren’t there, though. You come and go. Which is fine. I love that you have freedom, but Katie, you need to commit to something.” Dad nods and squeezes my hand. “If you decide you want to be there full-time, the job is yours.”
“I—”
“You should be teaching. You did all that work, to be teaching,” Mom exclaims from the other side of the table, glaring at Dad like he’s just said exactly what she asked him not to. He probably did.
“I don’t know what I want,” I say. “I just … I need time to figure it out. Please?”
Mom clicks her tongue but doesn’t say anything else.
Dad squeezes my hand again, drawing my attention to focus solely on him.
“When you’ve made a choice, let me know.
Until then, I have to do what I have to do to keep the business running, okay?
The sooner you decide, the easier it will be, though. ”
I can only nod. I fall silent at the table as the conversation turns back to my brother. He’s entertaining my parents with another story about his classmates.
I sink back into my chair, wishing I could disappear into my room and put on a record. Something loud and emotional, something to drown out all my confusing thoughts and replace them with those of the artists.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, over and over.
I pull it out from my back pocket and glance down at the screen, my heart jumping to my throat the moment I see whose name is flashing up at me.
Grant.