Chapter 18 #2
Faye stands at the front, doing another headcount, her lips moving as she ticks off names.
I hover in the stairwell, waiting. When she finishes and finds me standing behind her, her eyes widen. Because she forgot I’m around? Or am I standing too close?
I gesture to the empty front row. “Is that seat taken?”
Faye glances at the pair of empty seats, then back at me. That pretty pink spreads across her skin.
“No,” she says softly. “It’s available.”
I take the window seat, and after a moment’s hesitation, she slides in beside me. She could’ve gone to the opposite side, which is also free. But she sat with me. A silly grin splits my face.
Grow the fuck up, Ryder. I’m losing it over my crush sitting next to me on the school bus. At this rate, I’m going to prom-pose to her before the end of the trip.
The bus driver closes the door. The engine rumbles to life beneath us. Parents wave from the parking lot as we pull away, and kids press their faces to the windows, waving back.
Faye pulls out a tiny plastic case from her bag. Inside are two fabric bracelets with buttons sewn onto them.
“Seasickness bracelets,” she explains, catching my curious look. She straps them around her wrists, positioning the knobs against her pulse points. “I get carsick. These help.”
I file that information away with the other details I’ve been collecting about her. Loves gaming. Listens to fairy spice. Gets carsick on long drives.
“Anything I can do?” I ask. “Crack a window? Distract you with riveting conversation?”
She smiles, adjusting the bracelets. “Hopefully, it won’t be that bad. But if you see me turning green, have a paper bag ready?”
“Noted.”
The bus merges onto the highway, and the kids’ energy settles. Some play road trip games. Others lean against the windows, already drowsy despite their earlier excitement. Rhys is fogging up the glass and drawing what could be a chicken or a velociraptor.
Faye and I sit in companionable silence.
I’m hyperaware of the way her knee jiggles. Of how she keeps reaching up to adjust her ponytail, fingers sliding along the length of it.
That damn ponytail. It’s begging for me to pull it until she has to tilt her head back, giving me access to kiss the column of her throat until she makes those breathy sounds I’ve been imagining.
I’m regressing. Devolving into a teenager with no self-control.
This is bad.
But also comfortable. Easy. We don’t talk much, but that’s okay. Sharing space with no need to fill it with words is intimate.
The bus rolls onto Highway 54, heading south.
The drive stretches on. An hour passes, then another. Kids doze off or watch the cartoon being projected on the entertainment system. The occasional burst of laughter reaches us from the back rows.
We wind through the Ozark hills, the trees thickening on either side of the road. Spring has turned everything a vibrant green, and wildflowers dot the roadside in bursts of color.
For the entire trip, Bettany keeps me busy in the parents chat.
Faye notices me texting again and asks, “Everything okay?”
“Yeah.” I scroll through my notifications. “Bettany has already sent six update requests in the group chat, and we’re not even there yet.”
She bites back a laugh. “About what?”
“Asking if we’re making good time. If the kids are well-behaved. If the weather looks promising.” I remove my baseball cap, scratch my scalp, and put it back on. “And adding that, as room parent, she’s confident this will be an excellent educational experience.”
Faye smiles. “That title really brings her joy.”
“And you, incredible patience.”
She raises her eyebrows. “Are you complimenting me, Mr. Evans?”
“Stating facts, Miss Rose.”
I read Bettany’s latest text and frown.
“What now?” Faye asks.
I look up from my phone with a sheepish smile. “I think I accidentally volunteered to host the class end-of-year party at the fun farm.”
“Oh, the kids would love that.”
“Ah, then it’s done.” I grin. “I’ll let the room parent steamroll me and pretend it was my idea.”
Faye shakes her head, but she’s still half smiling as, at around ten thirty, the bus slows. We drive past the wooden sign for Roaring River State Park and pull into the visitor center parking lot. The kids perk up, pressing against the windows to see.
“Remember your walking buddies!” Faye calls over the rising noise.
The driver kills the engine and opens the bus door. Before exiting, Faye stands, reminding the kids of the rules.
“We’re at the park to learn and have fun, but safety comes first. Everyone understand?”
“Yes, Miss Rose!”
“Perfect. Let’s have an amazing trip.”
She gets out of the bus, and the kids spill out after her in their usual loud sort of order. I get off after the last one. The morning has warmed up, but the air is still crisp with the scent of the woods and river water.
A park ranger in a green uniform waits by the entrance of the visitor center that’s nestled against the hillside.
She smiles as we approach. “You must be the Harbor Point Elementary group. I’m Ranger Williams. I’ll be your guide for the hatchery tour.”
Faye shakes her hand. “Thank you for having us.”
“Our pleasure. Are we ready?”
The kids yell yes and buzz with anticipation as we follow our guide. We stop for a quick restroom break and then move down a paved path. It winds through the trees, descending toward the rushing river. Then the trail opens up, and the hatchery comes into view.
The spring pool is breathtaking.
Crystal clear water in the most surreal shade of pale turquoise, fed by springs. It’s surrounded by stone and metal railings, and beneath the surface, rainbow trout dart and swirl in hypnotic patterns.
All twenty-two kids crowd forward, pointing and exclaiming.
“These are rainbow trout,” Ranger Williams explains. “We raise them at the hatchery before we release them in cold-water streams and trout parks across Missouri. Who can tell me what trout eat?”
Hands shoot up. Faye points to a girl in the front. “Insects and smaller fish,” she answers confidently.
“Exactly! Who would like to feed them?”
All the kids scream.
Ranger Williams distributes small cups filled with pellets. The kids grab them eagerly, tossing the food into the water. The surface churns as dozens of trout surge upward, mouths gaping.
“Cool!” Tommy Peterson leans so far over the railing that I have to yank him back by his shirt.
“Easy, buddy. Let’s keep dry.”
Faye catches my eye from across the pool and smiles. She’s at the front of the group, while I’m manning the back, making sure no one wanders off or falls in.
The tour continues with Ranger Williams explaining the lifecycle, the conservation efforts, and the importance of clean water.
The kids hang on every word.
By the time we finish, it’s one. Faye gathers everyone, and we walk to the picnic area. She directs our group to the sheltered space, and the kids pull out packed lunches from their backpacks.
I sit next to Faye at the “adult” table.
“They’re having fun,” Faye says, looking around at the kids eating and chattering. “I’ll miss them next year. Great group, this bunch.”
“Because you taught them well.”
She laughs. “They’re good kids.”
“They are. And you’re incredible with them.” I take a bite of chicken sandwich, then add, “It’s amazing how they listen to you. How they respond.”
She glances at me, surprised. “They’re just excited to be on a trip.”
“No, it’s more than that.” I lean forward, elbows on the table. “They follow you because they trust you and want to earn your approval. I only ever listened to my teachers because I didn’t want to get detention.”
“Thank you.” She looks down at her sandwich as she says this. Ah, she’s also not great at accepting compliments.
“I’m serious. Rhys talks about you constantly. You make learning fun. That’s a gift.”
“He makes it easy. They all do.”
“Even the more devil-spirited ones?”
“Especially them. They just need a little extra patience.” She glances up at me teasingly. “They come around eventually.”
Her playful tone and the way she looks at me make me wonder if we’re still talking about the kids.
Or if she means me. How I stormed into her classroom that first day like a bucking bronco, and how I’ve been tamed into a puppy who wags his tail every time she’s near.
After lunch, we let the kids run around on the grass, burning off energy while Faye and I stand at the edge, supervising.
“What’s next?” I ask.
She makes a shocked face. “Did you not read the detailed itinerary the room parent sent you?”
At my you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me glare, she adds, “The River Trail. It’s a beginner hike, only about a mile. Should take us an hour.”
We corral the kids and head for the trailhead. The path is well-maintained and easy to follow, wide enough for the kids to walk two abreast in their buddy pairs. It follows the curve of Roaring River, which rushes and tumbles over rocks beside us.
Trees arch overhead, thick with spring leaves. Dappled sunlight filters through, and the air smells of water and earth and new leaves.
Once again, Faye takes the front of the line while I bring up the rear. We walk slowly, stopping to read the wooden signs scattered along the trail and have teachable moments. About halfway through, the path opens up to a scenic overlook with a spring nestled between high rocks.
This spot has amazing acoustics. A sign informs us.
I can’t resist.
I cup my hands around my mouth and shout, “Hello!”
The sound bounces back from the bluffs, echoing. “Hello… hello… hello…”
The kids go wild.
“Can we try?” Rhys asks, bouncing on his toes.
“Go for it.”
Twenty-two first graders scream into the valley.
But instead of “hello” or their names, they yell bad words.
“BUTTS!”
“FART!”
“POOPY!”
The echoes come back in a wave of juvenile humor, and the kids dissolve into hysterical laughter. They’re crying with it, holding their stomachs, falling over each other.
I’m laughing too. I can’t help it as the shouts continue, overlapping in a ridiculous harmony.
“BUTT-FART-POOPY!” someone yells, and that sets everyone off again.
Faye scowls at me while still smiling.
I wipe my eyes. “I regret nothing.”
“Of course you don’t.”
Eventually, we get the kids calmed down enough to continue. They’re still giggling as we walk, repeating the words to each other and cracking up all over again.
The path winds through thick forest, the river gurgling beside us. Birds call from the trees. Somewhere in the distance, a woodpecker hammers away.
We’re nearing the end of the trail when Faye stops, yelping. Her hand flies up to cover her left eye.
“Miss Rose?” a girl asks, concerned. “Are you alright?”
I push forward through the line of children. “What’s wrong?”
“Something—” Her voice is tight with discomfort. “A bug flew into my eye.”
“Okay, everyone, gather around,” I say, using my best authoritative dad voice. “Nice and tight. Walking buddies hold hands.”
The kids obey, forming a close circle on the trail. With all heads accounted for, I can focus on Faye.
I move in front of her, gently pulling her hand away from her face. Her eye is watering, red and irritated. She’s blinking frantically to dislodge whatever’s stuck.
“Do you see it?” she asks.
“Hold still.”
I dig into my backpack and pull out a travel pack of tissues and my water bottle. I wet a tissue, then step closer.
Without thinking, I cup her face with one hand, tilting it toward the light filtering through the trees.
Her skin is soft under my palm.
Focus, Evans.
I use the damp tissue to wipe her eye. “Blink,” I instruct.
She does.
“Do you still feel it?”
“I… I don’t think so.” She blinks a few more times. “No. It’s gone.”
“Good.”
I brush my thumb across her cheekbone on instinct.
This is how I’d hold her if I were about to kiss her. With my hand cradling her jaw, thumb stroking her skin, her face tilted up toward mine. All I’d have to do is lean in. Close the distance. Find out if her lips are as soft as they look.
But we’re in the middle of a state park with twenty-two children watching.
I drop my hand and take a step back.
Faye’s eye is still red, irritated from the bug. She blinks, wincing.
“Do you have sunglasses?” I ask, voice matter-of-fact, out of sync with the pulse in my throat.
“No, I forgot them.”
I pull off my Bobcats cap. “Here. This’ll help. It’ll keep the sun out of your eye while it recovers.”
I ruffle my flattened hair. She tracks the gesture, looking almost pained by it.
“I—”
“Take the hat, Faye.”
The use of her first name surprises us both. But she takes the cap and puts it on.
And I nearly swallow my tongue when she reaches back and threads her ponytail through the closure flap.
I grit my teeth against the desire to put more of my clothes on her. I want to see her in my shirts, my hoodies, my flannels. And I want to peel every piece off her afterward and—
“How does it look?” she asks, adjusting the fit.
Like you’re mine, my brain supplies helpfully.
“Good,” I manage. “Blue and silver suit you.”
“Thanks.”
She smiles, and I’m glad her smiles are for me, too, now. Hell, I might get greedy and want to keep every single one of them for myself.
And if my son’s entire class wasn’t here, I’m not sure I wouldn’t kiss her now.
Propriety be damned.