Chapter 9
WESTON
How is it that an elementary school lunchroom in the snowy mountains looks and smells exactly the same as one in the scorching desert?
Moon Ridge is so different from the Phoenix suburb where I grew up, yet the complex aroma of pizza, spilled milk, bleach, and damp mops hits exactly the same as it did a few days ago, and exactly the same as I remember from twenty-five years ago.
God, has it really been a quarter of a century since I was an elementary school student? It’s hard to believe, even though sometimes it seems like much longer.
The kids seem the same, too, except they’re smaller than I ever remember being.
The floors are the same polished tile, and the buzz of conversation is the same controlled chaos. It’s nice to see that some things never change.
I take up my post near the side doors where I have the best sightlines and the best options if something goes wrong.
A line of students files in, following a teacher whose hair is pulled so tightly into a bun it looks painful. The kids grab trays, jostle one another, drop milk cartons, and laugh like nothing in the world can touch them.
A few kids who are sitting at tables, already eating, wave at me. Fire safety week earns you celebrity status around here.
T.J. comes in with his class a few minutes later, spots me immediately, and pauses for a split second. It’s a small hitch, almost nothing, but I’m trained to see almost nothings.
His shoulders are pinched, like he’s bracing. His eyes go to the doors, then back to me. When he gets his food, he goes to the same table he was at last week.
His friend is talking, and T.J. nods along, but he keeps looking around the room like he’s expecting danger, and I get a low burn of anger in my chest that has nowhere to go.
A kid shouldn’t have to do that, especially Tyler’s kid.
I step away from the doors and move through the lunchroom at a casual pace. When I reach T.J.’s table, I stop like I’m checking on table manners.
“Hey, buddy.”
T.J. looks up fast, his face lighting up. “Hi.”
I met him officially at Mae Whitaker’s house yesterday. When I drove by to check on things, Mae’s “friend” Ed Winslow was out front brushing a dusting of snow off the sidewalk, so I stopped and took over for the older man.
Mae came out with coffee and invited us both in when the job was done. Elena and T.J. were at the table, building a LEGO moon rover. After Elena introduced me to her son, I asked if I could help.
T.J. watched me for a few seconds, then slid a handful of pieces toward me. He didn’t say much at first, but he stayed close, tracking what I was doing and correcting me if I reached for the wrong part.
As we worked, he started telling me small facts about space, tricky parts coming up in the build, and what he hoped to build after this set. He kept checking my face, like he was waiting to see if I’d stay interested.
I got the idea that he was missing his father, and he enjoyed my company more than I expected. I shut the thought down before it could turn into something it had no right to be.
“You doing okay today?” I ask him now.
He nods too quickly. “Yeah.”
When his friend looks between us, curious, T.J. says, “He’s a fireman,” in case the boy didn’t notice my shirt.
“I know,” the kid says, “He’s famous.”
I huff out a laugh. “I’m not famous. I just have a job.”
“Are you here because of the fire?” T.J. asks.
“I’m here because you guys have the best lunch in town.”
The friend snorts. “No, we don’t.”
“Watch your mouth.” I hold my finger to my lips, hushing them. “The tater tots can hear you.”
That earns me a small smile from T.J., which is a win. I tap the edge of the table lightly. “Eat your food.”
He takes a big bite like he’s following an order, and something in his serious expression reminds me of his father in a way that makes my bones weary.
I leave them to their lunches and head back across the room, because if I stay here much longer, I’ll start thinking about things I try not to.
As I head back to my post, Elena hurries in like she’s late. Her heels click a rapid beat on the tile as the thick braid in her hair sways back and forth.
The curves of her feminine body sway, too, and I take in every detail while trying not to look like I’m noticing. Even at her fast pace, she moves with perfect posture, an even more impressive feat, knowing how much responsibility and worries she carries.
She greets teachers and students as she passes them, and stops at a table where a minor squabble over a bag of chips is getting heated. After some questioning that I can’t hear from this distance, the dispute is quickly settled, and the kids are smiling again.
Then she heads straight toward me, which pleases me more than it should.
“Coming in on your day off again, Mr. Monroe?” she murmurs when she’s close.
I shrug. “What can I say, Principal Ramirez? I like tater tots.”
She makes a sad face. “Too bad they’re not on the menu today.”
“Guess I’ll have to keep coming back until they show up again.”
She arches an eyebrow, dubious. “Is that what you were after when you came to Mae’s yesterday? And were Buck and Calder looking for tater tots, too? Buck was at the house, and I saw Calder’s truck outside several times.”
“We’re … being around.”
“Being around,” she repeats. “Like how Buck texted me three times yesterday, and I seem to be living on a truck parade route?”
“Sounds exhausting.”
“It is,” she says, “and it’s probably the only reason I was able to sleep this weekend.”
“Good.” An impossibly tiny boy walks by and waves up at me, and I wave back as I lean toward Elena and keep my voice low. “We’re going to keep you safe, Elena. We owe you that.”
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I know it’s the wrong thing. She turns fully toward me, and the look on her face confirms my fumble.
Her voice is several degrees colder when she says, “I don’t want you doing anything out of some sense of duty or obligation. You don’t owe me anything.”