Chapter 6
Emma
Twenty-three seven-year-olds are quietly working on their reading worksheets, which feels like a minor miracle.
The classroom hums with the morning energy I’ve come to love, the sounds of pencils scratching against paper, someone’s chair squeaking rhythmically, Liam in the back humming what I’m pretty sure is a trending TikTok song his older brother taught him.
I wander between desks, offering quiet praise and gentle corrections.
Aiden is concentrating so hard on his handwriting that his tongue is sticking out.
Maya has already finished and is doodling elaborate flowers in the margins, which I pretend not to notice because her flowers are actually pretty impressive.
I make my way through the rows until I reach Chloe’s desk. She’s several pages behind where she should be, fiddling with the corner of her worksheet, folding and unfolding the same piece of paper over and over.
That’s not like her at all. Chloe is usually the first one done, already asking if she can read ahead or help someone else. I crouch down beside her desk so we’re at eye level.
“Hey,” I say quietly. “You alright?”
She looks up at me with those big brown eyes—Theo’s eyes, I realize—and I can see they’re red around the edges.
She sighs, a sound way too heavy for a seven-year-old. “Yeah, I just have trouble focusing today, Miss Hayes,” she says, her voice small.
“That’s okay. We all have days like that.” I keep my voice gentle. “Do you want to tell me what’s going on? Sometimes talking about it helps.”
She looks down at her worksheet, then back up at me, and I watch her decide whether to trust me with whatever’s bothering her.
“It’s just... I was supposed to see my mom this weekend and she can’t come because something really important came up for work.
” She traces her finger along the edge of her desk.
“I haven’t seen her in a really long time and I’m just feeling big feelings about it today, which my daddy says is okay to feel, but I hate feeling like this. ”
Oh, my heart.
I lower myself to sit on the floor next to her desk, getting as close to her level as I can. “Your daddy is absolutely right. Big feelings are okay, and it makes sense that you’re sad about not seeing your mom this weekend.”
She nods, her shoulders slumping. “I took a bunch of photos at the aquarium on my camera. The one my mom got me for my birthday. I wanted to show her all of them and tell her about the octopus and the sea otters. There was this one sea otter that kept doing backflips and I got like ten pictures of him.”
“That sounds really special,” I say. “I bet she’s going to love hearing about them.”
“Yeah.” She looks down at her hands. “Daddy said I can tell her about them on the phone tonight. But I really wanted to see her, you know? She doesn’t get to see me very much.” Her voice drops even quieter. “And she canceled last time too.”
Her eyes start to well up and she bites her lip hard, looking like she wants to do anything but cry in the middle of class.
I’m torn between two equally strong urges—one to scoop her up and protect her from any and all pain in the world, and another to find this woman and give her a piece of my mind.
Maybe a swift kick in the shin while I’m at it.
I opt for the more professional approach.
“Oh sweetie. It’s okay to miss your mom.
I miss my mom a lot too.” The words come out before I can think better of them, but they’re true.
“Sometimes when we really miss someone, everything feels a little bit harder. Even things that are usually easy. Like reading worksheets.”
She looks at me with those big eyes, surprised. “So this happens to you too?”
“Yeah, it does. When I’m missing my mom, I let myself feel it for a bit, but I know it makes it harder to focus on regular stuff.” I keep my voice soft. “So if you need a break today, or if you need to work on something else for a bit, that’s completely okay.”
“Really?”
“Really,” I say, and glance around the room at the other students still working at their desks. “How about this,,, why don’t you go sit in the reading corner for a few minutes? Take a little break with one of your favorites. Sound good?”
She bites her lip again, fresh tears threatening. “But I don’t want to do bad on the vocabulary test. I’m usually really good at them.”
Right. Competitive Chloe. She doesn’t love standardized testing, but she’s so driven that she works extra hard to ace everything anyway. We’re supposed to do the vocabulary quiz this afternoon, part of my carefully planned lesson schedule.
I glance at the clock, then back at Chloe’s face. At the way she’s trying so hard to hold it together.
Screw the lesson plan.
“You know what? Then I guess the test is just gonna have to wait,” I say.
She looks up at me, surprised, and manages a small smile as she wipes away the tear that escaped down her cheek. I give her a wink and stand up, brushing off my knees.
“Change of plans,” I announce, clapping my hands twice.
Twenty-three heads swivel toward me with varying degrees of interest. “We’re doing something special today.
Free art time with popsicle party. I know that was scheduled for next week, but we’re moving it to today.
The vocabulary quiz can wait until Friday.
Put your worksheets aside and I’ll collect them so we can finish later. Let’s go!”
The reaction is immediate and gratifying, kids cheering like I just announced a trip to Disneyland. Chloe’s face transforms completely, the sadness replaced by something closer to excitement. She’s not back to her usual bouncing self, but this is progress.
I head to the supply closet and pull out the good stuff: the nice acrylics I bought with my own money because the school-provided tempera paints are basically colored water, the big brushes, the fancy paper that actually holds color without bleeding through.
I put on music and help distribute supplies while the classroom transforms into controlled chaos around me.
Kids claim spots at tables, negotiate over colors.
Mia is already on the verge of tears because Tyler took the purple and purple is her favorite.
I mediate the purple dispute, then produce a second purple from the supply closet like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat. Crisis averted.
I glance over at Chloe. She’s sitting with Aiden and Maya, drawing something that looks like underwater creatures, and she’s smiling. Actually smiling. And that’s enough for right now.
The Black Lantern looks like exactly what I need.
The building sits on the corner, older but well-loved, with hanging baskets full of fall mums and pumpkins scattered around the entrance. Warm light pours out of the windows, casting golden rectangles onto the sidewalk, and the whole thing radiates the kind of small-town charm I moved here for.
Theo mentioned this place when he showed me the apartment, and I’ve been meaning to check it out ever since. And now that I’m living downtown, The Black Lantern is only a short walk away.
I push through the door and warmth wraps around me immediately, along with the smell of woodsmoke and beer and something savory cooking in the kitchen.
Golden string lights crisscross the ceiling, the wooden bar looks like it’s been here for decades, and conversations layer over each other in that comfortable hum of people enjoying their evening.
I take it all in. Mismatched tables and chairs scattered throughout.
An overstuffed bookshelf in the corner, board games stacked haphazardly between paperbacks and hardcovers.
And the most adorable golden retriever I’ve ever seen, napping on a plush dog bed near the bar with a hand-painted sign that says “Loves Attention.”
Now this is my kind of place.
I find a spot at the bar and climb onto a stool, letting the tension drain out of my shoulders. Teaching is exhausting in ways that everybody warned me about but I didn’t quite believe until I started living it.
And it’s not just being on your feet all day, chasing small humans around, and trying to keep them organized while actually teaching them things.
It’s the emotional stuff, too. Dealing with tantrums, sometimes from kids but more often from their parents, though thankfully that hasn’t been an issue this week.
But mostly it’s carrying all their stuff on top of your own.
Twenty-three little hearts that you worry about when you go home at night, twenty-three sets of problems you can’t always fix.
Trying to be what they need when sometimes you’re not even sure what you need yourself.
A blonde woman appears behind the bar, and I do a double take because she’s stunning. Late twenties or early thirties, with the kind of effortless confidence that makes her seem like she owns not just the bar, but the entire town. She smiles when she sees me.
“Hey there.” She grabs a bar towel and tosses it over her shoulder. “Welcome to The Black Lantern. I don’t think I’ve seen you before. Passing through or new in town?”
“New,” I say, already liking her. “I moved here right before the school year started, but this is my first time in.”
“Ah, a teacher then.” She leans forward on the bar, resting her elbows on the polished wood. “Elementary or high school?”
“First grade. And literally everyone has been telling me I need to check this place out. Apparently it’s a Dark River essential.”
“Aw, that’s sweet.” Her expression softens.
“This place has been here for ages. A woman named Susan Midnight ran it before I bought it from her. She was pretty much the heart and soul of this town, so I try to keep it feeling like the community space she built. Honestly, I was lucky enough to inherit all the goodwill. The hard part was already done.”
The name Midnight registers and I freeze. No way.
“Wait, how many Midnights are in this town?” The question comes out higher than I intended.