10. Ten
The slammed door shakes the little house and echoes like a car backfire. I’m not a door-slamming person—I regret it immediately, along with everything else. Attending the party. Letting him in. Buying the little house.
I call Dean. No answer.
I’m up and ready to run at 5:30 the next morning. Using the gully next to Jack’s house, I get on the cross-city trail and map out my new routine. It takes me to Magnolia Park, where I do loops without worrying about traffic or neighbors.
But even though it’s a lovely run, two thoughts keep recycling through my head—that I’m not that fucking interesting and I should’ve said no to the little house.
I don’t even want to be interesting. Blending in has been my life goal since fifteen. I spent years wearing hoodies to hide under. Becoming a teacher took mental strength I never knew I had, and it’s still a daily struggle. The last thing I want is more unwanted attention from an arrogant writer who thinks he can use my pain and dares to believe he can understand it.
Five fast miles later, I race over the concrete bridge toward home. Sweaty and winded, I slow down, spilling into the neighborhood. I take in the little house as the sun speckles its bricks and gray roof. It’s not the sad place it was, not with its pansy and marigold flower boxes, freshly repainted blue door, and tidier lawn. With Edgar in the window eyeing my return, the house is postcard-perfect. To me, anyway.
If only I could pick it up and move it elsewhere.
In the shower, I refocus on my inspiration project. The best I can come up with is a vague philosophical approach to classic books—finding the meaning of life through literature. But it feels boring and unimaginative. Still, I make a mental note to grab my annotated copy of A Tale of Two Cities for a story of love and sacrifice to introduce it.
Though it’s summer and I’m technically off-duty, I dress professionally—blue, ankle-length chinos, a pink polka-dotted white blouse with a collar, and my strappy black heels to show Dr. Evelyn Tate that I’ve made an effort. The magazine-worthy administrator appreciates style. With my dark hair straightened into a sleek bob that frames my face and modest make-up covering the bags under my eyes, I’m ready—at least by appearances.
A knock at the door quickens my pulse sharply. It’s probably Rose and Vernon with their tea service, ready to dish about last night.
But it’s Jack.
“I lied.” His hands go up like he’s trying to diffuse a bomb. “You are that fucking interesting.”
“I don’t care. I don’t have time for this.”
“Right, important meeting. You look very nice. Professional. Um, I swear, I come in peace. I-I feel awful about last night.”
“Yeah, me too.” My coffee pot gurgles behind me, but I stay focused on Jack. His stumbling words and distressed expression strike a slightly sympathetic chord in me. “I have to leave in seven minutes.”
“All I need is one. Rowan, please.”
He’s wearing the same clothes as last night, and the soft skin under his eyes is more shaded than usual. I groan, ticking through a must-grab list in my head. Coffee. Keys. Bag. Book. Notebooks. “A minute… but follow me.”
“Awesome.” He closes the door behind us, and I keep a cautious eye on him.
I click-clack over the hardwoods to the kitchen and prepare my coffee.
“Okay, I’ve been an asshole—I get that. Yes, you’ve sparked some ideas. But the party, the dancing—that wasn’t some manipulation to get material. I was having a nice time. I had nothing to do with Renita’s behavior—”
“I know that.” I leave my coffee mug and step into the converted garage.
“Good. Anyway, I could hardly sleep last night thinking about our fight. I’m not a vampire, more of a… scavenger. But I’d never take anything that wasn’t freely given. Understand?”
I shrug, focused on my mission. Two large bookcases flank the side wall—one with annotated books and the other with a rainbow of color-coded three-ring binders labeled by unit. Sure, it’s all material safely secured in the cloud. But it’s comforting and ritualistic for me, beginning a new unit by brushing up on the material in my hands, like going through an old photo album.
“Um, if you say I can’t write about you… And by that, I mean someone like you… then fine. I’ll delete the pages—”
“Really?” I look up from the shelves in surprise. “The first pages you’ve written in over a year? Do you mean that?”
“Yes,” he says with a slight hesitation.
“Good.”
“But maybe you’d be willing to read them first?” His usual broodiness shifts into puppy-dog pleading.
Huffing, I pull out the lavender notebook labeled THEMES and a second one on GENRE. He holds out his arms to carry them for me, and I notice a book tucked against his side. I hand him the stack with a sigh, meeting his eyes.
“Maybe… I really can’t think about this now. I’m woefully unprepared for this meeting.”
He smirks at the notebooks. “It doesn’t look like it.”
A Tale of Two Citiesslides out from the T section of my shelf, and I place it atop Jack’s stack. He awkwardly tucks the notebooks under his arm with his existing book to examine mine. “What the hell is this?”
“A Tale of Two Cities.”
“No, I mean, what’ve you done to it?” He thumbs over the multi-colored sticky notes along its top and side. Flipping through pages, he laughs over my underlines and annotations like I’m a foolish child who colored outside the lines. “Is this a social media thing? Bookstagram? BookTok?”
“No, I’m not on social media. I’m a teacher. I annotated it.”
He cocks his head before he eyes my crowded bookshelves. “Do you treat all your books like this?”
“I do, actually. It’s my job to study books.”
“You aren’t meant to study books. You’re supposed to read and enjoy them.” He holds the book up. “This is the problem with English classes.”
My shoulders slump. Am I really doing this right now? In the kitchen, I grab my oversized bag, holding it open so he can shove the notebooks inside.
“English classes suck the beauty and life out of books and turn kids against reading. Reading is meant to be a wild adventure, not a fucking dissection. Besides, who wants to read long-dead old white guys or repressed women looking for husbands? It’s boring. Over. Done. Do you think Shakespeare would be proud of his forced teen readership? Doing this to a book turns a living, breathing organism into a cadaver. It’s torture, Rowan.”
“I don’t have time for this.” I grab the book and tuck it into my oversized bag before heading out the door.
At my top-down VW, I toss my bag into the passenger seat. He leans beside me, setting the coffee I forgot into the cupholder.
“I know you have to go, but here.” He hands me the book from under his arm. The Other Us. The cover is an artsy blend of blues and blacks around a silhouetted couple—close in one scene while separate in the next like an odd tug-of-war that feels intriguing and sad. “It’s an advanced reader copy. I know you don’t read romance, but can you make an exception? I’d love for you to understand what I do. I promise—it’s not a wine and roses story.”
My fingers slip over the cover, and my stress moves aside for a light smile. Being given an ARC feels like an honor.
“Well, in that case… I’ll give it a shot. Thanks, Jack.”
“You’re welcome.” His smile grows, but he holds up his finger. “But please, read it for pleasure. No highlights or sticky tabs or whatever the hell. Read it as it’s meant to be read. It’s the only way to really live in a story.”
In less than five minutes, he’s insulted my profession and poked fun at my process.
Still, I love the way he describes it. To really live in a story. Part of me wants to blow off Dr. Evelyn Tate for the beach and do exactly that.
With a satisfied grin, he opens the driver’s side door. “Don’t be late.”
“Right!” I get in, tucking his book into my extra-large bag with everything else.
Fifteen minutes later, I arrive at my meeting. Dr. Evelyn Tate’s office is as zen and controlled as she is—a peaceful island amid the unkempt sea of florescent lights, painted concrete walls, and the scent of cleaner mixed with feet. Nothing here is standard issue. She doesn’t use the overhead lights but full-bodied gray lamps on her rustic wood desk. The room smells like fresh linen, and soft blue curtains shield the dingy blinds. A cushy white leather chair awaits me, sitting opposite her more queen-like one. A plush shag carpet cradles my feet. Peaceful scenes cover the concrete walls, boasting words of encouragement. Mind over matter… First, be kind… We are all in this together… Be the difference.
Her perfectly tan face edges into a well-practiced smile. “How’s your summer, Rowan?”
“Busy but productive, thanks. Yours?”
She breaks from her script to hold up her left hand. A rock the size of my car glimmers on her finger. “Same here. He proposed on our Caribbean trip on his yacht.”
“Ah, congratulations. You and Xander are great together. You’re both so accomplished and driven.”
She contemplates my words with an amused air. “Yes. We complement each other. I bet you feel the same way about Dean.”
“We’re a good fit.”
“And you’re so cute,” she adds with a girlish grin.
A forced smile covers my annoyance, though I’m sure she doesn’t mean anything by it. Dean and I are cute. But words are important. It bothers me as if by cute, she implies childlike and small, especially compared to her and her ginormous rock.
“Tell me about your wedding plans. Dean says you’re holding off for now?”
“We’re taking our time. Um, when did you talk to Dean?”
“During our Teams meeting about his project last week. I think we discussed his acting sabbatical more than his project.”
“Right, of course. He’s been very busy.” Last night’s sting resurfaces, with my call to him still unanswered.
She eyes my hands, resting on my crossed thigh, and looks puzzled. “Everything alright between you two?”
Game face, Rowan.“Yes, of course. I forgot my ring this morning. I haven’t gotten used to wearing it yet… I’ve started a wedding binder. It’s full of ideas to talk about when he gets back.”
“The wedding will be lovely, I’m sure. Dean’s such a generous soul.”
Generous?It’s another word that feels like it has a double meaning. Yes, Dean’s a generous person, but of all the adjectives one could use to describe him, why pick that one? Is he generous for loving a woman like me? Generous for still wanting to marry me after I screwed up his proposal?
With a quiet breath, I disregard my oversensitivity. “He is, thanks.”
“Well, I doubt your classroom project is about weddings. Tell me…” She leans back in her soft, white leather chair like I’m meant to blow her away. “How do you plan on inspiring your students this year?”
I don’t know.
“Um, well… It’s very exciting.”
“I’m sure it is.” She gives me a look that suggests that her certainty is fading.
“It is.” I dig in my oversized bag to buy time. I remember something about exploring life philosophies and A Tale of Two Cities, but a glance at her bulletin board of trite sayings muddles my idea. My hand falls onto a book, and I pull it out.
Only it’s not A Tale of Two Cities. My fingers trace the artsy cover of Jack’s book. “The only way to really live in a story is… to read for pleasure. My Inspiration Project is to strengthen my students’ love for reading so it becomes a lifelong habit. What better way to do that than to give them a choice?”
She sits up. “A choice?”
“Yes. They’ll decide what to read, and I’ll help them apply their critical thinking skills to whatever they choose. No more dead white guys or women hunting for husbands. No more antiquated language or outdated themes… unless that’s what they want. Instead, they’ll study heroes outside the white, male, or hetero boxes of classic lit. They can read banned books, modern books, even cheesy romances.”
I hold up Jack’s book. “To set the example, I’ll read this.”
Her porcelain face tilts with surprise. “That book isn’t out yet.”
“It’s an ARC,” I announce proudly, hoping it might earn me extra points. “Are you a Jack Graham fan?”
Her eyes dart to a bookshelf where three of his books fill the space between her high school swimming trophies. Cape Moon is upside down, tempting me to set it right.
“You could say that,” she answers slowly. “This is interesting. You want to give them more autonomy. Liberate them from the oppression of high school English classes.”
“Um, sure. Testing their literary skills against their choices will motivate them, I think.”
“Yes, but how will you grade them? What about their AP exams?”
“They’re juniors and seniors. They’ve already read enough classics to ace the AP exam’s open-ended essay. But we’ll study the same concepts that’ll ensure they score well on the test. As for the classroom…” I take a cleansing breath, the idea forming into something beautifully, irritatingly cogent in my head. “It’ll be like a Montessori approach to an English class—the students will guide the learning. The assignments will be based on what they want to learn.”
I want her to hate the idea, to tell me—no, order me—to come up with something else. My excuses are primed and ready. It’s the wedding… the new house… the foster child living with me soon… I’ve overextended myself, Evelyn. Please give me more time… everything I should’ve said initially.
“Rowan, this is… inspired. It’s so simple and yet so engaging and diverse. Our main goal here is to develop lifelong learners. Your idea does that. You have my full support.”
“Oh, thanks, Evelyn.”
“I will need it in writing, though, with a semester-long plan.”
“Of course.”
She shakes her golden head. “It’s funny. I had a sneaking suspicion that without Dean, you’d struggle coming up with a great idea on your own.”
My gaping expression returns.
“—But I’m happy to be proven wrong. I’m looking forward to an inspired year.”
She stands, indicating that our meeting is over. Feeling somewhat gutted, I leave her—a grateful smile plastered to my face. But inside, I’m crying for the notebooks that will go unused, the books we won’t be reading, and the work ahead of me. I might as well be a first-year teacher with nothing prepared.
That Jack Graham authored this brilliant idea makes it even worse.