39. Thirty-Nine
Mom cries when I show up with Jack at Reggie’s oceanfront rental two nights later. Like, seriously cries. Especially when Jack tells her, “I’ve changed her mind about romance. You owe me dinner, Christine.”
She enthusiastically obliges. Mira, Jane, and the kids join us, and everyone dotes on Jack like they’re desperate to secure his place in our family. It’s a little embarrassing, but he seems to like it. The bad weather coming over the weekend has prompted Mom and Reggie to move up their travel plans—they leave Thursday. Typically, news like this would have Mom teary about leaving us early.
Not this time. She has Reggie. And she’s leaving me with Jack.
Friday morning, I pick Sara up for school with the top down. She tosses her backpack into the backseat before waving the newspaper.
“You won’t believe what’s in the paper today.” She looks almost purple with giddiness, but it could be her hair reflecting onto her cheeks.
“You read the paper?”
She scoffs. “No, Dad likes keeping up with the police blotter in case his relatives are arrested.”
“Oh, has someone been arrested?” I twist to back out of her driveway.
“Look at this.” She holds up the paper, forcing me to hit the brakes before pulling out. It’s a grainy black-and-white photo of Jack. Guest Columnist is listed under his name next to the title of his piece. Romancing the Learning Curve.
My mouth goes bone dry in nervous anticipation. “He didn’t tell me he was writing for the paper. What does it say?”
“Ah, it’s so good, Rowan. He talks about his awesome class visit, your Inspiration Project, and how giving teenagers more freedom has improved their learning. He quotes Julio, Eddie, and Mia. He says teenagers aren’t the moody, shallow, disinterested jerks older people often judge them to be. If given the right tools, encouragement, and trust, there’s nothing teenagers can’t do. He rants about teacher salaries. He talks about your student pantry and that if we seriously can’t pay teachers what they deserve, then at the very least, the community should get off its ass and provide supplies. He calls you—get this—‘a modern-day Elizabeth Bennett, an intelligent forward-thinker, under-resourced thanks to society, but still bucking against the boring rigamarole of lectures and multiple-choice tests to give her students what they really need—space to fall in love with learning.’”
I scoff while blushing. “If I were his teacher, I’d take off points for hyperbole.”
“He challenges teachers to let go of rigid lesson plans and remember what they once loved about learning—and businesses, communities, and leaders to be supporters rather than critics. Seriously, Rowan, it’s the best article I’ve ever read. He’s so in love with you.”
I meet her coy grin with a light shrug. “Um, it sounds… amazing.”
I read it in the early morning quiet of my classroom, sipping coffee between gasps over his beautiful words. What he’s vying for is nothing new—higher wages and more support. But like everything he writes, there’s magic in it.
He starts with a narrative about his nerves and expectations before his classroom visit. “I didn’t want to be back there, surrounded by kids I didn’t know and aching for the brother I lost.” He explains his warm reception, and how the students’ excitement in showing him their literary mural jolted his preconceived notions—this wasn’t a typical classroom.
Jack provides insightful quotes from my students and discusses our reading adventures. Schools are not institutionalized entities that exist in our communities—they are our communities. I am a childless romance writer—if I can get involved, so can you.
The paper drops to my desk as tears pinprick my eyes. His article feels like a love letter, and the nod to Elizabeth Bennett assures me that’s exactly what it is.
Dr. Evelyn Tate appears in my doorway when my second-period class ends. She carries a small pink clipboard and a smug, glowing expression. Her pleated purple skirt squishes pleasantly as she sashays to me. She smells like lavender and rich people.
She motions to the newspaper on my desk. “We need to talk.”
“Um, okay.”
“I would’ve liked an opportunity to weigh in on that article,” she says, not hiding her annoyance.
“I had nothing to do with it.”
Her eyes narrow like she doesn’t believe me. Then, she looks at her clipboard. “I’ve been tasked with letting you know that… let’s see… a local builder is footing the bill for your field trip buses for your community readings, anywhere you want to go. A book club wants to take over stocking your student pantry—they want a list. The school board has requested a luncheon. I’ll go with you, of course, to help you explain your project… The public library has invited your students to do story times, and they want to send some local authors your way for visits. The TV station where Ashley’s father works has invited you for an interview. I’ll help with that, too. The paper wants to talk about your students writing contemporary book reviews for a weekly column. And the school has received over eight thousand in donations since the article posted last night. So, if you have any wish list items…”
She glances around my eclectic classroom with its thrift store rugs and second-hand furniture. “New decor, perhaps?”
“Um, wow. I-I don’t know what to say. That’s amazing.”
“Well, Jack is full of surprises, but creative types can be very unpredictable. You never know what he might do from one moment to the next.”
Is that jealousy? “Oh, I don’t know. Jack’s lived in the same house all his life. He takes care of his neighbors like family. He’s helping me and my students. That’s not unpredictable. That’s Jack being Jack. But, of course, you don’t know him like I do.”
She winces.
A spark of pride flashes in me. “I’ll get you a list for my pantry. I don’t want the TV interview, but I’ll meet with the school board. I’ll contact the library and the newspaper and have the classes write thank-you’s for the rest if you have their information.”
She unclips the papers and hands them over.
“Thanks, and we like our classroom. The money should go to stocking more contemporary bestsellers in the library. I’ll have my students create a list of suggestions. Oh, and maybe they can write quick notes to put inside, explaining why they loved the book. It’ll create connections between the students.”
I can’t wait to get started on this new extension of our Inspiration Project. But ironically, Dr. Evelyn looks unimpressed as she nods and saunters to the door.
After dropping Sara off that afternoon, I detour to the ABC store and buy the best whiskey my budget allows. At home, I trade my work clothes for a soft sundress and flip-flops. I love Edgar as he meows about his day, chirping at birdies and keeping an eye on things. Then, I carry the artsy whiskey bottle to Jack’s.
Stepping to his front porch, music blares from inside. Metallica. And I wonder what mood he’s creating for his writing—angry, perhaps? I hesitate to push the doorbell.
But, of course, it’s too late.
The door swings open. I jerk, surprised at the movement, and “Nothing Else Matters” loudly hitting my ears. He looks pleased but distracted, like I’ve cut him off mid-sentence. With a hint of surprise and a light perk on his lips, he says, “Rowan… hey.”
“Jack, you’re writing. I wasn’t sure I should bother you.”
“Writing is just what I do until you show up.” He smiles coyly, pressing a remote to turn down the music. “Get your ass in here and tell me about your day.”
Laughing, I obey and wait for the door to shut behind us before pinning him against the wall. My enthusiastic greeting makes us chuckle through kisses. He tastes like coffee and cinnamon, comforting and sweet. His fingers knead my back as they slip lower, stopping only because I pull away, desperate to free my hand from the whiskey bottle.
“My day was amazing, thanks to you.” A little breathless, I thrust the bottle to him. “Thanks for the article.”
Confusion twinges his face briefly. “Oh, did that come out today? Wait, what day is it?”
“Friday.”
He breathes a heavy sigh. “Right. I used to work there. The editor’s been begging me to guest post for years, but I never felt I had much to say. People should know about the good work you do. Not that anyone reads the paper anymore.”
“They do, actually. Donations have been pouring in all day.” My brow creeps up my forehead. “But a modern-day Elizabeth Bennett, Jack? Come on.”
“I had to pull on your literary pigtails a little, right?” He leans down for another soft kiss. “Come, have a drink with me.”
With “Enter Sandman” playing softly from the surround-sound speakers, Jack takes the whiskey into the open kitchen, grabbing glasses. I perch on an island barstool. He pours two drinks and hands one over.
“I’m considering more articles… I mean, maybe. I liked writing something different, something that matters. What do you think?” His hand goes through his hair before staring into his glass as if worried about my answer.
“Yes, definitely, yes.”
He lights up. “I’m itching to do a piece on homelessness. I stayed at a shelter for a few nights, researching Bare. It was… humbling.”
“Wow, you really will do anything for a book.”
He shrugs off how impressed I am. “Then, maybe something on the foster care system, with your help and Mira’s. I don’t know—I could really get into it.”
“You should. Your writing inspires people. Maybe more will step up. I love the idea.”
His head tilts, staring at me. “It’s not all about me anymore. The more I put that into practice, the happier I am. Thanks to you.”
Warmth flushes my cheeks—partly from the whiskey but mostly from him. “For once, I’m in the spotlight and don’t mind the attention… too much. Work has never been better, and neither has… this.”
Shyly, I break eye contact for another sip, which burns in a good way as it slips down my throat. He meets me at my stool, and I grin as he moves between my legs and slips his hands around me.
“This… makes me fucking ecstatic.”
“This… scares me to death,” I whisper.
“Me, too, but in the best possible way.” He leans closer, nuzzling his head against mine. “Are you freaking out?”
A chuckle escapes me at the smirking way he says it, but I admit, “Yes, a little. You’re not?”
“I think in what-ifs, Rowan—of course, I am.”
“So, in your what-ifs, everything falls apart?”
“No, the opposite, actually. Even the worst of my worst-case scenarios ends in loving you. If my head games can’t break us, nothing will.”
“Then why freak out?” I ask, sliding my hands up his chest.
A slow, playful smile eases over his lips as he stares into my eyes. “It’s too good not to, right?”
“Right,” I breathe out in a sigh.
“Devin’s already given me the best advice on this,” he says with an air of expertise. “Just go with it.”
“Just go with it?”
“Yeah, enjoy it. Trust it. Go with it, even when things get hard.”
“Hmm, I like that.”
Hands tugging my thighs, he nestles into me, and his soft kiss on my lips goes from sweet to seductive in a blink. When my cool hands hit his hot chest, he nibbles my bottom lip, and I swear, every nerve erupts with tiny aches for him.
But the doorbell combines with a pinging alert on Jack’s phone.
With a throaty groan, he edges away from me. “I’m going to fucking murder whoever that is.”
I slip my hand into his pocket, retrieving his phone.
He holds up the image—Tom and Vernon on his doorstep in a debate, each holding different sprinkler heads.
I laugh. “Looks serious. I should go anyway. I have a hundred essays on the stylistic differences between classic and contemporary lit waiting for me. Continue this later?”
“As soon as possible. Let’s hunker down at your place for the storm, huh?”
“Sounds like a plan,” I say, not hiding my cheesy grin.