8. Claire
eight
“How long areyou going to be this time?”
“I have the book on hold, so maybe like ten minutes?”
With her arms crossed over her chest, Zoey dips her chin and eyes me with annoyedskepticism.
“The last time you ‘had a book on hold,’ we were here for over an hour.”
I put the car in park, unbuckle, and grin at my little sister.
“This is literally my only me-time. Grin and bear it. For me? Please?”
I toss her a puppy dog pout for good measure, and though she groans and tosses her head back, she does manage to get out of the car.
We walk through the library’s automatic double doors, and I pause just inside, close my eyes, and inhale. Books have always been my happy place. Since I taught myself to read at age three, I’ve always found solace in fictitious places. I lived at Hogwarts, disappeared into Narnia, and made friends with Junie B. as place holders for the real world I never really got to see.
Sure, I had school friends, but the second my parents saw me as a free third wheel to their caretaking, my social life was diminished to just that: school relationships. Family comes first lasted about until we found out that Michael was something of a soccer superstar. Until we discovered that Zoey was a cello prodigy with Einstein’s smarts. Then, suddenly, extracurricular activities were allowed—encouraged even. Of course, it helped that I was getting my license around the time that my brother and sister needed rides to practices and games and events.
So, books are, and always have been, my escape.
My sister can handle an hour at the library every few weeks. And besides, she has her own reasons for wanting to be here.
I predict her, “I’m going to play chess then,” before she has even popped my bubble of happiness.
“Don’t make the old men cry too much this time.”
“No promises,” she offers without even turning around.
I snort. Add chess extraordinaire to my sister’s list of endlessly perfect talents. I don’t think the kid has lost a game of chess yet.
What’s frustrating is the way that, in all of my hard-earned brilliance myself, chess is the one thing I can’t master. I taught her the basics when she was five using a YouTube video, and after three practice games, she was whooping my butt. It’s part of the reason that I reserve my library trips for Tuesdays: Zoey won’t complain if I stop on the way back from her advanced math tutoring session, because it gives her time to practice against people who can actually play.
In the meantime, I set a forty-five minute alarm and peruse the shelves. My first stop is to pick up the paperback I’ve had on hold forever—it isn’t in Kindle Unlimited, which is a crime, but I’ve had this story on hold for two months now, and I’m sure as hell going to savor it. I stop at all of the displays, spending almost as much time at the banned books table as I do the table labeled “Controversial Staff Picks.”
Eventually, my alarm buzzes on my watch, and I start heading toward the community lounge where Tuesday chess takes place. There are several tables, most occupied by men past their sixties. I scan the crowd to find my sister, when I hear her first.
“…absolutely not! That’s not even possible.”
“Would you like me to run it by you again? I’m happy to relive the glory.”
I don’t know what stuns me more. The fact that my sister is slumped in a state of defeat across the chess board from Nathan Harding, or the fact that his victory somehow posted a real live smile across his cheeks.
I’m floored. So much so that I stand planted in place to watch the interaction for a few more moments from the edge of the room. Nathan’s haughty grin softens as I see that classic teacher-mode snap into place. He gestures to the board, and I catch phrases like sacrificed my knight and diverted my bishop. I have absolutely no clue what he did to devastate my sister, but I’ve never seen the kid more focused in her entire life. Things come naturally and easily to her. I can only see her profile from here, but she’s hungry, studying every flex of Nathan’s body, and suddenly, I find myself doing the same—just not in the same ways as my sister.
Zoey is watching him for chess tips. I, unfortunately, am suddenly noticing things about my assistant principal that I never have before.
Like his square jaw, and the defined thickness of his brows over his glasses. His hair is full, and only slightly disheveled, like the work day couldn’t bother a hair out of place, but maybe library chess with a sixth grader did. As I follow the hand that’s gesturing to the chess board, I can’t help but trace the muscle of his forearm up the uncreased sleeve of his button-down. Does this man seriously not break a sweat all day?
Not even the checkered blue and green pattern can hide the fact that, somewhere beneath his buttoned persona, Nathan Harding is clearly fit. There’s hidden definition behind those buttons, and I want to undo them and find out just how.
Wait, what the hell?
I snap out of it. Snap all the way the hell out of it.
I’m standing in the middle of a public library for crying out loud making googly eyes over my boss?
Well. He’s technically my boss. Technically speaking, the school hires subs from an outsourced company. I’m a substitute teacher in the school he works at. Technically, he’s my boss.
Stop thinking in technicalities, Claire. He is your boss, and he’s also way older than you, and he’s kind of an asshole who hates your guts, and also he’s looking right at you?—
The mist fades away. I’ve been made. And suddenly, Nathan transforms from the soft yet focused chess protégé back into the man I see every day in the hallway when we cross paths and he finds some way to criticize me. His brows—those same thick, defined brows I’d just been admiring—furrow to a crease in the middle. His head tilts to the side. His eyes turn to slits, his predatory gaze taking mine as its prisoner. And my name rolls off his tongue in a question so piercing, it makes me feel out of place.
“Ms. Benson?”
“How’d you know my last name?”
Zoey breaks the tension, Nathan’s laser eyes releasing me from their grasp to snap back to my sister.
Why does he soften immediately with her, but can’t give me that same courtesy?
“I’m sorry, I was actually talking to?—”
“Me.” I place a hand on Zoey’s shoulder, and she looks up at me. “Zoey, this is Mr. Harding, the assistant principal at River Valley, where I’m subbing. Mr. Harding, meet the feistiest of the Benson sisters, Zoey.”
He blinks, awareness piecing together like building blocks, and then shifts his gaze from me to Zoey, then back to me.
“I didn’t think they could get any feistier.”
I laugh. I can’t hold it in. I didn’t actually believe this man was capable of humor.
I cover my smile with my book, but his eyes catch mine again, the green swirling around the gold, all swimming with something I can’t quite place. I’m about to put my finger on it when Zoey interrupts us.
“Teach me.”
“Pardon?”
Nathan’s head tilts inquisitively as he blinks rapidly to dispel whatever we’d both just been trapped in.
“Teach me how to execute that move. Claire can go look at books for a little while longer anyway, right?”
She’s got me there. This kid knows my weaknesses.
“I think I’m done browsing, but I can get started on my book. I’ll be over there when you’re finished.”
She smiles in a mixture of pleasure and determination, nods curtly, then locks in her game face as she lets Nathan Harding teach her how to be better at chess. I was sorely mistaken if I thought I’d get anywhere in this book. Perched on one of the big comfy library chairs with my book raised in front of my face like a shield, I haven’t taken my eyes from them.
I know Nathan Harding, the assistant principal of River Valley Middle School. I have never met this man before.
The one whose gaze softens, whose tone turns from placid to patient. Who gives firm encouragement and pauses in my sister’s frustration. I guess I’ve only ever seen him with Rocco, but still. Where has he been hiding this side of him?
It takes Zoey no less than four tries to execute the move in game play, once he’s walked her through a few scenarios, and she comes away looking like the cat that got the whole cage of canaries.
“Thanks, Harding. I can’t wait to use this against Billy Mitchell at chess club later this week. He’s going to crap his pants.”
Nathan’s face flushes a color of pink I’ve never seen him wear before. He sticks out his hand to my sister’s waiting one and they shake.
“You’re a worthy opponent, Ms. Benson. Maybe we’ll meet again.”
“Ms. Benson is my sister. You can just call me Zoey next time.”
“Zoey it is.”
God, the balls on this kid.
I stand, tucking my new library book into my bag, and approach the table. Zoey zips up her sweatshirt and says something about a book she needs for research. I promise to meet her by the nonfiction section. She hurries off, leaving me alone with Nathan.
An unfamiliar twirl happens in my gut when we’re alone together. Well, not alone—there are still a bunch of old timers—but the sensation of being just him and me churns up something I haven’t felt in a long, long time.
Are those, perhaps, butterflies?
“Your sister is excellent at chess.”
“She is,” I nod, pursing my smile. “I’m glad someone finally put her in her place. She could use a challenge.”
“Do you not play?”
I shake my head. “Nope. Used a YouTube video to teach her when checkers got to be too easy. She was better than me by the end of the day. She’s on her STEM school’s team. If she doesn’t win any Nobel Prizes, or the award for biggest pain in my ass, she could definitely win something for chess.”
To my surprise, Nathan smiles. It’s small, amused, and dare I say there’s a little twinkle in those eyes? I have to shake my head to dispel the fact that the power of that small smile made the butterflies ramp up.
“I should probably get going. Zoey gets kind of testy when?—”
“I literally found and checked out my book, Claire. Let’s go. I don’t get to be on my Switch after eight-o’clock!”
Nathan’s eyebrows make a slow climb of his forehead, his eyes widening comically.
I shrug. “Told you she was feisty.”
And for the second time today, hell freezes over. Nathan Harding laughs. It’s small. A puff of air from a discreet smile. But I made that happen. Damn, these butterflies can settle down whenever they’d like to.
“I’d better go. Have a good night, Mr. Harding.”
I raise my hand in a goodbye wave as he nods and does the same.
If I’d been willing the butterflies to calm down a moment ago, it’s useless the moment I hear him mutter, I still don’t think I’d call her the feistiest.