CROSSROADS
PRESENT DAY
WILLOW
I’m contemplating quitting my job because I need more trees in my life, and as ridiculous as that sounds, I’m already halfway to saying ‘go for it’.
Six weeks ago, right at the end of the final marking period of the school year, I was thinking about how stifled I’ve been lately, living in Manhattan, when an ad popped up on my phone while I was scrolling.
It was promoting an apartment for rent in Central New Jersey. Only a train ride away, but within driving distance of countless parks, shopping malls, and restaurants. I could live among the greenery, but never be so removed from civilization that a city girl would feel out of her element.
With housing the way it is these days, I doubted I would get it. For the cheap rent that was posted, it would be a battle royale just to view the listing—and that’s assuming it was real and not a scam.
But it was real. And after I drove out of the city and into the suburbs to check it out, Mr. Z—my new landlord—offered me a two-month trial before I signed a longer lease. I won the apartment games, and now I’m the proud renter of a three-room condo on the second floor of my building.
I like it. It came fully furnished, from the kitchen table to the couch in the living room, plus the bedroom set and a four-foot-tall standing mirror perched in front of the side wall next to the desk.
Even better for someone who’s lived with roommates her entire adult life.
I brought what I owned personally when I moved out, and I didn’t have to buy much more than food to fill the provided fridge.
I have enough money in the bank after my parents’ unfortunate and way-too-untimely deaths last year that I don’t need to work the upcoming school year.
And if my desire to escape New York and surround myself with some peace is a delayed reaction after it hit me—really hit me—that I was on my own for the first time in my life… yeah. I get it.
I have friends. My girlfriends from my years at the Spence School who have grown into some of the best friends I know. I also have Daphne, my beloved older cousin, and the last family I have left. I have my colleagues, too, but lately… lately I’ve been craving a change.
I’ve been craving adventure.
Now, I love teaching. I love my students.
I even love the charter school most days, though I can definitely live without the countless staff meetings that should’ve been emails, the parents who cross boundaries all of the time, and the administration’s insistence that using computers and trusting AI will somehow make everyone’s lives easier.
Really? When it rots your brain and pollutes the environment? No, thanks.
Not for Willow Ackerly.
But I’ve come to expect it. Every August, they roll out something new, insist it’s easy to use, then spend the next six months sending increasingly desperate instructions that us teachers ignore because, at the end of the day, the kids are all that matter.
Still, the school has been good to me. I would miss my kids if I left, but that doesn’t mean I can’t find a school local to where I am now who needs a grade school English teacher.
But that’s part of my problem. As an English teacher, I explore so many worlds with my kids.
My students read about enchanted forests, hidden kingdoms, cursed castles, gods, monsters, and girls who step into strange lands and discover that—thanks to fate—they were meant for something more.
Somewhere along the line, I began to wonder if there was something like that for me.
The adventure. The romance. True love and a man who worships me the way that I would adore him.
I want my own fairy tale, and considering I’m a twenty-eight-year-old virgin with a cousin who runs off any guy who’s ever been interested in me in case they hurt me while I’m too oblivious to even know they care…
yeah. Maybe my job isn’t the worst of my problems.
Certainly doesn’t help, though.
Ugh.
I glance down at my phone, frowning as I read the subject line:
ATTN: Returning faculty confirmation required
I already skimmed the same email I get every July so I knew exactly what to expect. Administration needs my confirmation by end of day on Friday.
It’s Tuesday, and that means I have a few more days to reply.
Since I have a tendency to forget things, I put a reminder in my calendar to answer the email one way or another on Friday.
Then, exiting my email, I return to the page I was looking at when the mail notification popped up on the top of my phone.
It’s a job listing I found that seems kind of promising.
ASSISTANT NATURALIST — SEASONAL POSITION
It’s located at a nature preserve twenty-eight minutes away from my condo. On the one hand, it pays considerably less than teaching does. It doesn’t have any health benefits, and when it says seasonal, I’m pretty sure that means that it’s summer only. Still… it does sound promising.
With my legs curled up beneath me as I lean back into the couch, I continue to scroll.
Oh, look. Here’s a listing for an outdoor education program. Ooh, and another for a botanical garden. I see one for a state park the would require me to wear khaki shorts as part of the uniform.
I scrunch my nose and scroll right past that one.
A summer breeze blows in through the open window.
On the air, I scent heat and pizza and a hint of dirt.
The heat is easily explainable. It’s the end of July in New Jersey, and I’m just grateful that the stink of the dumpster on the edge of the parking lot doesn’t reach my living room window.
The pizza comes from the cross flow; the back of my condo overlooks a pizzeria that I patronize more than I should.
It’s not an NYC slice, but New Jersey is pretty damn close, and since I prefer to have fresh air blowing over cranking up the AC during the day, I’ve gotten used to the waft of pizza grease and hot cheese.
My stomach grumbles slightly. Hmm. It’s lunchtime. Maybe I should head on over and get a slice or two…
Gripping my phone, I unfold my legs, climbing out of the couch.
I shuffle over to the window, prepared to close it.
While I’m home, I’ll let the breeze in; that, coupled with my living room fan keeps me cool enough when, honestly, I’ve always liked being warm and toasty.
If I’m leaving, though? So the suburbs have a better rep than downtown Manhattan.
Doesn’t mean I’m going to leave the window open so that any weirdo or creep can sneak up the fire escape or, I don’t know, scale the siding to let themselves inside the condo.
I frown when I see the latest sacrifices to the garden gods.
As much as I enjoy nature, I can’t say it enjoys me all that much.
My mother, when she was alive, had a green thumb.
Me? Mine’s more black. Maybe it’s because my absent-mindedness means I forget to water them as much as I should, and while I leave them in direct sunlight on the windowsill, that might be too much sun.
At the very least, my poor dried-out attempts to start an herb garden are an obvious clue that I messed something up again.
Darn it. After I had to throw away the cactus Elisabeth gave me as a housewarming present because I accidentally knocked it over and cracked the pot and, well, the cactus, too, I thought some mint and sage would work.
With a sigh, I have to admit that I had too high of hopes for my own private garden.
Water, I think. Maybe if I give them a little water, it’ll bring them back to life. Probably not, but it’s worth a shot, right?
I’m about to head to the kitchen to grab a cup of water when, suddenly, my phone rings. I give a start, mainly because I’d blanked on realizing that I was holding it in my hand already. Forgetting the plants for a moment, I glance down at the screen.
It’s my landlord.
Mr. Z.
I don’t know him by anything else. His legal last name must have been on the month-by-month lease I signed for July and August, but if it was, I never noticed it.
Don’t know what his first name is, either.
His wife has this quirk where she only refers to him as ‘husband’, and he introduced himself as Mr. Z so Mr. Z he is.
He’s a very… interesting man. And if his wife wasn’t so incredibly—and obviously—protective and possessive of him, I might even admit that he’s super attractive.
He’s got this silver fox thing going on.
His skin is bronzed, his eyes a pale color that had me staring when I first met him in person.
His hair is actually a paler shade of silver, though when you look at the rest of him…
his face, his powerful, muscular build… you realize he doesn’t look as old as he first appears.
Then, of course, you look in his eyes and think that maybe he’s seen some things.
And then there’s his wife. Elisabeth. She’s a stunner, too, and she seemed to warm up a little once she realized that I wasn’t going to hit on her husband.
Not me. Not goody two-shoes, sweet Willow.
She tsk-ed at first, but during the tour of the apartment, she seemed more concerned that I would be living on my own without a chaperone.
A chaperone. Seriously. I had to show my ID and prove that I’m twenty-eight, even if my height and size and my short wavy blonde hair means that I do look younger than I am.
Since then, they’ve visited twice to make sure that I’d settled in all right and that I don’t need anything.
I thought it was sweet, if a little unnecessary.
It’s bad enough that Daphne is convinced I’ll keel over if she’s not there to protect me.
I’ve known her my entire life. I don’t need a pair of married strangers worrying about me, too.
Should I answer? Considering I’m thinking about sticking around once the summer ends, I probably shouldn’t avoid my landlord like I do my friends when I’m not in the mood to talk.
I swipe the screen, then put the phone on speaker. I hate having the phone up against my ear when I’m talking to someone, and since I’m alone and not bothering anyone, I’d rather be comfortable.
“Hello?”
“Willow.”
My landlord’s voice booms out of the phone. He has a rich, deep tone with a hint of an accent that I haven’t been able to place. Something Mediterranean, I think, which would definitely work with his tan.
“Hey, Mr. Z. How are you?”
“You’re unhappy.”
I blink. Okay. I wasn’t expecting that. I’m Willow. I’m bubbly and chipper and even when I’m committing herbicide and debating whether I should risk my livelihood and quit my job, I purposely keep a smile on my face. “What was that?”
“I said that you’re unhappy. I don’t like to see one of my charges unhappy.”
Now, of the two of us, Daphne is the paranoid Ackerly. She says it’s because she’s got an anxiety diagnosis and pills to help her shut her mind off at night. Me? I think it’s because she’s a lot more observant and less oblivious as I am.
Crap. See… I never once thought there might be cameras in the condo I’m renting.
I gulp. “You can see me?”
“Not at the moment, Willow. That’s not what I meant, either.”
Oh. Good. “I’m sorry, but then what do you mean?”
“It’s just something you told me when my wife and I last visited. I’ve been thinking about it, and I might have a solution for you.”