Chapter 19 Nicola
The final bell doesn’t scream relief today; it’s a starting gun.
Not freedom, but the signal for a gauntlet.
I clamp my smile in place, a practiced maneuver, as my third graders burst from their desks—a wave of motion and sound, backpacks swinging, voices high with release.
“Have a wonderful evening, everyone! See you bright and early tomorrow!” My call is too loud, too bright, the cheerfulness edged with strain.
They beam back, oblivious. Little hands wave, bright faces vanish out the door, and the classroom falls silent, a sudden, oppressive quiet.
Usually, this is my cherished pause, the hush after the joyful chaos.
Time to breathe, to gather stray thoughts and pencils, to ready for the next surge of energy.
Today, the quiet presses in, heavy and suffocating.
I begin tidying desks, picking up the debris of the day—pencils, crumpled paper—movements stiff and automatic.
My mind replays snippets of hallway whispers, the too-brief, too-knowing glances from parents at pick-up.
It’s been a slow creep over the past few weeks, a subtle chill in the usual friendly air.
Stacking textbooks now, the chill solidifies; I know exactly what’s been brewing.
A hesitant tap on the open doorframe and I jerk my head up, forcing my smile wider, brighter than necessary. “Hi, Mrs. Davison.” I recognize her, one of my student’s mothers. Usually, she's a beacon of smiles and compliments. Today, her face is set, expression tight… concerned or something sharper?
“Ms. Williams,” Mrs. Davison begins, voice overly sweet, disturbingly formal. “Could I have a quick word before you leave?”
My smile wavers, a micro-tremor, but enough, I’m sure, for her to notice.
“Of course,” I reply, aiming for lightness, for professional ease.
“Is everything alright?” My pulse flickers, then speeds up, a frantic drum against my ribs.
Cold dread settles in my belly; I have a sinking certainty about what this is about.
She enters, and the room feels smaller. Mrs. Davison clears her throat, a dry, rasping sound. “We’ve just… well, I’ve noticed you’ve been… busy lately.”
Busy? Is that the euphemism? Heat prickles my cheeks. “Yes, it’s been a busy time of year,” I agree, my tone carefully neutral, betraying nothing. “End of term reports, holiday festival planning…”
Mrs. Davison steps closer, smile gone, lips now a pinched, disapproving line. “The articles about you and Mr. Baxter. The… billionaire.” ‘Billionaire’ drips from her tongue like acid. “I’ve seen you two… out. Quite a bit, actually.”
And flying to Atlanta. The jet. Always Odin. Always amplified, distorted. I think to myself, this is what fake dating a billionaire gets you – no privacy.
“My personal life is precisely that,” I state, my voice deliberately even, refusing to tremble. “Personal. It has zero impact on my dedication to my students or my teaching.”
Mrs. Davison raises a skeptical brow, her expression unconvinced. “But Ms. Williams, you’re a role model for our children. We expect a certain standard.”
Standard? Is dating someone now a breach of conduct? Dinner? A quick trip? Falling…? Is happiness itself the transgression?
“And what standard do you believe I’m not meeting?” I challenge, my voice edged sharper than I intended. The carefully constructed calm begins to splinter.
Mrs. Davison edges closer, voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial murmur.
“Well, the… whirlwind romance. The sudden engagement. It all seems rather fast. And public.” She gestures vaguely, encompassing the classroom, the town, the invisible web of the internet, it seems. “I just need to be sure your per sonal choices won’t reflect poorly on the school, or our children. ”
Temper sparks, a hot flare of outrage. Who is she?
Judging, scrutinizing, presuming to dictate the contours of my life?
I swallow it back, the acid burn of anger, forcing myself to see past her nosiness to the underlying worry.
Parent. Worried. Misguided, nosy, yes, but maybe, fundamentally, worried.
“I understand your concern,” I say, my voice now polished ice, all hint of warmth, of sunshine, utterly extinguished.
“But I assure you, my commitment remains absolute. My personal life is separate, and it will not intrude upon my teaching. My dedication to their education and well-being is unchanged.”
Mrs. Davison shifts, visibly uncomfortable under the sudden frost. “It’s just…
the gossip, Ms. Williams. It’s everywhere.
And with Mr. Baxter’s past. Her voice trails off, letting the unspoken implications hang – Odin’s rock star history, the tragedy, the shadowy ‘bad boy’ aura.
Does she think he’ll taint me? Contaminate her children with rock star cooties?
“Mr. Baxter’s past is his,” I insist, my voice firm, unwavering. “It is irrelevant to my capability to teach third grade. I am a professional, and I take my responsibilities seriously.”
Mrs. Davison nods stiffly, and finally retreats, back straight, disapproval radiating off her like heat. “We only want what’s best for our children, Ms. Williams.”
“As do I,” I state, quiet but resolute. The truest thing I’ve said all day. Best for my students. And right now, best for me is escape. Escape her nosy stares, her suffocating concern.
She’s barely out the door before my phone buzzes in my pocket. Weather alert. Freezing rain expected. I pull it out, glancing at the radar. Not for a few hours yet.
“Hey, Nicola, you heading out?” Mrs. Henderson calls from the doorway, popping her head in. “Just wanted to mention, school’s suggesting we leave a little early with this weather coming in. Freezing rain and all that.”
“Yeah, just saw the alert,” I reply, shoving my phone back in my bag. “Thanks, Mrs. Henderson.”
“ Stay safe!” she calls, already moving down the hall.
Safe. Right. Best for me is escape. Escape their judgmental stares, their suffocating disapproval, and find someone, anyone, who sees me , understands me.
Grabbing my bag, slinging it over my shoulder, I practically flee the classroom.
The hallways stretch empty and echoing. My heels click a rapid rhythm on the linoleum, my mind racing, a frantic spin cycle of indignation and hurt.
Riley. I need Riley. She’ll get it. She always does.
And I have time before the freezing rain starts.
Fumbling my phone from my bag as I reach the car, I scroll to Riley’s name, thumb hovering impatiently over the call button. Second ring, and her voice bursts through, bright, undiminished sunshine. “Hey, What’s up?”
“Hey, Riley, can you talk?” I hear the strange flat tone that is my voice saying those words and it seems unreal.
“Always for you,” she responds, her tone instantly shifting, dropping to a concerned, grounded level. “What is it? You sound… off.”
“Just had a… parent thing,” I explain, forcing a hollow laugh. “About… you know.”
Pause. I could practically hear Riley’s theatrical eye-roll through the phone line. “Let me guess. Odin? Private jets? Billionaire boyfriend?”
“All of the above,” I confirm, sighing, deflating. “Mrs. Davison cornered me after school, implied things about my ‘standards’ and how my ‘choices’ reflect on the school .” I practically spit the word.
Riley makes a sound like a strangled laugh, edged with a growl. “Are you kidding me? That busybody! What exactly did she say ?”
The words tumble out, a rush of indignant retelling, the nosy questions, the veiled implications. As I speak, anger reignites, hotter this time, fueled by Riley’s immediate, visceral outrage.
“ That’s insane !” Riley explodes when I finish. “Nicola, you are the goddamn best teacher in that whole town! Those kids are lucky to have you. And what you do with your personal life is none – none – of her freaking business!”
“I know!” I exclaim, finally feeling a flicker of relief, a rush of validation. “It’s just… so frustrating. Like I’m guilty of… existing happily. Just because I’m supposedly dating Odin, suddenly I’m… scandalous?”
“Honey, you’re dating a Baxter,” Riley drawls, her voice dry, amused. “Even if it is fake dating. Scandal’s basically a family heirloom. Just kidding… mostly.” A genuine laugh bubbles through, infectious, and I can’t help but chuckle with her, a thread of tension easing.
“Seriously, though, dating the rich and famous draws a crowd.” Riley continues, steel edging back into her voice. “Don’t let them get to you. She’s just nosy. Nosy about your life, nosy about Odin, probably nosy about everything. ”
“Maybe,” I concede, a real smile tugging now. “But it still stings. I don’t like feeling talked about, even if it’s just nosiness.”
“I know, sweetie,” Riley softens, warmth flooding back into her tone. “But don’t hand her the victory. You’re amazing, Nicola. Inside out. If she’s too small-minded to see that, her loss, not yours.”
“Thanks, Riley,” I breathe, warmth spreading through me, genuine and restorative. “I seriously needed to hear that.”
“Anytime,. Now, ditch the judgmental PTA wannabe and come get ice cream. My treat. We’ll strategize Redwood Hills nosy parent demolition, maybe even start some counter-rumors of our own.”
“Oh yeah,” Riley’s voice turns mischievous, “Operation: Sunshine and Scandal. Let’s give them something real to talk about.”
“I don’t know about ‘scandalous’,” I demur, grinning. “But ice cream? Defini tely on board.”
“Perfect,” Riley chirps. “Scoops, fifteen minutes? And bring sunglasses. Paparazzi, you know.”
I laugh again, shaking my head, energy returning, lightness blooming in my chest. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you adore me for it,” she teases. “Now go. Ice cream awaits. And maybe a little controlled detonation of Redwood Hills hypocrisy… and nosiness.”
Hanging up, I feel lighter, straighter, recalibrated.
Riley is right about not handing her victory.
I won't . Nicola Williams, teacher, yes.
But also Nicola Williams, the woman falling for a grumpy billionaire rock star.
If Redwood Hills wants to be nosy? Let them spin their tales.
Ice cream, best friend plotting, and a dash of delicious, deliberate fun, awaits.