Chapter 10 – Analyse
Chapter Ten
ANALYSE
The next few days pass in a whirl.
We’re a few weeks away from Thanksgiving break and then Christmas following soon after, and my students are feral.
I’m pulling out all the tricks to try and keep them engaged—mini whiteboards, very dramatic and theatrical read-alouds, bribery via snacks.
None of it sticks. These kids are bloodhounds, and they smell that the holidays are right around the corner.
“Miss Garcia,” one of them groans mid-math lesson, “can’t we just watch a movie?”
“Sure,” I say sweetly, “as soon as you can multiply three-digit numbers without crying.”
The class groans in unison. Internally, I’m groaning as well. Truthfully, I don’t want to be doing this any more than they do. My head’s not in it today, my patience is hanging by a thread, and I’ve already refilled my coffee three times just to survive the morning.
I love these kids—I do—but today, I’m struggling, and it’s not even their fault. Damn Nico for getting into my head while I’m at a job that I actually love.
He’s been calling more. Texting, too. Little check-ins disguised as the doting father.
But I know what he’s doing. He doesn’t miss me.
He misses having access to me. It must eat at him to think I’m in a happy relationship.
That I had the audacity to move on from him.
To be happy without him. He thought he would leave me on my own—with our baby—and I’d be here waiting for him when he was ready.
That I’d be waiting, always, for him to come back.
I realize now that that’s the kind of man Nico is. The kind that walks away and still expects the world to revolve around him. But I didn’t wait. I built a life without him. And now, the idea that I might actually be happy—without him, because of someone else—it’s crawling under his skin. Good.
“Miss Garcia, Umberto is trying to turn his desk into a spaceship again!”
Dios mio. I blink, refocus, and look up just in time to see Umberto on his knees beside his desk, arms flapping, making rocket noises while taping two rulers to the sides of his chair.
You’ve gotta be kidding me.
“Umberto,” I say as evenly as possible. “What did we say about aviation projects during math?”
He freezes mid-launch. “Not to do it?”
“That’s right. And yet, here we are.”
He stares at me for a beat, then he sighs, peels the rulers off one at a time, and mutters, “Nobody respects visionaries.”
I raise a brow but say nothing, and he takes his seat with exaggerated drama. I turn back to the board and try to remember where I left off. Something about fractions. Or maybe it was subtraction. Shit, I need to check my notes.
But at least I’m not thinking about Nico and his bullshit anymore.
That afternoon, I’m in the teacher’s lounge eating a less than desirable salad that I regretted making the moment I took the first bite. I’m debating whether I’m desperate enough to eat the sad tomato that’s trying to roll off my fork when my phone pings with a text.
I glance down, expecting a text from the girls, but it’s from Mateo.
Mateo
What’s for lunch?
Analyse
Sad salad. Tomatoes are mushy. 0/10 don’t recommend.
Mateo
Damn. Tragic.
Analyse
Tell me about it.
Mateo
Hang tight.
Analyse
***
Mateo
Just don’t move.
I frown at my phone, certain he’s just messing with me. I poke half-heartedly at the salad again, already dreading another bite, when my phone pings once more.
Mateo
Come outside.
I blink. I look around the empty lounge. Confused. I type back quickly.
Analyse
Why?
Three dots appear, disappear. Reappear.
Mateo
Because if you don’t then this pollo guisado is going to get cold.
I stare at my screen. He did not. He wouldn’t actually—
Pollo guisado. My stomach rumbles at the thought.
I chew the inside of my cheek and glance toward the door. I shouldn’t go. I have a million things to do that he’ll be a total distraction from. But damn it, I’m starving.
I grab my badge and toss the salad into the trash. Fine. Just a few minutes. For the food. Can’t let the food go cold. That would be a travesty.
I push the door open and step into the late afternoon sun, already spotting him across the lot—leaning against his truck. He’s got a brown paper bag in one hand, and two cold drinks balanced on the hood.
As soon as he sees me, he grins. My stomach flips. I tell myself it’s the hunger.
“Hey, chula,” he says with a cocky grin.
I roll my eyes. I hate that stupid grin. Not really. But really.
“Weren’t you ever taught to call before showing up places growing up?” I say, crossing my arms as I stop in front of him.
His grin widens, he steps impossibly closer to me, voice dipping just enough to make my pulse stutter. “Weren’t you ever taught to say thank you when someone brings you hot food?”
I tilt my chin up, refusing to lean back even though he’s well within the too close zone now. The smell of the pollo guisado is doing things to me. So is the smell of him—soap and something warm and musky that shouldn’t be allowed near me when I’m starving and vulnerable.
“I was also taught not to talk to strange men hovering in parking lots.”
“Strange?” he echoes, mock offended.
“Uninvited.”
He shrugs, completely unbothered. “Pretty sure bringing lunch gets me a pass.”
I open my mouth to say something, but before I can, he lifts the spoon and places a bite of the pollo guisado right into my mouth.
Oh, fuck. That’s good.
My head tips back, eyes rolling slightly, and I groan at the heavenly taste.
I hear him laugh—low, pleased, way too damn satisfied.
“Didn’t think that’s what I had to do to get you to make that sound,” he says, voice dipped in smugness.
My eyes snap open. I chew slowly. Then I glare at him. “You’re lucky that was incredible. You’re also lucky I don’t stab you with this fork.”
“For you,” he says, that damn grin returning, “I’d risk it.”
I huff, grabbing the container from his hands, and take a step back. “Did you want to sit here eating this meal with me?”
His brows lift, just slightly. “Do you want me to?” he asks, careful now.
I open my mouth. Close it. Because no would be a lie. But yes feels like he’s winning.
Instead, I shrug. “It’s a good meal. Would be rude to let you walk away without tasting how great it is.”
He smirks, just a little. “So we agree—I’m great.”
“I said the food was great.”
“Right. And I made the food, which means I am great.”
“Just eat before I change my mind.”
He scoops a spoonful into his mouth, chews, and says, “You’re right. This is good.”
I roll my eyes, but don’t argue. We lean against the truck, shoulder to shoulder, and for the next twenty minutes eat our lunch in a comfortable quiet. And it’s nice.