Mia
I pull into the Riverside Academy parking lot at seven-thirty, a full hour before I need to be here.
My hands grip the steering wheel as I stare at the imposing brick building with its manicured lawns and pristine white columns.
This is it. My fresh start. My chance to rebuild something resembling a normal life.
If only my heart would stop hammering against my ribs.
I check my reflection in the rearview mirror one more time. Navy blazer, cream blouse, minimal makeup. Professional. Composed.
The morning air is crisp as I walk toward the main entrance, my heels clicking against the pavement.
Inside, the lobby smells like floor polish and coffee.
A trophy case lines one wall, filled with academic awards and sports championships.
Everything gleams with the kind of perfection that comes from old money and high expectations.
"You must be Miss Wilson." The secretary behind the front desk looks up with a warm smile. She's middle-aged with kind eyes and reading glasses hanging from a beaded chain around her neck.
"Thank you." I return her smile, grateful for the friendly face. "I'm a little early."
"That's wonderful. Shows initiative." She gestures toward a row of chairs against the wall. "Principal Lewis is finishing up a phone call. He should be ready for you in just a few minutes. Can I get you some coffee while you wait?"
Principal Lewis? It can't be!
The name hits me like a physical blow, but I keep my expression neutral. "Coffee would be great. Thank you."
"Did you hear the Wilson girl is back?" A woman's voice drifts from the hallway to my left, just out of sight.
I freeze.
"The one who disappeared right after graduation?" Another voice responds, this one male. "I thought that was just a rumor."
"No, it's true. She's teaching here. Starting today."
My stomach drops.
"Here's your coffee, dear." The secretary reappears, mercifully cutting off the conversation. The voices in the hallway go silent.
I accept the mug with trembling hands. "Thank you."
She settles back behind her desk, oblivious to what I just overheard. Or maybe she heard it too and is being kind by pretending she didn't.
The coffee is too hot to drink, but I wrap my hands around the mug anyway, needing something to hold onto. I should have expected this. Small towns have long memories and active imaginations.
A door opens down the hallway. Footsteps approach.
"Miss Wilson?" A deep voice says my name, and every nerve in my body ignites.
I look up.
Jack Lewis stands in the doorway of what must be his office, and the world tilts sideways.
He's older. The dark hair I remember is still thick but now professionally styled with hints of silver at the temples.
He's wearing a charcoal suit that fits his broad shoulders perfectly, a crisp white shirt, and a navy tie.
But it's his eyes that steal my breath. Those hazel eyes with flecks of gold that I see every time I look at my boys.
Our eyes meet and I watch recognition slam into him like a freight train. His jaw tightens. His hand grips the doorframe hard enough that his knuckles turn white.
"Miss Wilson," he repeats, his voice carefully controlled. "Welcome to Riverside Academy. I'm Principal Lewis."
I follow him on unsteady legs. Time has changed him. Fine lines bracket his mouth that weren't there before, and he moves with the measured confidence of a man who's spent years in positions of authority.
My body remembers anyway. The way his eyes would darken to almost black when he was inside me.
The rough edge his voice took on when he whispered my name.
The electric thrill of his hands on me in my father's office, where anyone could have walked in.
Fireworks had exploded over the lake that Fourth of July night, but they were nothing compared to what he made me feel.
"Please, come in." He steps aside, gesturing toward his office.
I walk past him, hyperaware of how close we are in the doorway. He smells like expensive cologne and coffee.
His office is exactly what I'd expect. Mahogany desk, leather chairs, bookshelves lined with educational texts and leadership manuals. Framed diplomas on the wall.
"Have a seat." Jack closes the door and moves behind his desk, but he doesn't sit. He stands there, hands braced on the back of his chair, staring at me.
I lower myself into the chair across from him, my heart hammering.
The silence stretches. He's not even pretending to look at paperwork. He's just looking at me, and I can see the war happening behind his eyes. Professional distance battling something rawer.
My throat tightens. "Jack."
"Where the hell have you been, Mia?"
The question cracks through the air between us. There's anger there, yes, but underneath it, I hear the hurt. The confusion.
"I." I start, but the words tangle. "I needed to leave."
He opens his mouth like he's about to say more, then stops himself. His jaw works. Finally, he sinks into his chair and takes a breath.
"It's good to see you," he says, and despite everything, I can hear that he means it. "You look great."
"Thank you. So do you."
Another beat of silence. Then, "Have you seen your father yet?"
The question lands like a stone in my chest. "Last night."
He nods slowly, and I can see him wrestling with whether to say more. Instead, he pulls a folder toward him. Professional. Safe.
"Right. Well." He clears his throat. "Let's go over some things. You've already been through HR, so you should have your employee handbook and benefits information. I just wanted to touch base about expectations here at Riverside Academy."
I nod, grateful for the shift to neutral ground even as the tension between us hums like a live wire.
"Our students come from families who expect excellence," he continues.
"We maintain high academic standards, but we also prioritize creating a supportive environment.
You'll be teaching sophomore and junior English, which means you'll have students preparing for standardized tests as well as college applications. "
"I understand."
"Faculty meetings are every other Wednesday after school.
Department meetings are monthly. You'll need to submit lesson plans by Friday each week and maintain regular communication with parents.
" His voice is steady now, falling into the familiar rhythm of administrative procedure.
"We have a zero-tolerance policy for inappropriate relationships between staff and students, obviously.
And we expect professional conduct at all times, both on and off campus. "
The way he says that last part, his eyes flicking up to meet mine. There's weight there. Meaning.
"Of course," I manage.
"Any questions so far?"
"No. It all sounds straightforward."
He pulls a folder toward him, finally breaking eye contact. His hands aren't quite steady. "Your credentials are impressive. Bachelor's degree in English Literature, Master's in Education, five years of teaching experience."
"Thank you."
The tour is torture. Jack walks slightly ahead of me through the hallways, pointing out the library, the cafeteria, and the gymnasium. His voice is professional and distant, but I catch him glancing at me when he thinks I'm not looking.
We pass the teachers' lounge where several staff members are gathered around the coffee maker.
Then Jack leads me to my classroom on the second floor.
It's spacious with large windows overlooking the front lawn.
Student desks are arranged in neat rows.
A whiteboard covers one wall. Bookshelves line another.
"This is yours," Jack says, standing in the doorway. "Your class rosters are on the desk along with curriculum guidelines and the faculty handbook. First period starts at eight-thirty."
"Thank you."
He should leave. This conversation is over. But he lingers, his hand on the doorframe, his eyes searching my face.
"Mia." He stops himself. "Miss Wilson. If you need anything, my door is always open."
The use of my first name, even for just a second, sends electricity down my spine.
"I appreciate that, Principal Lewis."
His jaw tightens again at the formal title. "We'll need to schedule regular meetings for new teacher evaluations. It's standard procedure."
"Of course."
"I'll have my secretary set something up."
"That's fine."
We stare at each other for a long moment. The air between us feels charged, dangerous. I can see him remembering that night. I can see the questions in his eyes, the confusion, maybe even hurt.
"I should let you prepare for class," he finally says.
"Yes. Thank you for the tour."
He nods and walks away, his footsteps echoing down the empty hallway.
I sink into the chair behind my desk and press my hands against my face. This is impossible. How am I supposed to work here with him? How am I supposed to maintain professional distance when every cell in my body remembers the way he touched me?
The morning passes in a blur of introductions and first-day jitters. My students are polite and engaged. The curriculum is challenging but manageable. I fall into the rhythm of teaching, the one thing that's always made sense to me.
But I feel Jack's presence throughout the day. His office window overlooks the front of the building, and I catch glimpses of him standing there, watching. Not obviously. Not inappropriately. But watching nonetheless.
During my planning period, there's a knock on my classroom door. A tall junior with dark hair and an easy smile stands in the doorway. "Miss Wilson? I'm Kyle Jorgenson. I'm in your fourth period class. Just wanted to say welcome to Riverside."
"That's very thoughtful of you, Kyle. Thank you." I smile warmly at him, touched by the gesture. "I'm looking forward to having you in class."
His smile widens. "If you need anything, like help finding supplies or whatever, just let me know." He lingers for a moment before heading back down the hallway.
By the time the final bell rings, I'm exhausted. I gather my things slowly, giving the building time to empty. The last thing I need is another encounter with Jack today.
The parking lot is nearly deserted when I finally make my way outside. The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across the pavement. I'm almost to my car when I hear footsteps behind me.
"Mia."
I turn to find Jack walking toward me, his tie loosened and his jacket slung over one arm. We're alone. Completely alone.
"We need to talk about what happened. About why you really left."