Chapter 2
Kayla
One week later, my evenings are still being consumed by extra work at the school, but I’m finally settled enough to start parent-teacher meetings. It feels like a step forward in an otherwise muddy process.
“I’m not moving back, Fletch,” I drawl, rolling my eyes and then shoving some more of my salad into my mouth. I hadn’t had time for lunch today, so now my stomach is clenching in hunger. It’s best for everyone’s safety that I get some food in me before my next meeting.
“Don’t listen to him, Kayla. He doesn’t know what’s good for himself, let alone for you. Did I tell you he tried to put raw chicken in his protein shake the other day?” Fletch’s wife, Faith, calls, clearly further away from the phone since her voice is so faint and hard to hear.
I grimace at the information, both disgusted and concerned. He’s thirty-three years old. He’s got to know better than that by now, right?
“Fletcher,” I sigh, letting disappointment seep into my tone like I do with the kids.
“What? People put raw eggs into their smoothies all of the time.”
“And that’s disgusting too,” I scoff as Faith giggles in the background. “Seriously, do better.”
“Bite me, Kayla,” he groans. “I hate when you use your teacher's voice on me.”
“The kids hate it too,” I laugh candidly.
“So you’re sure I can’t convince you to come back?” Fletcher tries one last time, and I can hear Faith in the background scolding him.
I’m just about to snap at him, I swear I am, but then I notice the dusty brown boots standing in the doorway of my classroom.
I follow the dust all the way up the thick thighs wrapped in denim, and further up the broad chest until I make eye contact with the rugged cowboy standing in the entrance of my classroom.
I mean a real cowboy, with a Riley Green mustache and everything.
Holy shit, this is nothing like the men in Chicago. This is a real man.
A real man whose student is in my class. I should not be ogling my student’s father.
“Shit, I have to go, Fletch,” I tell my brother, hanging up on him even as he tries to speak. My phone clatters to my desktop as I struggle for even a speck of professionalism. At this point, I’m just shoving everything out of my way, regardless of whether it’s useful or not.
“Hi,” I wipe my hands down the front of my dress and make my way around my desk. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t think I had another meeting until 5:30. I’m Kayla, Mrs. Cannon’s replacement.” I hold out my hand, hoping it’s not too sweaty, and watch as he hesitates for half a second.
Do I have lettuce in my teeth?
“Colter Williams.” His voice eats up the awkward silence, and I force myself to smile, even though I am seriously concerned I have food everywhere. What a first impression.
“Oh, right, Ben’s dad. Please take a seat. I could have sworn the meeting was booked for 5:30, but no matter.” I turn to swipe at some crumbs on the desk, brushing them onto the floor.
I am so sorry to the janitorial staff.
I make a mental reminder to pick up a broom for the classroom tomorrow. “Are we waiting for anyone else?”
“Yeah,” he clears his gravelly voice, looking around as if someone might be hiding in the corner. “Mandy. She’s not normally the late one.”
“That’s okay, you’re my last meeting of the night anyway.
” I smile as politely as possible, despite feeling insecure under his scrutiny.
He’s staring at me with such intensity that I worry I might start on fire at any moment.
Trying desperately to fill the silence, I catalogue the students in my head, trying to remember which one Ben is.
“Ben has been absolutely lovely this week, so helpful with all my questions. You have a great son,” I fib.
Truthfully, all of the students have been huge helpers since my first day, and they have all been incredibly polite.
However, I can’t say for certain if Ben is the redhead boy or the one with the John Deere baseball cap.
I’m still learning names.
“Thank you.” He clears his throat. “How old are you?”
What did he just say? I try to keep my facial expression neutral as I stare at the tall man who doesn’t quite fit in the child’s chair in front of me. “Excuse me?”
“It’s just—you don’t look old enough to be a teacher. You don’t even look old enough to legally vote.”
“Mr. Williams. I can assure you that I am properly qualified and that your son is in good hands. I would not put your son, or any other student, in harm’s way, including fraudulently representing myself as a teacher.
I would appreciate it if you refrained from making comments about my age in all future meetings.
” I bite my tongue, refraining from saying what I really want to say.
I can’t risk my job on the first day by telling this dickwad to fuck off.
Doesn’t matter how badly I’d like to.
“Right, but you see, that doesn’t answer my question,” he dares to continue.
“I am not telling you my age,” I grind out between clenched teeth. Who does this guy think he is?
“Look, I just want to make sure I am paying a proper educator.”
“You’re paying?” Oh, this. The tale is as old as time.
“Well, sure. I’m a taxpayer. I pay your salary.” I’ve heard that before. But truthfully, if my salary were being paid by the parents, I would definitely be demanding a raise.
“Look, you absolute bozo–” Oop, that was my outside voice.
“Bozo?” At least he looks amused. Maybe I can hold onto this job.
“Yes, bozo!” At this point, I might as well lean into it.
“Who do you think you are? Unless you own the fucking town, which I highly doubt you do, I don’t think you have any say over who this school hires, nor their hiring practices.
And if you can’t respect me in my own classroom, then you can leave.
” I’m ashamed to say my voice reaches unprofessional levels of scorn and anger. I even wag my finger in his face.
“You’re kicking me out of a meeting about my son?”
“No, I’m asking for respect. Didn’t your mother ever teach you about it? Or at least Aretha Franklin?” I shake my head at this man’s poor display of manners. He might be pretty to look at, but he’s entitled as fuck.
“Don’t mention my mother,” he snaps, and I almost feel bad for him.
“Figures, mommy issues.”
“Excuse you?” That gets the spark in his eyes to disappear, and I take it as a personal victory. Not so amusing when you’re the one being insulted, is it?
“Colt! You’re here! I knew giving you the wrong time would help.
Sylvie said I was wasting my time. Oh. Whoa.
Did I interrupt something?” A blonde woman bustles into the room, an oversized purse covering most of her upper body.
She hesitates in her spot, looking between her husband and me with completely valid concern.
“No,” he snaps, pouting like a toddler in timeout.
“Hi, Mrs. Williams,” Rising from my seat, I shake hands with Ben’s mom, smiling politely, all the while ignoring the supreme ass still in the classroom. “I’m Kayla Carson, your son’s new teacher. I was just getting to know your husband here.”
“Oh no, we’re not married,” Mandy laughs. “Colt and I co-parent with my partner, Sylvie. She wishes she could be here to meet you, but she’s out of town on business this week.”
“Oh. Sorry, I didn’t know.” I applaud myself for not reacting. Honestly, it’s not too surprising. Most students come from unique family dynamics now, it’s just par for the course.
“No worries,” Mandy waves me off, unaffected. “Colt was nice enough to help us out when we were ready to have kids, but he didn’t want to be left out, so we all agreed to co-parent. I mean, what kid wouldn’t love three parents?”
“That’s beautiful,” I acknowledge, but I have trouble seeing this grump of a man being so kind and helpful.
“Thank you.”
“Yeah. Thanks,” the grump huffs, as if I were talking to him. “Can we just get this over with?”
“Colt!”
“What?” The two parents eye each other, silently communicating. I’ve seen this countless times between parents when I was teaching in Chicago. It’s really an impressive skill. A little part of me is jealous that I don’t have a strong enough bond to do this with someone in my life.
“Of course. I don’t want to keep you any longer. As I was telling Mr. Williams—”
“You can call him Colt,” Mandy interrupts. And yeah, I won’t be doing that.
“Of course. As I was telling Mr. Williams, your son was so helpful today. I really appreciated it. I know it’s stressful having a new teacher come in and take over your son’s class, but I want to assure you that I am working alongside Mrs. Cannon to make sure the transition is as smooth as possible. ”
“Right,” he scoffs, leaning back in his seat. The chair groans, and I worry he’s gonna snap the back right off.
“What he means,” Mandy cuts him with another glare. “Is that old Mrs. Cannon isn’t exactly the easiest to work with.”
“Well, she’s left me with all of her resources, and I am going to be working to improve them.
And upgrade them.” I pat the stack of outdated worksheets beside me.
Worksheets that should retire alongside the old woman.
“I do want to encourage you to reach out to me if you notice any issues with Ben throughout the transition. I have this letter for the parents with what to look out for while we navigate this change, as well as my contact information. Do you have any questions for me?”
I regret it the moment I ask. “Any questions about Ben and his education, specifically?” I adjust my question before Ben’s father can put his foot any further into his mouth.
“He’s been struggling a lot in math. Mrs. Cannon said it wasn’t a big deal, but Sylvie and I have been a little concerned,” Mandy says, shifting in her chair.
“I’ll be honest, I haven’t had a chance to look into any of that. But, how about I take a look this week, and I can email you with some options. If it is a concern, we can talk about potential tutoring.”
“That would be awesome, thank you so much!” I smile at Ben’s mother, silently promising myself that I’ll deal with her and her wife exclusively when it comes to Ben.
“Perfect!” I wait, giving both parents the opportunity to say anything else. “If that’s all, then I’ll let you get home to your son. Thank you so much for taking the time to meet me.”
“Thank you so much for reaching out to us. It’s nice getting to meet the woman who’s going to be spending her days with our son.” Mandy shakes my hand once more, and then I shake hands with the bozo—reluctantly.
It isn’t until he’s out of my classroom that I let a breath out, the tension releasing from my shoulders.
I’ve met five sets of parents tonight, and Colt is by far the worst. I know there’s a bad batch in all groups, but I really hope that his behavior was a one-off occurrence.
Either that or that I never have to deal with him again.
Too mentally exhausted from my last meeting, I pack up my shit for the night, instead of staying like I planned to. I’ll come in early tomorrow, but I need to head back to my shitty little apartment over the bakery and sleep for twelve hours first.
Checking my phone, it vibrates with yet another notification from my brother. The sixteenth text in half an hour. I blow out a breath.
I might not get twelve hours of sleep, but I'd better at least get six. I’m not getting out of bed for any less than six.