37. Theo
Theo
Eleanor is breathtaking as she steps on stage, her violet dress floating around her like a princess, a gold flower pinned in her hair.
Maybe it’s unfair to call her up on stage without warning, but as I looked over my notes all I could think about was her.
And when I glanced up to see her gazing at me from the back of the tent, her eyes soft with love, the emotion in my chest nearly leveled me.
I tried to stick to the script, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t stand there and take credit for something she created. Something she fought for.
She smiles nervously, and I step back from the mic, meeting her at the edge of the stage.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, battling the impulse to touch her. “I didn’t mean to put you on the spot. I just… You deserve to be the one sharing this.”
“Thank you.” She lifts her head, eyes meeting mine for a fraction of a second too long. Long enough for me to see the emotion swirling there, and something else. Something indicating that maybe I’ll be the one getting reprimanded tonight.
And you know what? I’m more than okay with that.
I chuckle, leading her to the mic. Even in her heels it’s too high for her, and I adjust it before stepping back to let her take the spotlight.
“Uh, hi.” She blinks, inhaling shakily as she looks out over the crowd of waiting faces. “I… Wow, I’m a little nervous.”
An understanding laugh ripples through the audience.
Smoothing her dress, she continues. “I guess I’m not supposed to say that, am I? I’m probably supposed to pretend I feel confident up here.” She pauses in thought, then shakes her head. “But I’ll be honest, and admit I’m scared. That I’m worried I might say the wrong thing.”
Her eyes flick to me beside her, as if checking I’m still there. I smile reassuringly, even though I’m not entirely sure where she’s going with this. She glances back at the crowd, shoulders relaxing.
“Because that’s what Safe Harbor is all about. Teaching students to acknowledge and process tricky emotions. It’s about creating a space where they can be vulnerable, where they feel safe to share.”
I glance away to hide my smile. Of course. Even on stage she’s unguarded, bravely sharing her own feelings as a way to walk the talk of Safe Harbor.
Because that’s who she is.
God, I love her more than I knew was possible.
And even though I know I shouldn’t, I have to touch her.
I step forward to place a gentle hand on her lower back as she continues, as she points out the student artwork lining the tent, and how that ties into the program, as she explains how the initiative will work, the Ripple Weeks, the wellbeing curriculum that focuses on reflection and resilience, the outdoor and creative programs she wants to build with the school garden and the camp.
All the ideas I was so closed off to at the start, programs that will bring the students the support beyond academics they need.
The crowd listens, really listens, and when Eleanor wraps up her speech, they explode into applause.
Her lips part in shock as she stands at the mic, taking it all in.
I know she never thought about this side of Safe Harbor, the way it would be received and celebrated, the way people would praise her, because that’s not who she is.
But as I watch her brows rise and her lips curve in a delighted smile, I can’t hold in my grin. She deserves it all.
She glances at me, glowing. I lean toward the mic to thank the crowd again, then guide Eleanor to the edge of the stage, my hand still firmly on her lower back.
She spins to face me, breathless. “Thank you. Thank you so much for calling me up to share it.”
The urge to reach out and brush her cheek is so strong I have to curl my hands into fists at my side. We’re surrounded by faculty, parents, board members, and as we step off stage, people flood over to speak to us. I wish I could get her alone, just for a moment.
“Mr. Wright!” A man steps forward to shake my hand. Peter Waghorn, parent of a student I had to meet with recently after a behavioral issue.
I take his hand, smiling. “Peter. Good to see you.”
“This Safe Harbor idea sounds brilliant,” he effuses. “How can I get involved?”
I gesture to Eleanor, beside me. “Miss Hart is the best person to ask,” I say, and she extends her hand to introduce herself. I step aside, another hand catching mine. Helen March, head of the board.
“Theodore,” she says, in an unusual show of warmth. “What wonderful work. I’ll admit, we weren’t all convinced about this Safe Harbor business at first, but it seems to be exactly what the school needs.”
“Thank you, Helen.” I glance at Eleanor, hoping she heard, but she’s deep in conversation with Peter, and three other people hover nearby, waiting to speak to her.
“Tell me more about the Ripple Weeks,” Helen continues.
“You’d best speak to Miss Hart.”
Helen’s eyebrows rise a fraction, and she glances at the growing queue of people waiting to talk to Eleanor.
“Looks like I’ll have to speak with her later,” she says with a chuckle, turning back to me.
“Congratulations, Theodore. I’m looking forward to seeing the positive changes Safe Harbor brings. ”
I smile as she leaves, knowing it’s Eleanor who deserves the congratulations, not me, but she’s swamped with people wanting her time. Pride hums through me as I watch her chat animatedly about Safe Harbor, laughing as she fields questions, walking them through it with confidence.
She’s never looked more beautiful. Her hazel eyes glitter under the fairy lights, hands fluttering as she speaks, and every atom in my body vibrates with love for her.
God, I need to get her alone.
When there’s a lull in the crowd, I reach for her wrist and touch it gently, nodding toward the side exit of the tent.
She smiles in understanding, and I slip out into the night, under the cover of shadow.
A moment later she appears in the near-darkness, wrapping her arms around herself in the cold.
“They’re so positive about Safe Harbor,” she says, eyes wide as if she can’t quite believe it.
And I can’t wait another second.
I haul her into my arms, crushing my mouth to hers. She responds immediately, softening and melting against me, mouth warm and open in invitation. Her hands go to my face, my beard, fingertips warm as I kiss her with hungry strokes of my tongue.
“I am so fucking proud of you,” I whisper hoarsely, kissing her again, hard. I thread a hand into her hair, not caring if I ruin it, if I ruin her makeup. If I ruin her. I need her to know I’m desperately in love with her, that I’d burn the world down if she asked.
She’s breathless when we finally break apart, clinging to the lapels of my tux. “I love you so much,” she breathes, and I drop my forehead to hers.
“I’m dying for you, sweetheart.” My voice comes out low and ragged. “Watching you in there… I’m counting the minutes until I can have you in my bed.”
“God, Theo—”
A twig breaks behind us. We freeze. With shaking hands, I glance around to find someone standing in the shadows, only a few feet away.
And my heart stops.