We Can Again

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Maya Gershawn

I tap the rim of my glass of water and glance toward the door again. I’ve been looking forward to this all week. A casual drink, just the two of us, to talk about next year’s plans. Maybe gush a little about the new mural I’ve been planning out.

Then I spot her. Anne Letty walks in wearing her usual navy cardigan and a loose bun that’s starting to fall.

She looks tired, her blue eyes lacking their normal sparkle.

Not in the way teachers look after a long day, but something else—something heavier.

I wave her over, and she gives me a tight smile as she slides onto the stool next to mine.

“Traffic?” I ask.

“Main Street was a mess,” she mutters, setting her bag down.

“You want your usual?”

She nods. “Gin and tonic. Strong.”

I wave the bartender over to order two gin and tonics and raise a brow at her. “Long day?”

“You could say that.”

I laugh, trying to lighten the mood. “Well, tonight we’re off duty. Just relaxing and catching up.”

She smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. That little crease between her brows is still there, deepening.

When our drinks arrive, I clink my glass against hers. “To the last few weeks of summer. And to the upcoming school year. I’ve got a feeling it’s going to be a good one.” She just nods and takes a sip.

Undeterred by her pensive mood, I launch into my plan, the way I always do when I’m excited.

“Okay, hear me out. What if I kick off the fall with a collaborative mural project? I’ve already scoped out the blank wall in the hallway outside the cafeteria.

Each class could design a tile based on a theme—something like ‘What Belonging Means to Me.’ They’d get to brainstorm, sketch, paint.

It’d be collaborative, reflective, and we’d have a permanent piece at the end.

Something they see every day and say, ‘Hey, I helped make that.’ We could even—”

“Maya.” She cuts me off.

I stop and notice that she’s not smiling. In fact, she’s grimacing. The kind of expression that looks like it hurts to hold. “What’s wrong?” I ask.

She exhales slowly, sets her drink down with a soft clink. “I wanted to meet you here to tell you something.”

My stomach flips. “O-kay,” I draw out the word cautiously.

She hesitates—Anne never hesitates. Then she looks me square in the eye. “I retired. Officially. At the beginning of the summer.”

I blink. “Wait. What?” That is not at all what I expected her to say.

“I know I should’ve told you sooner. I just… I wanted to wait until I knew who was replacing me.”

I sit back, stunned. “You retired? But—you love that job. You’ve been at that school longer than anyone.”

“I do love it,” she says. “But my goddaughter had a baby in May. I was there for the birth. And as I held that little girl, I realized… I’ve spent my whole life showing up for other people’s kids. Maybe it’s time to show up for my own family now.”

I stare at her, trying to wrap my head around her news. “Wow. I mean, that’s beautiful, Anne. I get it. Really, you and your family deserve it. It’s just… I didn’t see this coming.”

She shrugs. “Not many people did. Not even me, to be honest. But I’ve had a good, long run and enjoyed it all. And now that I’m seventy, I think it’s time.”

I nod slowly, though my chest feels suddenly hollow. “So… who’s taking over?”

And there it is again—that grimace. “Trevor Delaney. The board picked him.”

The name doesn’t ring a bell. “Should I be concerned?”

Anne sighs. “He ran an elite charter school for years. The kind where parents with the most money and a lot of opinions call the shots. He’s… not who I would’ve chosen.”

My lips part in surprise. Anne doesn’t bad-mouth people lightly.

“He’s very numbers-focused,” she continues. “Test scores, parental satisfaction surveys, performance metrics. Creativity and flexibility aren’t high on his list.”

I try to laugh it off. “So my collaborative mural is doomed.”

She doesn’t laugh.

I lean forward, more serious now. “What does this mean for me?”

“It means you might get pushback. Especially on your more outside-the-box ideas.”

I wave a hand. “I can handle a little pushback.”

But she doesn’t let it go. “There’s something else.”

The way she says it, my whole body goes still. I lift my eyebrows, encouraging her to continue.

“I don’t think you should tell him about your lupus. Not right away.”

The words hit like a slap, and I rear my head back in surprise. “Why?”

“Because Trevor isn’t known for being… supportive. Or discreet. If he thinks your health affects your performance, even a little, he might start looking for ‘alternatives.’ He’s that kind of leader.”

I stare at her, cold prickling under my skin. “No one else at school knows about it. Just you.”

She smiles sympathetically. “I know.”

“And I told you because you needed to know. You made space for me without making it a thing. You let me rest when I had to. You didn’t make me feel like a burden.”

“I tried.” Her eyes shine with unshed tears.

“You succeeded,” I say, my voice sharper than I intend. “But now you won’t be there.”

Anne reaches for my hand, squeezes gently. “I’m always a phone call away. Text, call, show up on my doorstep—I mean it.”

I nod, but it’s distant. Her support was built into my day.

Her being in the building, in my meetings, in my corner—that mattered.

It was why I could show up on days when I didn’t feel human.

When my joints flared and my head buzzed and I still smiled through teaching pottery to exuberant elementary schoolers.

Now I picture Trevor, a man I’ve never met. I picture a stiff tie and clipped words and polite, empty nods. I picture flare-ups being met with skepticism instead of support.

I look down at my drink and realize I haven’t taken a sip. My fingers are curled tight around the glass, but I don’t lift it.

“I was so excited about next year,” I whisper. “Now it feels like something I have to survive.”

Anne doesn’t speak. There’s nothing to say.

I offer her a small, tight smile. “Thanks for telling me.”

“Thanks for listening,” she says. “And Maya… don’t give up your spark. That’s what makes you such a damn good teacher.”

I nod, but the spark feels dim. I sip the gin, bitter and cold, and let it burn its way down.

Anne is gone, but I don’t leave. The air still smells like sea salt and citrus, and there’s just enough breeze to keep the sun from making my shoulders too hot.

I move to a table near the railing, where I can see the harbor more clearly.

Fishing boats and small sailboats rock gently in the early evening tide, their reflections stretching across the water like watercolor smudges.

I order a glass of white wine, deciding more gin isn’t a good choice, and unwrap my new watercolor pencils—the ones I promised myself I wouldn’t buy unless I committed to actually using them.

I had this romantic idea that they’d unlock something in me.

That if I had the “right tools,” I’d want to create again.

Turns out, all I needed was a little emotional upheaval.

Thanks, Anne.

I open my sketchbook to a blank page and let my hand wander, drawing first the boats—rough shapes, lines too hard, perspective a little off—but then letting them drift into something else.

The docks become tall stone bridges. The sails stretch into the wings of creatures I don’t have names for yet. A harbor becomes a distant kingdom.

I don’t overthink it or edit, I just let myself draw. And slowly I stop replaying the conversation with Anne in my head. The bitterness of it fades into the background, replaced by the comforting scratch of pencil against paper and the quiet rhythm of waves below.

I pause only to sip my wine. It’s crisp and bright, and the glass is already starting to sweat in the heat. When I glance up to rest my eyes, I spot him.

Sitting at the far corner of the bar, half in shadow, half caught in the golden spill of the sunset. He’s reading a menu but glances up at the same time I do, and for a second, our eyes lock. I look away quickly, instinctively—but then look back.

He’s still looking. And smiling.

Normally, this is the part where I go full ice queen. Head down, shoulders hunched, book or sketchbook angled like a shield. Most men don’t take the hint. It’s exhausting.

But this time… I don’t know. Maybe it’s the wine. Maybe it’s the strange, aching relief of finally feeling something after weeks of emotional numbness. Maybe it’s the way he’s not moving, not waving, not interrupting—just watching with quiet curiosity.

I surprise myself. I lift my pencil in one hand and wave him over with the other.

His eyebrows lift, like he’s not sure he saw that right.

I give the smallest nod. And just like that, he slides off his stool and starts walking toward me.

My heart flickers in my chest—half warning, half thrill. I don’t even know what I’m doing.

But maybe that’s the point.