Chapter 28 #2
Zachary’s head snaps toward Trevor as he shows him the gourd in question.
I can see the muscle in his jaw jump. He’s about to step forward, to defend, to fight.
But before I can even defend the display myself, before I can say any of the furious, career-ending things building in my throat, Zachary does something incredible.
He relaxes.
He unclenches his fists, shoves his hands into his pockets, and lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. He turns to Trevor, not as an adversary, but as a bewildered comrade.
“Witches?” he says, his voice full of mock-sympathy. “Trevor, man, don’t tell me it’s that parent with a second grader who has been complaining about everything since her kid started school here. She’s legendary in the teacher gossip mill.”
Trevor, caught off-guard by the lack of confrontation, blinks. “Well, yes, but—”
“I get it, I get it,” Zachary says walking over and taking the bumpy gourd from Trevor’s hands, inspecting the carving with a critical eye.
“Parents are nuts. But vandalizing a gourd? That's new. Low blow, kids.” He turns back to Trevor, his expression all ‘we're in this together.’ “Look, we’ve got this combo lesson guide due but tell you what. I will personally... supervise… the spooky. I'll make sure we hit the required ghost-to-gourd ratio. We’ll even throw in a spiderweb. Will that get ’em off your back?”
He says it with such easy charm, such conspiratorial, ‘aren't-we-long-suffering-educators’ warmth, that Trevor is completely disarmed. A slow, reluctant smile cracks his face.
“Ghost-to-gourd ratio,” Trevor repeats, and he actually chuckles. “Right. Well. Just... get it handled, Zachary. I don’t want any more calls.”
“You got it, boss. We’ll make it so normal it’s… well, spooky,” Zachary says, steering him toward the door with nothing but body language.
“Right,” Trevor says again. He gives me one last unreadable look, then ducks out of the trailer. The door clicks shut. The silence that follows is deafening.
Zachary stands with his back to me for a long second, his head down, breathing. Then, very slowly he turns around. The charm is gone. His face is dark with a cold, quiet rage. He places the gourd on the desk delicately, as if it's a bomb that will explode at any second.
“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice low.
The adrenaline drains out of me all at once and I collapse into my chair. The exhaustion is so total, so bone-deep, I feel like I could sleep for a week. The nausea, which had vanished in my anger, comes roaring back, worse this time. I shake my head, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes.
“I almost... I almost snapped,” I whisper. “I was going to scream at him. You just… thank you. I'm so tired.”
“I know,” he says, his voice rough. He comes behind my chair, his hands landing on my shoulders, his thumbs digging into the tight, knotted muscles at the base of my neck. “He’s an ass.”
“He's blaming me,” I say, the words muffled by my hands. “He's twisting it to make it my fault.”
“He wants to save face,” Zachary says, his grip firm and steadying. “And he's weak. And he's taking it all out on you. But you’ve done nothing wrong, don’t let him make you believe you have.”
I pull my hands away from my face, leaning my head back to look up at him. “I'm just so... tired of fighting. It’s not just him. It’s the meds. And my mom...”
The stress of the encounter has brought all my other anxieties bubbling to the surface. My mom hasn't taken my last hospital visit well. She has, in the last week, threatened to come visit no less than four times. She wants to “take care of me,” she says.
But I know what that means. It doesn’t mean making soup or fluffing pillows. It means taking pictures of me on my bad days to use as a “powerful testimonial” at fundraisers. It means scheduling meetings and finagling me into conference calls and podcast interviews when all I want to do is sleep.
I just want my mom. The normal mom. The one I had before I was diagnosed with lupus, the one who talked to me like I was a normal human being and let me make my own mistakes.
The one who believed I knew what was best for myself.
It feels like the older I get, the younger she treats me, as if the lupus has rewound my age, reducing me to a fragile, incompetent child she has to manage.
“What's she up to now?” Zachary asks, his thumbs finding a particularly painful knot.
“She wants to ‘visit,’” I say, making air quotes. “I'm running out of excuses.”
“We'll handle her,” he says. “Together. We handled Trevor, we’ll handle your mom.”
I sigh, sinking into his touch. “Speaking of handling things... We haven't really discussed... us. At work. After that.” I gesture to the door where Trevor just left. “He’s watching me, Zachary. He’s looking for anything.”
Zachary’s hands are still on my shoulders. He's silent for a moment, and I feel a pang of fear. He moves around the desk and crouches in front of me, taking my hands. His are warm and rough.
“You're right,” he says, his gaze steady and serious. “And I don't want to give him any more reasons to get on your case. I don't want to give him any more ammunition.”
He takes a breath. “I think... I think we need to keep this under wraps. For now. Just at work.”
I nod, even though my heart sinks. I know he’s right.
The last thing I need is a rumor about me and the new guy giving Trevor a “professional standards” violation to hang over my head.
It’s the smart, logical, correct decision.
But a small, selfish part of me feels desperately sad.
This thing with him, this easy going, supportive, snack-drawer-filling man.
.. it's the one thing that feels good and right, and I don't want to hide it.
I want to shout it from the roof of this stupid trailer.
“Hey.” He squeezes my hands, reading my expression. “It’s not forever. It’s just... strategic. After you file the complaint against Trevor, after HR has a file on him, we can rent a billboard. But for now, we have to be smart.”
The “C” word. “Complaint.” I pull my hands away, wrapping my arms around my stomach. “I... I don't want to file a complaint, Zachary.”
“Maya, he can’t keep treating you like this. Especially with how your health has been. It could cause another bad flare.”
“I know, but... I don't want to draw that much attention to myself. What if I file a complaint, and HR starts... digging? What if they find out about my diagnosis? I don't want people knowing.”
“Maya,” he says gently, “if there is one department in the entire world you'd want to be aware of your illness, it's HR. That’s what they're there for. To make sure you get... you know, accommodations.”
“That's what I'm afraid of!” The words burst out, full of a frustration I hadn't realized was so close to the surface. “I don’t want their accommodations! I don't want them to decide I can't handle a full schedule, or that I need an ‘easier’ job just sitting at a desk and not interacting with students, or that I need to be ‘reassigned’ from the trailer. If I truly need an accommodation, I will ask for it. On my terms. I don’t want them to decide what’s best for me. I’m so tired of people deciding what's best for me.”
Zachary looks at me, a long, searching look. A tiny smile plays on his lips. “So... you'd really rather stay in this... this un-insulated, beige-colored tin box... than get your old classroom back?”
I look around. At the cramped quarters, the wheezing radiator, the space we have to share. And I look at him, kneeling on the hard linoleum, his eyes full of the type of care and concern that doesn’t feel patronizing or overbearing.
A real smile, the first one since the nausea hit, touches my lips.
“It has the snack drawer,” I say softly.
“It does have the snack drawer,” he concedes.
“And...” I reach out, touching his face, my thumb tracing the line of his jaw. “Yes. I really would rather stay. Being around you makes me happy.”
His smile widens. “Good. Because I'm not going anywhere.”
He leans in, closing the small distance between us, and kisses me. It’s not a frantic, passionate kiss. It’s something better. It’s slow and sure and salty from the pretzels. It’s a promise. It’s a calm in the storm. It’s an “I've got you,” and an “I know you've got this.”
He pulls back, resting his forehead against mine. “Now,” he whispers, “about this combination lesson guide. I think... if we add a spooky-themed word search, Trevor's head might actually explode.”
I laugh, a real, genuine laugh. The nausea is still there just beneath the surface, but for the first time today, it doesn't matter. I’m not alone.
“Okay,” I say, pulling my chair back to the desk and grabbing a pen. “Let's do it. But I'm drawing the cartoon ghost.”