Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Zachary
Trevor is at the front, clicking through a PowerPoint presentation about “Synergistic Learning Modalities,” and I am mastering the art of looking engaged while mentally cataloging the contents of my refrigerator.
I shift on the rock-hard plastic chair, my gaze drifting from Trevor—who is now pointing emphatically at a pie chart composed of truly offensive shades of maroon and teal—to the window where a perfect, crisp autumn afternoon is being wasted on us.
My thoughts, as they have so often lately, drift to Maya, who is sitting a respectable and non-suspicious distance away from me looking as bored and miserable as I feel.
Instead of focusing on that, I think about the way her brow furrows when she’s concentrating on something, the way she always has some sort of ink or paint on her hands, the low, warm laugh she let out last night when I showed her a stupid meme.
My phone, resting face down on my thigh under the table, gives a sharp buzz.
My head snaps down. I feel a flush of heat.
In this morgue-like silence, broken only by Trevor’s monotone, it sounds like a fire alarm.
A few heads turn. I see Ms. Jensen, the librarian, give me a look of profound disappointment over her spectacles.
I slide the phone into my pocket, my heart thumping with the minor ridiculous adrenaline of being a teacher caught breaking his own “no phones in class” rule.
I force my eyes back to the pie chart. Trevor is talking about “leveraging student testing data,” and I am thinking about who just texted me.
Is it Maya? Is she sending me a sneaky text from across the room?
The thought sends a stupid, hopeful jolt through me.
But when I look at her again, I can tell she’s doodling on the notebook paper in front of her.
Probably some of her whimsical castles and dragons she likes to draw.
I don’t think it was her that texted me.
The next twenty minutes of the meeting are a physical trial. I resist the urge to check my pocket a dozen times. Finally, finally, Trevor claps his hands together.
“Okay, team,” he says, a phrase that makes my skin crawl. “We’ll take a fifteen-minute coffee break and then we’ll circle back to breakout groups to brainstorm implementation strategies for your joint lessons.”
A collective, quiet groan. Chairs scrape. I’m up and moving before anyone else, beelining for the relative anonymity of the hallway. I bypass the lounge—I know the coffee in that urn, and it tastes like burnt regret—and duck into the empty alcove by the stairwell.
My fingers are clumsy as I pull the phone out. One new message. My stomach does a weird little flip.
It’s not from Maya. It’s from Tim.
Tim: Hey, man! Hope you’re doing well! Quick heads-up, I’m gonna be in your area next week meeting with some new vendors. Are you free for dinner on Wednesday?
I smile. Of course I want to see Tim when he’s in town. He doesn’t live far, but we’re both so busy that we don’t get together as much as I would like.
Tim: Also, been seeing this girl Patty for a couple months. She’s great. She might be coming with me. Would you and Maya want to meet up for a double date? Let me know.
I blink at the text. Tim is seeing someone? Seriously? He hadn't mentioned that when Maya and I visited. As far as I knew, he hadn't dated anyone since he and his ex broke up last year. He'd been pretty torn up about it for a while.
I read the message again. And a third time.
Double date. The words feel foreign. Since Whitney and I broke up my entire romantic life has been.
.. well, non-existent, until Maya. Visiting Tim was one thing, but a double date on Pine Island where we could run into a coworker, or worse, Trevor, seems more daunting. Are Maya and I a “double date” couple?
I need to take her on a proper one-on-one date before we double date with my best friend and his new girlfriend.
But what would Maya like to do? My mind immediately flashes back to her apartment.
What struck me most when I first went in wasn’t the stacks of books or the overflowing mug of pens.
It was the walls. They were covered in canvases.
Some were huge, abstract washes of color—deep blues and violent reds.
Others were small, detailed charcoal studies of hands, or trees, or the way light hits a fire escape.
And in the kitchen by the sink there wasn't a dish rack.
There was a tall ceramic jar filled with freshly cleaned paintbrushes, standing bristles-up to dry.
She wasn't just an art teacher. She was an artist. The real, breathing, can’t-help-it kind. The idea hits me like a lightning bolt. It's so perfect, I almost laugh out loud in the empty stairwell.
I pull up my browser, my fingers flying.
“Paint and sip near me.” A place called “Canvas & Cork” pops up, five miles away.
I click the link. Tonight's painting is “Starry River,” a beginner-friendly riff on Van Gogh.
It's cheesy. It's a little basic. But it's painting. And there’s wine.
We can talk, really talk, away from the school, away from our jobs. We can just... be.
I book two spots for the 7:30 p.m. session. A surge of anticipation, sharp and bright, cuts through the gray fog of the staff meeting. I feel clever. I feel excited. This is a good plan.
I text Tim back: Awesome news! Definitely want to see you when you’re here! The double date thing sounds cool, but let me check with Maya. Things are still pretty new. Will let you know.
It’s a non-committal commitment, which is the best I can do. Right now, my date with Maya is the only one I care about.
The rest of the meeting is a blur. I don’t even care about the breakout group.
I nod, I smile, I use the word “holistic” twice.
When five p.m. finally, mercifully arrives, I’m out of my chair like a shot.
I pack my satchel, toss my laptop in, and make my way against the flow of departing teachers heading straight for the trailer where I know Maya will be.
I find her standing in the middle of the room.
She’s not cleaning up or gathering her things, which is what I expected.
Instead, she’s standing there, looking down at her phone, beaming.
The usual, weary, end-of-day tension that all teachers carry is gone from her shoulders.
Her face, which I’m so used to seeing in a state of mild, creative chaos or professional stress, is relaxed and absolutely, incandescently happy.
“Zachary!” she says when she spots me, her voice about two octaves higher than usual. My heart does a flip-flop when her smile widens at me.
“Hey,” I say, leaning against the doorframe, instantly charmed by the sheer force of her energy. “You look... really happy about something.”
“I am!” she says, practically bouncing. “You are not going to believe this. So, you know the community pottery studio that rents our kiln time on Tuesdays and Thursdays?”
I nod. “Yeah, the ‘Claymates’ people.”
“Them. Well, their instructor, Christine Thomas, her car broke down. She just texted me, totally frantic. They have to cancel their entire ‘beginner's wheel’ class tonight. They can't use the kiln. It's all pre-heated, it’s paid for, and it’s just... sitting there.”
She takes a deep breath, her eyes sparkling, and steps towards me.
“They can’t get their deposit back,” she continues, “so Christine just told me that if we want to use it—the kiln, the studio, all of it—we can.
For free. It's ours. Tonight. Assuming,” she pauses, her smile suddenly a little shy, a little hesitant, “assuming you know.
.. Want to? I know we didn't have specific plans, but.
.. a full night of free kiln time, Zachary.
That's like... I don't know. That's like gold.”
I just stare at her for a beat. Her clutching her phone in her hands that are stained with the orange paint she used to paint pumpkin pictures with kindergartners today, looking at me with so much hope and excitement over a hot, empty, ceramic oven.
And my brilliant, clever, perfect plan—my $80 reservation at Canvas & Cork, my “Starry River,” my glass of mediocre cabernet—just evaporates.
It feels so small and silly in the face of this.
This is her world. This is authentic. She’s right, this is gold.
A slow smile spreads across my face. “I... was actually coming here to ask you on a date tonight.”
Her face falls, just a fraction. “Oh. You made plans?”
“I did,” I say, pushing off the doorframe and walking toward her. I stop a foot away. “I made a reservation at that ‘Canvas & Cork’ paint and sip place.”
Her brow furrows. “The place in the strip mall? With the wine?”
“That’s the one,” I say, laughing. “I remembered the paintings in your apartment, and the brushes... I thought it might be fun to experience a little bit of what you love with you. It was the only ‘artsy’ thing I could think of.” I shrug self-consciously.
She looks at me, and her expression softens into something warm. “Zachary. That is incredibly sweet. Genuinely.”
“But,” I say, taking one of her orange-spattered hands in mine. “It is also a terrible plan. Objectively. Compared to yours. Your plan is about a thousand times better.”
The relief that floods her face is so bright it’s almost blinding. “Really? You don’t mind?”
“Mind?” I say, my thumb brushing over the back of her hand.
“Maya, I get to watch you in your element. I get to see you happy like this. How could I possibly mind? I’ll cancel the paint and sip.
We are definitely doing the kiln. One hundred percent.
Just... you'll have to teach me. I have a feeling I'm going to make a. .. I don't know. A lumpy ashtray?”
She laughs, that low, warm sound that I'm becoming addicted to. “I can work with a lumpy ashtray.”
“It's a date,” I say.
“It's a date,” she confirms with a huge smile lighting her face.
And I know, right then, that I’d do anything she wanted, just to see that smile. This—this messy, authentic, kiln-fired, last-minute, perfect date—is exactly where I'm supposed to be.