5. Charlotte
CHARLOTTE
I've read the same paragraph of Mason's makeup essay four times and I still couldn't tell you a single word of it.
I keep thinking about last night. I thought about it in the shower this morning.
I thought about it while I poured cereal.
I thought about it standing at the whiteboard in front of twenty-six sophomores, which is genuinely humiliating, because there is nothing professional about teaching students while thinking about Ryder Kane.
This is a bad idea. I know it's a bad idea the way I know not to touch a hot stove, and yet here I am, apparently scorching my hand on it anyway.
I’m a few months out of an engagement. My ex is already official with another woman, and I still haven't figured out how to be a person who isn't defined by that betrayal yet. I’m not remotely emotionally equipped to handle whatever happened last night, and I especially am not equipped to handle it with Ryder Kane, of all people.
Except it happened. And now I have to go teach eight periods pretending it didn't.
I make it through the first two periods on autopilot and decide I need caffeine before I do anything else today.
I duck out to the break room, and I’m doctoring my coffee with too much sweet creamer when I feel it.
That specific prickle at the back of my neck that means I'm being watched, and I already know before I turn around exactly who it's going to be.
Ryder is standing in the hall, overseeing two guys on a lift who are doing something to the ceiling tiles, and when I glance over he's already looking at me. My stomach does the thing again. The thing I've been trying to convince myself isn't happening.
I hold his gaze for exactly two seconds longer than I should. Then one of his guys says something and he has to look away, and I use the opportunity to flee toward my classroom with my coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim.
I make it back to my classroom and set my coffee down, some of it sloshing onto a stack of ungraded quizzes. I mop it up with a napkin and sit down at my desk, forcing myself to focus on anything other than the memory of his hands on me.
Fourth period does not help.
Mason walks in ten minutes late, no pass, headphones still around his neck, and drops into his seat.
“Mason, you're late.”
“Bathroom emergency.” He doesn't even try to make it convincing.
“Take out your textbook, please.”
He doesn't. He leans back in his chair instead, arms crossed, staring at me with an expression I've seen on him before and don't love the direction it's headed.
“Why do you even care if I’m late?” he asks. “You clearly don't even want to be here.”
A few kids laugh.
“That's not true, and it's not the topic of today's lesson. Book out, please.”
“My mom says you only came back because you got fired from your fancy gig teaching at some private school. Is that true? Did you get fired?”
The room goes quiet, and every single student is now watching to see how I handle this.
“That's not something we're discussing right now.”
“Why not? Everybody already knows anyway.” He shrugs, a mean little smile pulling at his mouth. “It's not like it's a secret you're a failure. Everybody in this town talks about it.”
Heat rushes into my face, and for one awful second, I can’t trust myself to speak. Twenty-five pairs of eyes are fixed on me, waiting to see what I’ll do next.
Whatever happens, I am not crying in front of a room full of fifteen-year-olds.
“Mason. Hallway.”
“Why, because I said something true?”
“Now.”
He rolls his eyes and slides out of his chair with all the urgency of a man walking to his own execution. I follow him out and pull the door closed behind me.
“You cannot talk to me like that.”
“Why not? It's true.”
“It doesn't matter if it's true. You don’t know the situation, it's disrespectful, and it's not your business. I need you to understand that there are consequences for talking to any teacher the way you just talked to me.”
“What? You gonna write me up? Send an email home that nobody reads? You don't get it. You don't get to come in here and act like you have it all figured out. You don't know anything about me.”
“You're right. I don't. So why don't you tell me instead of taking it out on me in front of the whole class.”
“Forget it.” He turns like he's going to walk off again, the same way he did the last time, and I feel the familiar helplessness rising in my chest, the sense that I am completely and totally out of my depth with this kid and I have no idea how to reach him.
I've tried patience, firmness, calling home, which resulted in a voicemail that's permanently full, and an email with no response.
Every approach I've tried just seems to bounce off him.
“Mason.”
He doesn't turn around. I open my mouth to say something, but I don't get the chance.
“Hey!”
The voice comes from down the hall, and both of us turn to find Ryder, arms crossed over his chest in a way that makes it very clear he's heard every word of the last two minutes.
Mason's whole posture changes instantly, cocky bravado draining out of him.
“You got a problem with authority, huh? I used to have the exact same problem.”
“I wasn't talking to you,” Mason says.
“No, you weren't. Doesn't mean I wasn't listening.” Ryder takes a step closer.
Mason visibly shrinks a couple inches even though he's trying hard not to.
“I know exactly what you're doing right now.
Been there. Done it worse than you're doing it, if I'm honest. You're pissed off about something that's got nothing to do with her, and you're taking it out on the person who's actually trying to give a damn about you, because it's easier than dealing with whatever's actually wrong.”
Mason doesn't say anything, crossing his arms over his chest.
“I got sent to juvie around your age. You know why?
Because it was easier to be angry at the whole world than admit I was scared of my own life falling apart.
Took me a long time to figure out that being a smartass to people who actually give a shit about you doesn't fix anything. It just makes sure you end up alone.”
Something shifts in Mason's face. The anger doesn't disappear, but it loosens into fifteen-year-old confusion.
“Ms. Hayes didn't do anything to you,” Ryder says.
“She's trying to teach you something, and you're wasting the opportunity being a jackass about it.
That's on you, not her. You want to be pissed off at something, be pissed off at whatever's actually going on at home, and stop taking it out on the one adult in this building who's still showing up for you even when you're making it hard.”
The hallway is completely silent for a long moment. Mason looks at the floor.
“Sorry,” he mutters, and it's not entirely clear if it's directed at me or at Ryder or at the floor itself, but it's the first apology I've heard out of him in weeks.
“Not me you need to say it to.”
Mason glances up at me, still not quite meeting my eyes. “Sorry, Ms. Hayes.”
“Thank you,” I manage. “Go back to class and take out your textbook, yeah?”
He nods and disappears back into the classroom, and I stand there in the hallway for a second, staring at Ryder.
The bad boy from high school, the one who ended up in juvie and came out the other side as somebody the whole town still watches sideways.
And here he is, giving a struggling teenager exactly the kind of honesty that kid needed to hear, using his own worst mistake as the bridge to get there.
It rearranges something in my chest, seeing him like this.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Yeah. I think so.” I press a hand to my sternum, willing my heart to slow down. “I need some air. Do you mind if I…”
“I'll walk with you.”
We end up outside near the side entrance, the one that leads out to the athletic fields, the sun cutting sharp angles across the grass. I lean against the brick and finally let myself breathe.
“Thank you,” I say. “I've been trying to reach that kid for weeks and getting nowhere, and you did it in about ninety seconds.”
He leans against the wall beside me, close but not touching, and for a second neither of us says anything.
“I really appreciate it,” I say again, because I don't quite know how to segue into the conversation I actually need to have. “But I also need to say something about last night.”
He goes still, watching me carefully.
“What happened,” I continue, forcing myself to keep going even though every instinct is telling me to change the subject, “cannot happen again. I just got out of an engagement. Lost my job in New York after some budget cuts. I moved back to this town because my entire life fell apart, and I am nowhere close to okay yet. Getting involved with anyone right now would be an incredibly bad decision on top of an already bad year. I’m sorry. ”
“Okay.”
I blink. “Okay?”
“You don't owe me an explanation, Charlotte. We don't have to label anything. We don't have to do anything you don't want to do. I can fix your bathroom. Or I can be something else, if you want that. Your call, not mine. I'm not gonna push you into something you're not ready for.”
“That's…” I don't have a ready response for that, mostly because I expected pushback.
“But I'll tell you this,” he adds, and something harder edges into his voice. “If anyone ever talks to you like that again, I'm stepping in. Every time. Nobody gets to treat you like that while I'm around to do something about it.”
“Thank you,” I say again.
“You should get back inside.”
“Right.” I push off the wall, and he doesn't move to stop me.
I walk back toward my classroom feeling more unsettled than when I left it.
The rest of the school day passes in a blur, and by the time the final bell rings I'm exhausted.
I gather my things to head home, and that's when I notice it. A folded piece of paper tucked under a notebook in my bag. I unfold it slowly, already suspecting who it's from before I even see the handwriting.
Take your time, Charlotte. I meant what I said. You don’t owe me anything, and I’m not going anywhere. If you ever decide you want something more, I’ll be here. Until then, let me fix your bathroom and try to behave myself. No promises on that last part. - Ryder
Heat spiders all the way down my neck, and I glance around the empty classroom like someone might have seen it even though I'm completely alone.
I read it again. I spent the better part of my engagement wondering why Daniel felt so far away even when he was sitting right beside me. And somehow, after only a day with Ryder Kane, I feel closer to him than I have to anyone in a very long time.
There's a version of tonight where I'm sensible. Where I go to bed alone with a clear conscience and a healed heart in progress.
Then I think about the sound he made when he devoured me. I fold the note back up and tuck it away in my bag.