Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
HATTIE
This is what normal looks like. This is my life. Twenty two small humans who need me to know what sound the letter M makes, who need me to arbitrate the crayon wars, who need me to be present and steady and okay.
I've been none of those things for five days.
The car got fixed. Some belt thing I can't pronounce.
Parker's Auto did it in three hours, charged me less than I expected, and a woman named Savannah Parker loaned me a pair of sneakers for the drive home because she said my ballet flats were a crime against feet.
Small town kindness from people who didn't ask why my eyes were swollen.
Drove straight to Reno. Didn't go to Tessa's. Couldn't face the margaritas and the couch and the questions. Went home, plugged in my phone, stared at the screen.
No texts from him.
Not one, in five days. The man who texted me every single day for three months, even if it was just a one word response to my paragraphs, has gone completely silent. My phone is a brick with a blank notification screen, and every time I check it I feel pathetic.
So I stopped checking.
Mostly.
"Miss Bloom?" Marcus tugs my sleeve. "There's a man."
"What?"
Marcus points at the classroom door. The top half is glass, and through it I can see the front office administrator, Mrs. Chen, walking someone down the hallway. A tall someone. Broad shouldered. Sawdust on his jeans.
My heart stops.
Wal fills the doorway. Six one, work boots, gray henley, beard going silver at the corners. His dark eyes scan the classroom. The tiny chairs. The finger paintings. The alphabet rug. Then they find me, crouched next to Marcus with a broken crayon in my hand, and his entire face changes.
"Can I help you?" Teacher voice. Steady, controlled, professional. The voice I use when I'm absolutely falling apart inside.
"Hattie." He says my name like it costs him something. Then he looks down at Marcus, who is studying him with the analytical intensity of a future cult leader.
"Are you Miss Bloom's friend?" Marcus asks.
"Yeah." Wal's voice is rough. Quiet. "Something like that."
"My class is in session for another ten minutes," I say, standing. My knees are unreliable. Everything is unreliable. "You can wait in the hall."
"I'll wait."
He steps back. Mrs. Chen is standing behind him with her mouth open, clearly trying to figure out why a mountain man just walked into her elementary school.
Wal leans against the hallway wall, folds his arms, and settles in.
Patient. Immovable. A man who drove three hours and is perfectly willing to wait ten more minutes.
The longest ten minutes of my life. Sophie's crayon crisis resolves. The cloud debate reaches a shaky ceasefire. Parents start arriving, and I hand over backpacks on autopilot while my pulse hammers so loud I'm sure the kids can hear it.
Marcus is last. His mom apologizes for being late, rushes in. Marcus pauses at the door, looks back at me, then looks at Wal in the hallway.
"He's big," Marcus observes.
"Go with your mom, Marcus."
"Is he your boyfriend?"
From the hallway, Wal says, "Yes."
Marcus nods like this confirms a theory he's been working on. His mom gives me a look. They leave.
Then it's just us. Me in a classroom that smells like glue sticks, him in my doorway, and five days of silence sitting between us.
"You can't just show up at my school."
"Already did."
"And you can't tell my kindergarteners you're my boyfriend."
"Also already did." He steps into the classroom. The room shrinks. "Marcus seemed like he could handle it."
"Marcus is five."
"Marcus is the most competent person I've met in a week. That kid's gonna run the world."
A laugh tries to escape. I clamp down on it. Fold my arms, mirror his stance, keep the teacher desk between us.
"Five days, Wal. You didn't text me for five days."
"I know."
"Three months of every single day, and then nothing."
"I know." He stops at the edge of the desk. Close enough that I can see the tired lines around his eyes are deeper. The silver in his beard looks like it's gained ground. He's been sleeping badly. I can tell because I've been sleeping badly too, and grief wears the same face on everyone.
"I moved her clothes."
The words land in my chest. "What?"
"Tuesday night. Sat on the bedroom floor with a box from the garage.
Folded everything. The yellow cardigan she wore when she was cold.
The robe. Every single thing." His voice is steady but his jaw is tight.
"Her books are in a box on the shelf. Her reading glasses are in the nightstand in the spare room, because she read in there sometimes when I snored. "
My hand covers my mouth.
"Took me four hours. Maple sat with me the whole time." He reaches into his back pocket. Pulls out a small, worn photograph. Sets it on my desk. A woman with dark hair, laughing. "That stays on the mantel. She's part of my life. She always will be."
"She should be."
"But the bedroom is clear. The closet has my clothes on one side. The other side is empty." He puts both hands flat on my desk, leans forward. Those brown eyes burning. "I left it empty, Hattie. On purpose. Because the only person who gets to fill that space is you."
The tears come. I can't stop them. Don't even try. They roll down my cheeks while he watches me, standing on the other side of a desk covered in crayon shavings and gold star stickers.
"You drove three hours."
"Two and a half. I broke the speed limit in Fallon."
"You told Marcus you're my boyfriend."
"I am your boyfriend. If you'll let me." His voice drops.
"I'm not good at this. I'm grumpy. I don't talk enough.
I live three hours from your school in a town with one bakery and a dog who sheds on everything.
But I love you, Hattie. I've loved you since the needy letter Q, and I was too busy being faithful to a ghost to say it out loud. "
My legs move before my brain gives permission. Around the desk, past the tiny chairs, straight into him. His arms close around me so tight my feet leave the floor. His face buries in my neck, my hair, and the sound he makes is wrecked.
"I love you," I say into his shoulder, fisting his henley. "I love you, you impossible man."
His mouth finds mine. Warm, desperate, tasting like black coffee. We kiss in my kindergarten classroom surrounded by finger paintings and the alphabet rug, his hands gripping my hips, mine in his hair. When we break apart we're both breathing hard.
"Take me home," I whisper against his mouth.
"Reno or Whisper Vale?"
"Whisper Vale. Take me to your bedroom."
He drives us in his truck. My car stays in the school parking lot because I don't care about logistics right now. His hand stays on my thigh the whole drive, warm through my skirt, thumb tracing circles on the inside of my knee.
We barely make it through the front door. Maple greets us, tail wagging with actual conviction for the first time. But Wal walks me straight past the hallway photos, past the spare room, into his bedroom.
Empty hangers on one side of the open closet. Clean sheets. Cora's photo on the mantel in the living room, where it belongs. Not erased. Honored. And room made for me.
He undresses me slowly. Skirt, blouse, bra, underwear. Lays me on the bed. His bed. Strips himself down, rolls on a condom from the nightstand drawer that now holds just one pair of reading glasses fewer.
This time is different. Slower. He pins my wrists above my head with one hand, enters me with a long stroke that makes us both groan. His forehead against mine, eyes open.
"Stay," he murmurs, driving deep. "Stay with me."
"I'm here."
His free hand slides between us. Thumb on my clit. Firm, precise circles timed with every thrust. My back arches off the mattress.
"Come for me, Hattie." Voice ragged. "Let me feel it."
I shatter around him, clenching tight. He follows three strokes later with my name on his lips.
Afterward, he pulls me against his chest. Maple jumps on the bed, settles at our feet. The room is quiet, warm, full.
"Your kindergarteners are gonna have questions on Monday," he says.
"Marcus is going to write a report."
His chest shakes with laughter. The real kind. My favorite sound in the world.
"I'll be here," he says into my hair. "Friday afternoons. Whenever you want."
"Every Friday."
"Every Friday."
Through the bedroom door, I can see the hallway. Cora's photo on the mantel, smiling. The empty closet space, waiting. A house that finally feels like it's breathing again.
Wrong number. Right man. And he drove three hours to tell a five year old he was my boyfriend.
That's enough. That's everything.