by K. A. Tucker
“Yeah, no big deal.” He gives his shoulder a casual scratch, drawing my attention to his giant arms. It probably is no big deal for a guy who looks like he bench-presses refrigerators daily.
“Okay, great.” I steal a glance next door before moving back to give Dean room. Both the truck and car are there. Shane’s home. He’s just not here.
Dean’s gaze flickers downward over my flirty sundress as he strolls in. “You look really nice today.”
“You mean, not hungover?” It’s so not happening between us.
“Sure.” He smiles secretly as he pushes the dolly down the hall and into the kitchen. If he were smarter, I’d think he’d have figured out why I went to the trouble of straightening my hair and putting on makeup, just to grade schoolwork on a Sunday afternoon.
Dean smells freshly showered and is clad in simple jeans and T-shirt, much like the outfit he was wearing Friday night. Except it doesn’t stir so much as a spark of attraction in me anymore. What a disaster sleeping with him would have been. For once, my mother’s lusty lifestyle has saved me from making a horrible mistake. “How was the rest of your shift?”
“A small collision, a stroke … pretty uneventful.” His hands settle on his hips as he takes in my kitchen and the stove that’s now sitting in the middle. We pulled it out to clean and have it ready to go. “You did a good job in here. Can’t even tell there was a fire.”
“Justine’s a bit of a freak like that.” It took us all afternoon, but the smoke barely lingers anymore, replaced by the pungent scent of vinegar.
“Where is your cute little friend, anyway?”
“She had to head back to Jersey, to her boyfriend.” She left about an hour ago, to give herself time to do laundry and grocery shopping for the week, though she was reluctant to miss this exchange.
A frown flashes across Dean’s forehead. Of disappointment, I gather, at hearing that Justine is in fact not single.
I shake my head at the gall of this guy, ready to move on to my friend now that he has no shot with me. Dean definitely hasn’t changed. “Are you sure you don’t need help?”
“Nah. I’m good.” In seconds, he has the avocado-green fire hazard on the dolly and he’s wheeling it down the hall, his arms tensing from the weight. For all his strength, he’s a clumsy ox. One corner of the stove hits the wall several times, leaving scuff marks along the fresh paint.
By the third “shit, sorry,” I’m gritting my teeth.
“That’s okay.” I force a light tone and remind myself that Dean is doing me a huge favor. I still have some paint left over and can easily touch up that wall. When he gets to the top of the porch, though, I have visions of him destroying my already-frail stairs that I can’t touch up with a paintbrush. “Are you sure you can manage by yourself?”
“I’ll be fine.” He pauses. “Unless you’re looking for an excuse to go over and see Shane?” He smirks, and something tells me big, dumb Dean might not be so clueless, after all.
“I’ll just be over here grading math tests if you need me.” I turn before he can see my cheeks burn.
Ten minutes later, I have a brand-new white stove set up in my kitchen and only a few more dings in my walls.
“I plugged it in for you.” He flicks a few buttons on and off. “You just need to set the clock. And I threw your old one in the back of my truck. I’ll drop it off at the depot for you.”
I sigh with relief that this ordeal is over. “I really appreciate this.”
“No problem.” Brushing a streak of dirt from his hands onto his jeans, he grabs the dolly and begins wheeling it down the hall toward the front door. “Any time you need my help around here, you have my number, okay?”
“Thanks.” I used to have a standing offer of help from Shane. Does that still exist?
I trail behind, not sure what else to say to the guy who almost pulled a super sleazy move two nights ago but has otherwise proved to be decent.
We step out onto the front porch just as Shane is heading for his truck, his strides long and purposeful.
My heart does its usual skip-a-beat flutter at the sight of him—in a collared shirt and jeans today. I hold my breath, waiting for him to reroute, to jog over and say hi. Before the debacle on Friday night, he would have. He always did.
Now, though, he merely slows long enough to throw a wave at us before climbing into his truck. My chest sinks as he cranks the engine and takes off down his driveway without another glance.
Is this how it’s going to be between us from now on?
I may have been confused about what I wanted before, but I know for a fact that I do not want this. Maybe Shane is right. I am too complicated.
I feel Dean watching me. I force a smile that is no doubt stiff. “So, I guess I’ll see you around?” Not at Route Sixty-Six on Friday night if Dottie Reed is going to be there, though.
“Sounds good.” Dean takes the first step, then pauses, his gaze veering to Shane’s house again. “You know, he was pretty pumped when he heard you were coming back to town.”
I’m not sure if hearing that makes me feel better or worse. “I don’t think he’s that happy about it anymore.”
Dean chuckles. “Just give him some time. He’ll come around.”
“You mean before or after his date?” Is he still going out with her after our big blowup? After that kiss that buckled my knees?
I’m fishing for information and the amused look on Dean’s face says he knows it. “Don’t worry. He’ll get bored with her.”
So, Shane is going out with her.
“That does not make me feel better.” When is Shane going to get bored with that beautiful, playful blond? After six months of screwing like rabbits? I’ll bet Susie is simple and straightforward. I’ll bet she has normal parents and an ordinary life. She knows what she wants, with no crutches, no emotional obstacles, no confusion.
She wants Shane and, while they may have dated before, unlike me she’s not hung up on their failed high school relationship.
Good ol’ uncomplicated Susie Teller.
If Dean can sense my internal distress, he doesn’t let on, his bright blue eyes twinkling with mischief. “When he does come around? Maybe don’t give him such a hard time. He’s actually one of the good ones.”
“Yeah, I’m not sure if I’m ready to take your advice.”
He shrugs. “I never said I was one of the good ones.”
“No shit.” I throw a playful punch into his arm to soften the blow. He did help me today.
His footfalls are heavy as he heads down the stairs, carrying the large metal dolly in one hand as if it’s weightless. “Hey, that thing with your mom … if it makes any difference, I was so drunk, I don’t know how I got it up—”
“Nope. Doesn’t make a difference at all.” I’m sure my horror shows on my face with the visual that is playing out in my head. “And we are never going to mention it ever again, right?”
He grins sheepishly. “I stuck all the warranty paperwork and the manual inside the oven. You should pull it out now, before you forget and turn on the oven with it in there.” He pauses. “Unless you want this stove to act up too, so Shane has to come running here—”
“Oh my God, that was a real fire!” My cheeks flush. Do they seriously think we staged it? Is that what Shane thinks?
He winks. “Have a good week.”
“And we didn’t call you guys. One of my alarmist neighbors did,” I holler after him. If I ever find out who …
Alone in my house again, I venture into the kitchen to pull out the manual Dean tucked into the oven—so I don’t forget and inadvertently start another fire while preheating the oven. “What the …” A Polson Falls charity firefighter calendar is included in the stack of papers. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.” I cringe as I flip through the pages of grinning men striking awkward poses and in various stages of undress—three I recognize from yesterday, none of them particularly fit but all handsome enough in a burly away, I guess. It’s as morti
fying and cheesy as I anticipated it would be and, by the fourth month, I’m laughing. Maybe that’s what it’s supposed to do?
And then I reach July, and my jaw drops.
There’s Shane, leaning against the red fire truck, wearing only the bottoms of his uniform, sooty fingerprints marring a powerful chest and a thick pad of abdominal muscles. There’s nothing cheesy about this picture.
The way he’s staring at the camera makes me question why the hell he didn’t go the modeling route instead of rescuing domestic animals from trees. Who was lucky enough to leave those fingerprints all over his body?
Just the thought of having that task has my skin flushing.
“It’s all fake. Airbrushed.” I stuff the calendar into a drawer, along with all thoughts of a future with Shane, the ache in my chest hollow.
Eighteen
I step back to appraise my work.
Yes, I think a periwinkle blue bedroom is the right choice, I surmise with relief. And I’m only halfway through the first coat. A splotchy, uneven coat in poor lighting. I began edging as soon as I walked through the front door after work and have been toiling away since, partly because I want this room finished, but mostly to distract myself from the knowledge that it’s Wednesday night and Shane is out with beautiful, blond, uncomplicated Susie Teller.
I steal a glance out my window at the unlit bungalow and my insides clench. I’ve seen him in passing every day since Saturday’s fire, as we’ve come or gone. Once, he was outside tossing the ball to Cody. I caught his wave of greeting but nothing more. No jog and hop over the fence, no offer of help to paint, no invitation for lasagna.
I guess this is how it’s going to be from now on.
I hate it.
I was downstairs making myself a salad for dinner when I heard the rumble of his old car. I scurried to my window to catch a glimpse of him checking something under his hood. He was dressed in dark-wash jeans and a black button-down. Casual, but more stylish than usual, like he’d put in extra effort.
He looked good. Far better than I look, with my messy bun and ratty, long T-shirt and old shorts that I’ve relegated to “paint wear.”
He left three hours ago and I know where they went. Dover is smaller than Polson Falls and there’s only one steak house. It took me all of ten seconds to find the website. The place looks nice—upscale, cozy. Some may say romantic. They even boasted having their own sommelier. I know there are courses and wine selection and all that, but could they still be eating dinner? Or have they moved on elsewhere?
For drinks on Route Sixty-Six’s patio, perhaps? Or have they skipped that and gone back to her place? What is Shane doing right now?
Peeling his shirt off, probably.
Or unbuckling his jeans.
Or palming his erection.
Maybe he’s already dragging her panties off with his teeth?
God, it’s like I’m back in high school. All those nights of these very same thoughts, tormenting me for most of senior year, no matter how much I told myself I didn’t care about Shane Beckett anymore.
What’s Shane doing with Penelope right now? Are they laughing? Kissing? Screwing? Does he ever think about me?
Closing my eyes, I chant over and over again, “You don’t care … you don’t care …” But I can’t ignore my dread. It bothers me that Shane is with any woman. I cannot believe that the thought of Shane with other women—any woman—is bothering me!
I have regrets.
I wish I’d not been so hung up on the past. I wish I’d said a simple yes to dinner. If I ever get another chance, I’ll say yes. I’ll do things differently.
But for now … “Forget about Shane Beckett,” I say through gritted teeth, annoyed with myself. I should be finishing up prep for tomorrow’s curriculum night with the parents, but I can’t concentrate on anything right now. I take a big gulp of my Shock Top, crank my music, grab the paint roller, and get back to work.
“I remember my first curriculum night.”
Wendy Redwood’s reedy voice pulls my focus from the whiteboard where I’m making last-minute notes to guide tonight’s presentation. I smile. “Were you as nervous as I am now?”
“Yes. Though, they didn’t do these types of nights back when I first started. You know, a hundred years ago.” She strolls in, arms folded across her chest, her usual black pumps clicking across the classroom floor. I noticed earlier that the heel caps have been worn right down. They should be tossed, but Wendy’s limited wardrobe is stocked for comfort—flowy dresses and loose blazers—and I’m guessing the soles of those shoes have long ago molded to her feet. “Stand me up in front of a gymnasium of children any day, but parents?” She mock shudders. “They’re terrifying.”
I laugh, and the simple act relieves the tension in my spine. In less than thirty minutes, this room will be full of them, eager to hear how their children will be enlightened this year and by whom. Thankfully, I won’t have to do all the talking. The rotational-subject teachers will each claim their ten minutes, and they’re seasoned veterans who’ve been doing this for decades. I’ll be the only novice teacher. “I’ll be glad when it’s over.”
“Any last-minute questions? Or concerns? I can pop back in, if you’d like. Of course, that’s assuming Lucy doesn’t say something that requires my swift intervention.” She says this with a resigned sigh, as if she’s assuming Bott—I can’t think of her as Lucy or Mademoiselle Parish—will do something crazy and Wendy has accepted it.
I’ve seen the gamut of principals during my years filtering in and out of various schools as a substitute—the nurturing, the apathetic, the militant, the disengaged, the micromanaging, the politics-player. It’s still early days, but I’m quickly learning that Wendy Redwood is as good as they come. She’s calm and rational. She’s supportive without being overbearing. She expects order, but hasn’t buried us in administrative processes. The stories I’ve heard say she’s the first to have her teachers’ backs when a parent storms the office in a fury, but she can also dance along that tightrope to make the parent feel heard. It’s a bipartisan game that she plays well. The students love her. She greets every child by name and with a warm, genuine smile, and yet they all seem to have a healthy respect for her as the boss. No matter what doubts I’ve had about moving back to Polson Falls, taking Wendy up on this teaching offer was one smart move on my part.
“I think I’m ready. It’s pretty straightforward.”
“I knew you would be. You were always a conscientious student, Scarlet.” She smiles with assurance. “It makes me happy to see how well you’re doing.”
You mean, despite my dubious upbringing?
What must it have been like for Wendy to be the principal of this school and deal with my mother and Mayor Rhodes’s scandal? That night was a chain reaction of horrors. It began when a second grader vomited on the floor backstage and two children slipped in regurgitated SpaghettiOs. A helpful parent volunteer ran to the janitor’s room in a rush to get the mop bucket. Obviously, the mayor did not count on a nervous puker when he and my mom stealthily slipped away. The volunteer’s entry was so sudden, her shriek of surprise so loud, rumor has it Mayor Rhodes lost his balance trying to pull up his pants and ended up sprawled on the floor with his unmentionables hanging out for a small crowd.
For Dottie’s part, she did seem more solemn in the weeks after that, staying home and trying to be a more attentive mom. I don’t know how long that affair had been going on and I never asked her if she expected the mayor to leave his wife for her. I didn’t care. She’d humiliated me. Thankfully, she never attended another school event again.
“You might see a few familiar faces from your childhood here tonight. I know of a few old students coming back through with their young ones.” Wendy smiles. “It’s a joy to see new generations.”
“A joy,” I echo, as if in agreement, though I feel anything but joy at the thought of seeing Penelope here. If she’s anything like Becca described, I’m guessing I won’t be heari
ng an apology from her tonight.
But I’m even more anxious to see Shane, if he comes. How will he act toward me? Will he continue keeping his distance? That’s probably for the best. Still, I hate it.
I heard the rumble of his engine last night at almost 10:00 p.m. That’s a four-hour dinner. Who the hell eats dinner for four hours? People who went somewhere to have sex after, that’s who. Every time I think of Shane with another woman, my insides coil with disappointment.
At least he came home alone. I know because I turned off all my lights and spied from my window like a masochistic lunatic. Then I tossed and turned all night, pondering whether I’ve saved myself from heartache or if I’ve sabotaged potential lifelong happiness.
At this point in my obsessive dwelling, it’s a toss-up.
“Good luck!” With a rap of her knuckles against the door, Wendy is gone, her worn heels clicking down the hall toward Becca’s classroom.
I could use a restroom break and a drink of water before this circus starts. I check my phone to make sure I have time. There’s a highly inappropriate meme involving Batman and a studious-looking teacher on her desk from Justine, who knows I’m nervous about tonight. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” I mutter under my breath, chuckling as I quickly delete it.
“Probably shouldn’t curse like that in front of parents,” a deep male voice says, making me jump.
I spin around to find Shane in the doorway, in his usual ensemble of jeans and T-shirt—this time a vintage Pearl Jam soft cotton that clings to his frame without being too tight. He makes casual look good like no other man I know.
“What are you doing here so early?” My heart races both from surprise and relief, glad it was Shane and not someone else who overheard that.
“Am I early?” He strolls in, checking the clock on the wall over his shoulder. “Huh. I guess I am. I wanted to get a front-row seat. These things get packed, from what I remember.” He settles against a desk, stretching his long legs out ahead of him and folding his arms over his chest. His mesmerizing eyes flitter over the plum wrap blouse and black pencil skirt I chose for the night, down to my most “professional” heels, lingering a moment there, before he shifts his focus to the board to scan my notes. “So that’s what my knucklehead kid is going to learn this year.”
