Logan:You eat?
Me:Popcorn.
Logan:Doesn’t count.
Me:It’s *efficient*
Logan:Not the word I’d use.
Me:That’s the ONLY word you use
Could’ve turned filthy, and it would’ve if I’d let it, but it didn’t. It was just nice. Easy. I fell asleep before I could even say good night.
Now, sweat drips down my temple as I crest the hill, lungs burning as I slot my phone back into my leggings pocket. I don’t stop at the clearing for long today. There’s too much to do, too much in my head.
It’s Halloween soon, and I need to decorate now that I finally have the house dry. Charlie’s bachelorette is coming up. It’s Career Day at school today, and I have two of the burliest, don’t-know-what-to-do-with-a-kid hockey players coming in. Though, honestly, I’m grateful they agreed at all.
Sunlight’s just warming the rooftops when I loop back toward my house, mind clearing as I pound the pavement. My eyes flick across to Logan’s driveway as I slow, noticing his truck still parked outside. He has practice this morning, and he’ll be at school for the afternoon session.
My phone buzzes in my pocket the second my sneakers hit my driveway.
Logan:Saw you. Sweaty, flushed, out of breath.
Logan:Hell of a look on you, Parnell.
Heat floods my already overheated cheeks. I bite back a laugh, thumbs flying.
Me:You’d know all about that look, wouldn’t you Pookie?
Logan:Walk that smart mouth over here and I’ll show you what happens when you call me that
Me:Don’t you have practice?
Logan:Yeah. Doesn’t mean I don’t have time to deal with your trouble.
Me:Trouble’s my speciality.
Logan:No shit.
I pause on the porch, heart hammering harder than it did at the top of Birch. I am so tempted to go over there and show him how much trouble I can make.
Still, I fire off one more reply saying I’ll see him this afternoon, then tuck my phone away. Because if I don’t, I will definitely end up over the street. Instead, I head inside to shower, because I’vegot kids, PTA moms, and a principal waiting to devour me whole at Career Day.
When I pull in, the school parking lot’s already packed. I’m ten minutes earlier than usual and still somehow late. Typical. By the time I jog through the front doors with my tote bag thumping against my hip, the air already smells of burnt coffee and stress. Career Day. My own personal Olympics.
Principal Delacourt is stationed at the end of the hallway, clipboard in hand, lips pursed, gaze sharp enough to slice. She doesn’t say anything when I pass, but she doesn’t need to—her eyebrows are a whole paragraph ofAre you sure you can handle this, Parnell?
I paste on my brightest smile, the one that saysYes, I can absolutely handle twenty-seven eleven-year-olds hopped up on muffins and the promise of professional athletes, thank you very much, and head for my classroom.
Of course, I don’t make it two steps inside before the PTA squad materializes. Three of them, travel mugs in hand, perched like vultures in the back row of my class. My eyes land on Pamela, Dylan’s mom. Joy.
“She’s very young, isn’t she?” one murmurs, not nearly as quiet as she thinks.
I’m twenty-fucking-four, Marsha.
Another chuckles. “Mm. Young andfun.But fun doesn’t exactly prepare them for middle school rigor. At some point, they’ll need more than costumes and sing-alongs.”
Pamela leans in, her whisper pitched just right to carry. “Especially when she’s already drowning in that production. Honestly, it was unfair to saddle her with it. But maybe that’s what happens when you’re still trying to prove yourself.”
