“Jess! Look!” She points at Frederick on his shelf. At his brave sticker. “He’s so proud.”
“He should be. He’s a very brave snail.”
She does the hand squeeze to herself. One, two, three. Breathes. Smiles.
Then she grabs her backpack from the new lower hook without anyone telling her to.
The system works.
The breathing works.
All of it works.
And Marco noticed.
When you realize you’re not failing.
You’re actually succeeding.
At something that matters more than any social media app ever did.
I finish my coffee and try not to think about what it means that he’s personally using techniques I taught his daughter.
Try not to think about the fact I’ve somehow become essential to the infrastructure of his life.
I fail spectacularly.
17
Jess
I’m standing outside Ben’s classroom at three twenty-seven trying not to think about the fact I had sex with my boss twice now.
The hallway smells like freshly dried paint and industrial floor cleaner. It triggers something in my nervous system. Old anxiety from when I was the kid who couldn’t breathe in crowded spaces.
I count to calm myself. One, two, three.
Better.
Marginally.
On cue, Ben’s classroom door opens and kids start pouring out like someone released the floodgates. Other doors down the hall also open in a similar vein. The noise level goes from zero to jet engine in approximately one-point-five seconds.
And there’s Ben. Standing frozen in the doorway. Her curls are perfect because I spent twenty minutes on them this morning. Her school uniform is pristine. Frederick is clutched in both hands.
But her face.
Oh no.
That’s the face of a kid who’s about to have a meltdown.
Mrs. Chen, her teacher, is crouched next to her doing the whole gentle-adult-voice thing. But it’s not working. I can see it from here. Ben’s breathing is getting faster. Her shoulders are climbing toward her ears.
I move through the swirling chaos of parents and kids like I’m navigating an obstacle course.
“Excuse me.”
“Pardon me.”
