“Me too,” I admitted. “But… I’m still looking forward to it.”
“How could you fuck it up?” he asked, trying to sound casual, but his voice caught halfway. “You’re like… effortless.”
I snorted. “Yeah, right. I’m awkward as hell, and I overthink everything.”
“Same,” he said, smiling.
“Guess we’re both doomed then.”
“Next Friday? I could pick you up?—”
“Yes.” The word jumped out before I could temper it, and heat flooded my face. Too eager, too desperate, too… me. My chest felt tight. What if I said something stupid? What if I read too much into this?
Walker didn’t seem to notice my inner meltdown. He reached out, fingers warm against my cheek, his touch light but sure. “I can’t wait,” he said softly. “Can I… ”
Kiss me? Fuck yes. His lips brushed mine, soft at first, just the faintest press of warmth against warmth. I thought that might be it—a fleeting kiss, nothing more—but then Walker shifted closer, his fingers sliding along my jaw as he tilted his head and deepened it. Slow, deliberate, and wow, my heart stumbled over itself. His lips parted just slightly, inviting me to follow, and I did. My hands found his jacket as if I needed something solid to cling to, and when he finally pulled back, my breath was shaky and uneven. “Wow,” I said, a little dazed.
“Yeah,” Walker whispered, his thumb brushing along my cheekbone. “Me too.”
He lingered a beat longer than I expected, his fingers curling slightly against my skin. His gaze dropped to my mouth, then back to my eyes, and for a moment, I thought he might kiss me again. My heart pounded, and everything inside me screamed,stay, stay. But instead, Walker exhaled softly, stepping back with an awkward smile. “We should exchange numbers,” he said. “I’ll figure out what we’re doing. And really… you should go now.”
I wasn’t sure I wanted to go. My car keys felt heavier in my hand than they should, like leaving now meant I might wake up tomorrow and wonder if any of this had really happened. But it was right to leave—give him space, give me time to breathe. I nodded. “Okay. See you Friday.”
“Yeah,” Walker said again, softer this time, and I swear his smile followed me all the way home.
The school weekwas slow and fraught with worries about Jamie and his family. So many meetings and endless discussions never seemed to lead anywhere. When a school suspects a child is experiencing issues at home that may be causing harm to them, they typically follow a structured procedure. One we’re all too familiar with, but one that deeply hurts every teacher’s heart.
Paperwork piled up, and incident reports and behavior logs filled folders thicker than textbooks. Then there was the waiting—hoping the system would move quickly enough—that the right people would step in before things got worse. It was a process designed to protect children, but it left teachers feeling helpless,forced to stand on the sidelines when they wanted to reach out and fix things themselves.
At the center of it all was a confused six-year-old Jamie. His dad had moved out, and notes on every file warned staff that he would be refused access if he showed up at the school. Jamie’s world was unraveling, and we were all scrambling to hold the pieces together.
Every morning, I scanned the playground, looking for him. Yesterday, I spotted him standing off to one side, head down, watching the other kids as if they were moving into another world. One he no longer knew how to enter. On the worst days, he wouldn’t meet my eyes at all.
I wanted to help, but what could I do? I couldn’t follow him home. I couldn’t be there when the quiet turned to chaos or when the silence became unbearable. All I could do was offer him calm in my classroom—a quiet smile, a few extra minutes to finish his work, a whispered “Good job”—that I hoped made him feel seen. It never felt like enough.
Polly had forgiven Jamie for cutting her hair faster than anyone expected. She’d barely blinked when the principal had explained what happened, shrugging it off with a quick, “It’ll grow back.” But that was Polly—fiercely loyal in a way most six-year-olds hadn’t figured out yet. Since then, she has been wandering around the playground with Jamie, her small hand tucked protectively in his. She kept him talking, chattering about cartoons, her cat, and the new shoes she insisted made her run faster. Sometimes Jamie didn’t say much in return, but he seemed to like having her there.
It was finally Friday, and the only bright light on an otherwise bleak school week was the thought of my date with Walker. Admittedly, I’d spent an embarrassing amount of time deciding what to wear. I wanted to appear as if I wasn’t trying too hard but still cared. Too formal, and I’d look ridiculous. Toocasual, and I’d regret it. He assured me the restaurant he was taking me to wasn’t formal. Eventually, I settled on my favorite pair of dark jeans and a fitted sweater that somehow made my shoulders look broader than they were. It felt like a balance, and I hoped it was right when I laid everything on my bed, ready to change.
Now, I just needed to get home, shower, change, and focus on the bright spot ahead—my date with Walker. However, when I reached the parking lot, someone was leaning on my car. Jamie’s dad. I stopped cold, my heart thudding in my chest. The parking lot was empty now. The kids had all gone home, and it was just the two of us. He was slouched against the driver’s side door, arms crossed, his expression dark. Something about how he was waiting—too still, too laidback—set my nerves on edge, and I pulled out my cell phone.
He held his hands outward, palms up, flashing a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Sorry to bother you,” he said, his voice smooth, almost too calm. He extended his hand, but I didn’t shake it. My mind raced, cycling through every possible outcome. Was he here to argue? To threaten me? My overactive imagination had me pinning the asshole to the ground. With my keys gripped tight in my hand just in case things escalated, I shifted my weight, standing taller, trying to project confidence I wasn’t sure I felt.
“I was just wondering how Jamie’s getting on.” He was trying for genuine concern, but something about it felt off as if he was performing kindness rather than feeling it.
“I’m sorry,” I said, keeping my voice firm. “But any questions you have should go through Principal Lewis.”
Something flickered behind his smile for a moment, sharp and unmistakable resentment. Then, it was replaced by a grin that felt even more slimy than his fake concern.
“Of course,” he said, voice syrupy and slow. “Of course.”
He straightened then, but instead of leaving right away, he took a slow step toward me, his gaze narrowing. My pulse kicked up, and I instinctively shifted back a step. It was way too quiet now, just the faint hum of distant traffic and the cold bite of January air pressing in.
I looked at the school’s security cameras, their dull red lights blinking steadily above us. He followed my gaze, lips curling into something that wasn’t quite a smile.
“Mr. Carter,” he said, his voice lower now, like he wanted me to know this wasn’t over. He turned on his heel, walking away with a slow, deliberate swagger that made my skin crawl.
I ran back into the school, logged what I considered an intimidating incident, and then, copied an email to the principal, other teachers, and all official channels, including the cops. Maybe I was overreacting, but when the welfare of one of my students was at stake, nothing was too much.
