Not like there are any projects around town I can volunteer to help with to get out of my own head.
Maisey’s either working them or has them done.
And then it’s Thursday.
A week since the best night of my life. Six days since I let Maisey walk away from me. Six days when I haven’t changed my mind.
She makes my life better. She makes me want to be happy. She makes me want to be better for her. For Opal and my students and my colleagues. For everyone around me.
And having June sit there quietly in class, not looking at me the entire week but turning in perfect homework every day, is utterly killing me.
I keep it together during my classes, but I’m in the foulest of foul moods by the time Thursday’s over.
Logically, I know why I have to wait for winter break to go see Maisey again.
I need to give her space. I need to give June space to finish the semester without added stress if I have any chance of accomplishing what I need to accomplish with both of them.
The logic makes sense.
Emotionally, though, I’m a wreck.
I don’t know if Maisey’s okay. I don’t know if she saw the tabloids. I don’t know if she’s hurting. I don’t know if she’snot, and I really do need to move on.
But I know that when I’m standing on a chair, reaching up to rehang the damn Einstein poster that fell off my wall in fifth periodtoday, I don’t want to hear footsteps behind me, and I don’t want to deal withone more thing.
“Study hall hours are over,” I say shortly without looking back.
“My mom misses you.”
I almost fall off the chair. “June.”
She hovers in the doorway, arms wrapped around herself, looking at me like I might bite. I don’t know how it’s possible that she looks even more like Maisey now than she did in class this morning, but she does, and it makes the wrench flung through my heart twist even harder.
I climb off the chair slowly, sit on it, then gesture for her to come in.
I didn’t mean to imply that you should run awayprobably isn’t the best start here.
No blame.
And knowing that she wasn’t so much running away as trying to get home—and seeing that she’s back home and acting normal in the cafeteria—I’ll still own my part if I need to, but I’m also so fucking proud of her that I can’t bring myself to ask if it was my fault.
“My dad’s a total dick,” she says.
There is literally no good answer to that, so I don’t say a thing.
“But my mom—she’s always tried to make everyone around her happy. I know she didn’t like doing my dad’s show, but she wanted him to be happy. And I know she didn’t love roller coasters, but she’d ride them with me because she wantedmeto be happy. And the thing is, she deserves to be happy too.”
“She does,” I agree, but I stop talking when I get the teenager look ofYou are not in charge here, so be quiet and listen.
“She’s not happy,” June continues. “And I hate when she’s not happy, even though I’m supposed to be a teenager who doesn’t care, because you always hate to see the people you love hurting. Always. And you look miserable, too, and you’re not a dick—not like my dad—not yet, anyway—and I just—look. If you want to date my mom, I don’t care. I mean, I do care. Don’t hurt her. Don’t make her sad. Don’t use her. Don’t take her for granted. Don’t be a toadstool. Don’t cheat on her.Don’t lie to her. And don’t push it, becauseI will know, and apparently I can bring the entire tabloid industry to their knees, sodo not test me.”
Jesus.
Thisis why I work with kids.
Because they’re fucking amazing.
“You doing okay?” I ask her.
