She looks at me with those big eyes, surprised. “So this happens to you too?”
“Yeah, it does. When I’m missing my mom, I let myself feel it for a bit, but I know it makes it harder to focus on regular stuff.” I keep my voice soft. “So if you need a break today, or if you need to work on something else for a bit, that’s completely okay.”
“Really?”
“Really,” I say, and glance around the room at the other students still working at their desks. “How about this,,, why don’t you go sit in the reading corner for a few minutes? Take a little break with one of your favorites. Sound good?”
She bites her lip again, fresh tears threatening. “But I don’t want to do bad on the vocabulary test. I’m usually really good at them.”
Right. Competitive Chloe. She doesn’t love standardized testing, but she’s so driven that she works extra hard to ace everything anyway. We’re supposed to do the vocabulary quiz this afternoon, part of my carefully planned lesson schedule.
I glance at the clock, then back at Chloe’s face. At the way she’s trying so hard to hold it together.
Screw the lesson plan.
“You know what? Then I guess the test is just gonna have to wait,” I say.
She looks up at me, surprised, and manages a small smile asshe wipes away the tear that escaped down her cheek. I give her a wink and stand up, brushing off my knees.
“Change of plans,” I announce, clapping my hands twice. Twenty-three heads swivel toward me with varying degrees of interest. “We’re doing something special today. Free art time with popsicle party. I know that was scheduled for next week, but we’re moving it to today. The vocabulary quiz can wait until Friday. Put your worksheets aside and I’ll collect them so we can finish later. Let’s go!”
The reaction is immediate and gratifying, kids cheering like I just announced a trip to Disneyland. Chloe’s face transforms completely, the sadness replaced by something closer to excitement. She’s not back to her usual bouncing self, but this is progress.
I head to the supply closet and pull out the good stuff: the nice acrylics I bought with my own money because the school-provided tempera paints are basically colored water, the big brushes, the fancy paper that actually holds color without bleeding through.
I put on music and help distribute supplies while the classroom transforms into controlled chaos around me. Kids claim spots at tables, negotiate over colors. Mia is already on the verge of tears because Tyler took the purple and purple is her favorite. I mediate the purple dispute, then produce a second purple from the supply closet like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat. Crisis averted.
I glance over at Chloe. She’s sitting with Aiden and Maya, drawing something that looks like underwater creatures, and she’s smiling. Actually smiling. And that’s enough for right now.
The Black Lantern looks like exactly what I need.
The building sits on the corner, older but well-loved, with hanging baskets full of fall mums and pumpkins scatteredaround the entrance. Warm light pours out of the windows, casting golden rectangles onto the sidewalk, and the whole thing radiates the kind of small-town charm I moved here for.
Theo mentioned this place when he showed me the apartment, and I’ve been meaning to check it out ever since. And now that I’m living downtown, The Black Lantern is only a short walk away.
I push through the door and warmth wraps around me immediately, along with the smell of woodsmoke and beer and something savory cooking in the kitchen. Golden string lights crisscross the ceiling, the wooden bar looks like it’s been here for decades, and conversations layer over each other in that comfortable hum of people enjoying their evening.
I take it all in. Mismatched tables and chairs scattered throughout. An overstuffed bookshelf in the corner, board games stacked haphazardly between paperbacks and hardcovers. And the most adorable golden retriever I’ve ever seen, napping on a plush dog bed near the bar with a hand-painted sign that says “Loves Attention.”
Now this is my kind of place.
I find a spot at the bar and climb onto a stool, letting the tension drain out of my shoulders. Teaching is exhausting in ways that everybody warned me about but I didn’t quite believe until I started living it.
And it’s not just being on your feet all day, chasing small humans around, and trying to keep them organized while actually teaching them things. It’s the emotional stuff, too. Dealing with tantrums, sometimes from kids but more often from their parents, though thankfully that hasn’t been an issue this week. But mostly it’s carrying all their stuff on top of your own. Twenty-three little hearts that you worry about when you go home at night, twenty-three sets of problems you can’t always fix. Trying to be what they need when sometimes you’re not even sure what you need yourself.
A blonde woman appears behind the bar, and I do a doubletake because she’s stunning. Late twenties or early thirties, with the kind of effortless confidence that makes her seem like she owns not just the bar, but the entire town. She smiles when she sees me.
“Hey there.” She grabs a bar towel and tosses it over her shoulder. “Welcome to The Black Lantern. I don’t think I’ve seen you before. Passing through or new in town?”
“New,” I say, already liking her. “I moved here right before the school year started, but this is my first time in.”
“Ah, a teacher then.” She leans forward on the bar, resting her elbows on the polished wood. “Elementary or high school?”
“First grade. And literally everyone has been telling me I need to check this place out. Apparently it’s a Dark River essential.”
“Aw, that’s sweet.” Her expression softens. “This place has been here for ages. A woman named Susan Midnight ran it before I bought it from her. She was pretty much the heart and soul of this town, so I try to keep it feeling like the community space she built. Honestly, I was lucky enough to inherit all the goodwill. The hard part was already done.”
The nameMidnightregisters and I freeze. No way.
