I watch Emma with my family. The way she listens when Calvin talks about his writing, asks Maren questions about the bar that show she’s actually paying attention. The way she includes Chloe in every conversation, never talking over her or dismissing her the way some adults do with kids.
And she fits. That’s the part that scares me.
By the time sunset approaches, Calvin and Maren head back to Dark River. But Emma, Chloe, and I stay. We ride the small roller coaster twice, Chloe screaming with delight, Emmalaughing beside her, me gripping the safety bar and trying not to look down.
We share a funnel cake that gets powdered sugar everywhere, including on Emma’s nose, which she doesn’t notice until Chloe points it out and they both dissolve into giggles. We go through the corn maze even though Chloe’s starting to fade, her steps slowing, the purple bear dragging on the ground beside her.
By the time we’re driving home, Chloe’s sound asleep in the back seat, mouth open, the bear tucked under her arm. Emma’s put on her playlist, something acoustic and mellow, and she’s humming softly, watching the trees blur past in the darkness.
The dashboard lights cast her profile in soft blue, and I catch myself glancing over more than I should. The slope of her nose. The way her lips move when she hums. The strand of hair that’s fallen across her cheek.
Today might have been the most fun I’ve had in years. And I’m trying hard to ignore the fact that a large reason for that is sitting in my passenger seat, completely at ease, like she belongs there.
Like maybe she’s always belonged there.
CHAPTER 8
Emma
I’ve rearranged the curriculum handouts three times. Once by the door where parents walk in, then by the smartboard where I’ll be presenting, and now back by the door because that actually makes more sense. Curriculum night starts in twenty minutes and I’m second-guessing every decision I’ve made about tonight, which is ridiculous because I’ve been teaching for months now and I’m good at this.
IknowI’m good at this.
But this is my first curriculum night as an actual teacher, not a student teacher hiding behind someone else’s lesson plans, and I spent two hours last night practicing my presentation in front of my bathroom mirror like some pageant contestant preparing for the interview portion.
The classroom looks good though. Student work covers every available surface—art projects pinned to bulletin boards, writing samples displayed on the walls, math worksheets with gold star stickers arranged in neat rows. My presentation is loaded on the smartboard, tested twice to make sure it won’t glitch mid-explanation. The reading corner is tidied, beanbagsfluffed instead of their usual deflated sad lumps. Everything is perfect. Professional. Ready to prove I know exactly what I’m doing.
I’m wearing my navy blue dress, the one that makes me feel like I have my life together. Like someone who definitely belongs at the front of a classroom and isn’t secretly terrified of being exposed as a fraud.
The door opens and Principal Erickson pokes her head in. “Looking great in here, Emma. You ready?”
“Absolutely.” My voice comes out steady, which feels like a minor victory.
“Good. Don’t be nervous. Parents love enthusiasm.” She smiles that encouraging principal smile, the one that’s been perfected over decades of managing anxious first-year teachers. “Just be yourself. You’re great with the kids, you’ll be great with the parents.”
She disappears and I’m left standing there wondering if I should have asked for more specific advice. Like what to do if I forget how to speak English, or if my presentation spontaneously combusts, or if a certain parent walks in and I lose the ability to form coherent thoughts.
Not that I’m thinking about any parent in particular.
Parents start arriving around six. I position myself by the door, shaking hands and greeting everyone as they come in. “Hi, welcome! Thanks so much for coming. Feel free to look around at the student work displays while we wait to get started.” Smile, handshake, gesture toward the walls covered in first-grade masterpieces.
Mrs. Buckley arrives with the same dramatic hand gestures as her son Jordan, which suddenly explains everything about why he can’t tell a story without full-body choreography and sound effects. Mr. and Mrs. Lopez bring Sofia’s grandmother, who doesn’t speak much English but absolutely beams when she spots Sofia’s artwork on the wall, reaching out to touch the edges of the paper like it’s something precious.
The room fills steadily. Parents cluster around the bulletin boards, pointing out their kids’ work to each other, murmuring praise and snapping photos on their phones. I keep greeting people at the door, watching the clock tick from six-ten to six-twelve to six-fourteen.
The door opens again and Theo walks in with Chloe.
My pulse kicks up about three notches before I can stop it. He’s in a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows—does this man own shirts with sleeves that stay down?—dark hair slightly mussed like he came straight from the restaurant. Chloe’s bouncing beside him in her light-up sneakers, wearing a backpack almost as big as she is.
Professional. Be professional. This is school. This is your job. Stop looking at his forearms.
“Mr. Midnight,” I greet him, and the formality feels wrong in my mouth, too stiff for someone I spent an entire Saturday with, someone whose laugh I can’t stop thinking about. But we’re surrounded by parents and students and Principal Erickson is probably watching from somewhere, so formal it is. “And Chloe! So glad you could make it.”
His mouth does this thing, this little twitch at the corner that might be amusement, at my sudden professionalism. “Miss Hayes.” He emphasizes it just slightly, matching my tone, and something sparks in his eyes. “We wouldn’t miss it.”
“I know I saw you this morning but it feels like forever!” Chloe completely abandons any pretense of appropriate classroom behavior and throws her arms around my waist, pressing her face into my dress.
I laugh, warmth spreading through my chest as I hug her back. “I missed you too, kiddo.”
