Saturday passed in a haze of hydration and self-recrimination. Sunday, she stayed inside, going over her student’s papers and watching bad television and definitelynotlooking out the window every five minutes.
She heard the rumble of his truck pulling into the driveway once, followed by the sound of his front door closing, but she didn’t go over to his house. She didn’t leave cookies. She didn’t do anything except hide like a coward.
This is ridiculous,she told herself Sunday night, lying in bed and staring at the ceiling.I’m a grown woman. I had a few drinks, said something embarrassing, and he helped me get home safely. People do this all the time.
Except it didn’t feel that simple. It felt like something had shifted between them, something she didn’t quite understand.
Monday morning, she threw herself into work. The kids were rambunctious after the weekend, full of energy and stories about what they’d done, and their cheerful chaos helped settle her nerves. This, at least, she knew how to do. This, she was good at.
By afternoon, she’d almost convinced herself that everything was fine.
And then the door to her classroom opened.
The children had been released fifteen minutes ago, the room quiet except for the scratch of her pen as she updated her lesson plans. She didn’t look up immediately, assuming it was a parent with a question, or Tricia coming to check in on her.
“Miss Cartwright.”
Her pen slipped at the sound of the familiar deep voice, ink smearing across the page.
Ben stood in the doorway of her classroom, tall and broad-shouldered and looking deeply out of place among the tiny desks and finger paintings. His ears brushed the top of the doorframe. His blue eyes were fixed on her with an intensity that made her breath catch.
“Ben.” She stood too quickly, almost knocking her chair over. “What are you… How did you…”
“Tricia let me in.”
“Oh.” Of course she had. Tricia would simply have assumed he was a parent.
Silence stretched between them. Her heart was hammering so loud she was sure he could hear it with those ridiculous ears.
“I came to apologize,” he said finally.
“Youcame to apologize?”
“I shouldn’t have—” He paused, jaw tight. “I overreacted. At the tavern. You were just enjoying yourself, and I…”
“Carried me home like a sack of potatoes?”
His eyes darkened, a flash of something that looked like hunger flaring in their depths. “You’re most definitely not a sack of potatoes.”
“That’s what it felt like,” she muttered, but she knew she was lying.
“You may not believe it, but I was trying to help.”
“By manhandling me in front of the entire bar?”
“By getting you out of there before you said something else you’d regret.” He took a step into the room, and the space seemed to shrink around him. “Before I did something I’d regret.”
Her mouth went dry. “What does that mean?”
He didn’t answer. His eyes swept the classroom instead—the bright artwork on the walls, the reading corner with its overstuffed pillows, the tiny chairs that would never hold someone his size.
“This is where you work with the children,” he said quietly.
“Yes.”
“They’re lucky to have you.”
Something cracked in her chest. “Ben?—”
