I nod, taking the bottle from him. “Yeah, I guess. After the other place…” I trail off. The night I met Maya I was actually in town signing a lease for a different apartment, a place I’d meticulously chosen months ago. Then the hurricane hit, and that building, like so many others, was deemed uninhabitable. It sent me scrambling, desperate to findanywherebefore school started. This place was the only option. It’s functional, but it lacks the charm of the first one. Still, it’s a roof over my head.
Tim leans against the counter, crossing his arms. “So, the big faculty meeting tonight. How are you feeling about it?”
I take a long swig of the cider. It’s tart, refreshing, and helps to cut through the knot of nerves in my stomach. “Honestly? Terrified.” The word comes out in a rush, raw and honest. “I mean, I was so good at my old job. It was boring, the hours wereinsane, but it waseasy. I could do it in my sleep. This… this is totally new. What if I’m terrible at it, Tim? What if changing careers and moving across the country was an awful idea? What if I hate it even more than working in tech and I screw up the kids?”
Tim pushes off the counter and claps me on the shoulder. “Hey. Look at me.” His gaze is steady, reassuring. “You needed a change, Zach. You were miserable. You were working yourself into the ground for a company that didn’t care about you. This is different. This is about making a difference, about working with kids, about doing something you’re actually passionate about, even if it scares you.”
He gestures around the sparsely furnished apartment. “The first few weeks, hell, maybe even the first few months, are going to be hard. You’re learning a whole new rhythm. But once you get the hang of things, once you find your stride, you’re going to start enjoying it. I know you will.”
I hope he’s right. God, I really hope he’s right. The thought of another job I hate, after uprooting my entire life, is a heavy weight.
I glance down at my clothes, crumbled from today’s wear. “What am I even going to wear to this meeting? It’s almost five p.m., all the shops are closed, and the only clean shirt I have is…” I gesture to the shirt I’m wearing, the one I’d thrown on this morning in a rush. The ridiculous T-shirt with the cartoon cell holding up peace fingers, proclaiming “CELLFIE.”
Tim grins. “Wear it with pride, man. Seriously. Isn’t half the fun of being a science teacher the punny shirts you now have a legitimate excuse for buying? Embrace it. It’s a conversation starter. You’ll be the cool new science teacher with the questionable fashion sense.”
I manage a weak smile. He’s trying to lighten the mood, and it helps, a little. Maybe he’s right. Maybe it’s a statement. A statement that I’m here, I’m new, and I’m… me.
I take another swig of cider, the sweetness a comforting counterpoint to the bitter taste of nerves. I hope Tim’s right. I hope this new chapter, with its pink ferrets and punny shirts and terrifying faculty meetings, is everything I need it to be.
Chapter Seven
Zachary
The fluorescent lights of the library hum a monotonous buzz that seems to amplify the frantic thrumming in my veins. I smooth down the front of my Cellfie shirt for the tenth time, as if that will make me feel more presentable. It’s the first faculty meeting of the year, and my stomach is doing a complicated series of flips that would make an Olympic gymnast proud. I’m a mess of first-day jitters, a walking cliché of new-teacher anxiety. My palms are slick with sweat, and I keep wiping them on my worn jeans, hoping no one notices.
I scan the room, a sea of unfamiliar faces chatting in comfortable, established groups. They all seem to know each other, their laughter and easy camaraderie a stark reminder that I am the outsider, the new variable in their well-established equation. I take a deep breath, the air tasting stale and recycled, and remind myself why I’m here. For the kids. For the chance to make science exciting, to ignite a spark of curiosity in a generation raised on instant gratification and 15-second videos. It’s a noble thought, but it doesn’t do much to quell the socialanxiety currently staging a hostile takeover of my nervous system. And then, she walks in.
The whirr of the lights, the chatter of my new colleagues, the frantic beat of my own heart—it all fades for a moment, replaced by a singular point of focus. Maya. The woman I kissed on the beach and that I learned mere hours ago is my next-door neighbor. She’s wearing the same denim jumpsuit that’s spattered with pink dye from the ferret she was chasing, and her dark hair is piled on top of her head in a messy bun that somehow looks effortlessly chic.
Seeing her here, in this context, is just another chapter in the strange, serendipitous story of us. I’d spent the weeks since we first met dissecting that night, every word, every laugh. I’d kicked myself the entire drive home for not getting her number, for letting the moment slip through my fingers. I’d wondered how much of the story she’d told me at the bar that night was true, and how much of it was the fabrication of a woman who wanted to escape reality for the evening.
And that’s not all I’d wondered about. My mind, against my better judgment, had replayed the end of the night on a loop. The abrupt end to our kiss when the police officer walked up, the way the air crackled with unspoken possibilities as we walked back to our cars and said goodnight. I’d done a quick search for her online, a futile effort given I only had her first name and a story that was likely a work of fiction. I’d tried to forget her, to convince myself that our encounter was nothing more than a fleeting summer memory, a story to tell my friends. But learning that she’s my neighbor a few hours ago and seeing her now, at my new job, sends a jolt of electricity through me, short-circuiting all my carefully constructed defenses.
My feet are moving before I’ve made a conscious decision to approach her. It’s a magnetic pull, an invisible force drawing me across the room. “Maya?”
“Astronaut neighbor Zachary?” she says, her voice a low, amused murmur.
I can’t help but laugh, a genuine, relieved sound that erases some of the tension in my chest. “It’s Mr. Becker to my students.”
Maya lets out a breathless laugh, her gaze darting from my face to the faculty badges on the table. “You have got to be kidding me. You’re the new science teacher?”
“Guilty,” I admit, a flush creeping up my neck.
“No way,” she says, shaking her head in disbelief. “I’m the art teacher. Ms. Gershawn tomystudents.” She states, echoing my words.
“Well, Ms. Gershawn,” I reply, extending a hand with a smirk. “It seems the universe is determined to keep us in the same orbit. First the bar, then the apartment building, and now the school library.”
Her fingers are cool and smooth against my palm, and the brief contact sends another jolt through me. The conversation stalls, the easy, effortless flow of our first meeting replaced by a stilted, awkward silence. We’re no longer two strangers sharing secrets under the stars, or new neighbors that don’t know anything about each other; we’re colleagues, navigating the unfamiliar terrain of a professional relationship. The air is thick with unspoken questions, with the memory of a night that feels both a lifetime ago and like it just happened. I’m searching for something to say, something to bridge the gap between then and now.
A deep, clipped voice cuts through my racing thoughts. “Hello, everyone. Let’s get started.”
A man with a stern face and piercing blue eyes stands at the front of the room. He must be the principal. I’m almost relieved by the interruption from the awkward tension between Maya and me. But as I scan the room, I realize the only two emptyseats are at a small table, directly across from each other. Of course.
I make a conscious effort to focus on the principal, as he introduces himself and begins to talk about his expectations for the school year. But my eyes keep drifting across the table to Maya. She’s doodling on a notepad, her brow furrowed in concentration. I can’t help but remember the way she’d looked at me that night on the beach, her eyes sparkling with a mixture of mischief and genuine curiosity. I wonder if she’s thinking about it too, if she’s as thrown by this unexpected workplace reunion as I am.
“Now, for some not-so-great news,” the principal, Trevor, says, his voice taking on a serious tone. “As many of you know, the west wing of the school suffered some significant flood damage from the hurricane. The repairs are underway, but several classrooms are out of commission for the foreseeable future.”
A collective groan ripples through the room. Trevor holds up an impatient hand, a gesture for silence. “I know, I know. It’s not ideal. We’ve brought in some trailers to serve as temporary classrooms, but due to budget constraints, we weren’t able to get as many as we needed. Which means… some of you will have to share.”
