And then she’s gone, a blur of sundress and hurried apologies, leaving me alone in the booth. The scent of her perfume, something light and citrusy, hangs in the air. I stare after her, a mix of disappointment and bewildered amusement churning in my gut. One minute, we were connecting, planning, almost… something. The next, she was running for the hills.
I lean back against the vinyl seat, letting out a slow breath. School starts in a few days. I’m going to be sharing a small, enclosed space with her for eight hours a day. And all I can think about is how to get her to stop running. This crush isn’tjust a crush anymore. It’s a full-blown complication, and I have absolutely no idea how I’m going to rein it in.
Chapter Ten
Maya
The air in the trailer is thick with the smell of fresh particle board and industrial glue, a scent that normally fills me with a giddy sense of possibility. Decorating day has always been one of my sacred rituals, the official start of the new school year. It’s a day for creation, for transforming a blank, sterile space into a vibrant world of color and imagination. I’ve been saving up episodes of my favorite podcasts all summer, a carefully curated playlist ready to accompany the rustle of butcher paper and the snip of scissors. But as I stand in the middle of the trailer, my phone stays in my pocket, the podcasts unplayed.
A jittery, restless energy thrums under my skin. I’m antsy, on edge, and it has nothing to do with the smaller space or the lingering scent of cleaner. It’s him. Zachary. He’s taken up residence in my head, replaying the scene at Get Stuffed on a continuous, mortifying loop.
I feel a hot flush of shame just thinking about it. One minute we were laughing, brainstorming, connecting in a way that felt both effortless and electric. The next, I was inventing a non-existent “charity knit-a-thon” and practically sprinting for theexit. I had no choice. It was a pure flight-or-fight response. Because the more he smiled, the more his eyes crinkled at the corners when he shared an idea, the more he leaned in, his focus entirely on me, the more I wanted to abandon all pretense of lesson planning and just kiss him.
It’s absurd. I never thought I’d find a man discussing the merits of different glitter glues so… compelling. But it wasn’t the glue, was it? It was him. The low timbre of his voice, the way his hands moved when he talked, the sheer, unadulterated enthusiasm he had for making a classroom a cool place for kids. The more I’m around him, the more I see past the handsome stranger from the bar and get glimpses of the man underneath, the more I like him. And I have no idea what to do with that feeling. It’s a dangerous, volatile substance I’ve spent years learning to avoid.
Sam, my ex-boyfriend, taught me that lesson. He soured me on the whole idea of partnership, making me feel like my chronic illness was the main character in our relationship and I was just a supporting role. I won’t let that happen again. The casual, no-strings encounters I’ve had since moving to Pine Island have been my armor, a way to feel desired and in control without the risk of being seen as a collection of symptoms. But Zachary… Zachary feels different. He feels like a risk.
And I can’t even avoid him. It’s like the island has shrunk since he moved into my building. Nowhere is safe. I saw him two days ago, at the end of a run. He was standing on the sidewalk by our building, peeling off his sweat-soaked T-shirt. My breath caught in my throat. His chest was gleaming, his stomach ridged with taut muscle, and I just stood there, frozen behind a hedge like a complete creep, until he went inside. Then the next day, I was at Rye Again, picking up a sourdough loaf for Hannah, and there he was, standing at the counter, laughing with Alexis about something. He turned and saw me, and his smile was so warm,so genuine, it felt like a physical touch. I practically fled the bakery, leaving a trail of flour dust in my wake.
The trailer door creaks open, pulling me from my thoughts. It’s him. Of course, it’s him. He’s weighed down with canvas bags overflowing with supplies, a roll of star-spangled bulletin board paper tucked under one arm.
“Morning,” he says, his voice cheerful. He drops the bags with a heavy thud. “I come bearing gifts. Or, you know, construction paper and a truly excessive amount of googly eyes.”
I manage a weak smile. “Googly eyes are never excessive.”
“A woman after my own heart,” he grins. He pulls his phone from his pocket. “Hey, I found this new podcast on the way over, it’s all about the weirdest scientific discoveries. I thought we could listen to it while we work, if you want.”
He names the show, and a weird, prickling sensation crawls up my spine. It’sAnomalies, the exact podcast at the top of my saved-up playlist. The universe isn’t just nudging us together; it’s shoving us with both hands. I try to ignore the feeling, the sense that some cosmic force is trying to orchestrate this whole thing.
“Sure,” I say, my voice a little too tight. “Sounds good.”
I turn away and start unpacking my own boxes, focusing on the familiar tasks. I unroll a massive sheet of sky-blue paper, the crinkling sound a welcome distraction. I get into a rhythm: measure, cut, staple. Slowly, my side of the trailer begins to transform. I pin up examples of student work from last year, create a ‘Featured Artist of the Week’ board, and hang colorful paper lanterns from the ceiling beams. It’s my usual organized chaos, a style I’ve long since accepted as my own—a little slap-dash, a little crooked, but bursting with energy.
Every so often, I can’t help but stop and watch him. His process is the complete opposite of mine. He’s methodical, precise. He uses a level to hang his periodic table poster,ensuring the edges are perfectly crisp and not a single letter is out of place. He arranges his display of rock samples by geological era. There’s an order and a quiet confidence to his movements that I find strangely mesmerizing. He catches me staring once, and I quickly look down at the tangle of yarn I’m trying to fashion into a giant dreamcatcher, my cheeks burning.
After a couple of hours, Zachary straightens up and stretches, his back popping audibly. “Break time?” he suggests. “My stomach is starting to sound like a science experiment gone wrong. I could order us some sandwiches from Get Stuffed.”
The thought of food is heavenly. “Yes, please,” I say, my own stomach rumbling in agreement.
We sit on the wooden steps outside the trailer, the late August sun warm on our shoulders, unwrapping sandwiches the size of our heads. The quiet between us isn’t awkward, just… quiet. Peaceful. Frida would love this, I think, picturing her little ferret body sunning itself on the warm wood.
“So,” Zachary says after a few bites of his massive Italian sub. “Can I ask you something?”
“Shoot.”
“Do you still get nervous?” he asks, his brown eyes serious. “For the first day of school.”
A laugh bursts out of me, loud and genuine. “Oh my gosh, yes! Absolutely yes.” I swallow my mouthful of turkey and avocado. “My very first day of teaching, back in Asheville, was a complete disaster. I was so nervous introducing myself to my first class of third graders that I got my own name wrong. I told them I was ‘Ms. Gershwin.’ Like the composer.”
Zachary chuckles, a deep, warm sound.
“It gets worse,” I continue, emboldened by his laughter. “I had spent all weekend making these beautiful, hand-lettered signs for the different stations in the classroom. You know, ‘Painting Station,’ ‘Clay Station,’ whatever. But I was so frazzledthat morning, I didn’t even look at them properly. It wasn’t until the middle of the first class, when one of the kids started giggling uncontrollably, that I looked up and realized that on the biggest sign, the one right over the main supply table, I had misspelled ‘art.’ I wrote ‘Welcome to the Fart Room.’”
Zachary throws his head back and roars with laughter. It’s a full-bodied, infectious sound that makes me laugh all over again, the memory losing its sting of humiliation and just becoming funny.
“What did you do?” he asks, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye.
“What could I do? I just owned it. I told them it was our secret, silly name for the art room. They thought it was the most hilarious thing they’d ever heard. For the rest of the year, they called me Ms. Fart Teacher.”
