“I've been busy, Mom. The first month of school is insane, you know that.”
“I know your brother has been calling me,” she says, her tone sharp, completely ignoring my excuse. “And frankly, I think it's very immature of you, having him fight your battles for you. This is between us.”
My grip on the phone tightens. My knuckles are white. “It's not a battle. I've given you my answer. I can't do the auction this year. I'm sorry.”
“It's not about being sorry, it's about responsibility,” she lectures. “I told my friends on the board you'd be contributing. You're making me look foolish.”
“Looking foolish is better than me having a flare-up that lands me in the hospital,” I bite back, my voice low and shaking with anger. “Did Peter not explain that to you?”
“Oh, please. Don't be so dramatic.”
The rage that surges through me is hot and blinding. Dramatic. She thinks I’m being dramatic about the disease that governs every single aspect of my life. I’m about to say something I know I’ll regret when I see Zachary walking back toward the table. His easy smile falters as he takes in my expression.
He’s beside me in an instant, his voice low. “Hey.” He sees the fury and hurt in my eyes, the white-knuckled grip on my phone. He doesn't ask who I'm talking to or what's wrong. He just acts. He discreetly catches the eye of our server and makes a quick writing gesture with his hand in the air—the universal sign forthe check, please.
To my mother, I just say, “I have to go.” I hang up before she can reply, dropping the phone onto the table with a clatter. My hands are shaking.
Zachary places a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Why don't you go for a walk?” he suggests, his voice calm and steady. “Just around the parking lot, get some air. I'll take care of this.”
I look up at him, my throat tight. I’m too upset to argue, too exhausted to pretend I’m fine. All I can do is nod, a jerky, grateful movement. I push my chair back, grab my bag, and walk off the patio toward the quiet darkness of the parking lot, leaving him to pay for the food I suddenly can't stomach.
The splintery wood of the dock digs into my palms as I grip the railing, staring down at the dark water. Each gentle lap of the water against the pilings feels like a small, mocking pat on the back. A cold knot of dread is tightening in my stomach. I keep replaying my mother’s voice in my head, the casual dismissal in her tone, and I wonder if this is it. If this is the beginning of the end of my teaching career.
If my mother had her way, I would have already quit mylittle teaching job, as she likes to call it. In her world, I would be spending my days in a sun-drenched studio, creating large, abstract canvases for her to show off to her friends. I would donate pieces to her charity auctions, smiling graciously as wealthy patrons bid on my work, my name a tidy little asset in her social portfolio. But I don't want that. I love teaching. I love the chaos and the crayon smells and the moment a child’s face lights up when they finally master a new technique, or when they love the way something they’ve worked so hard on turns out.
But this year has been hard. It feels like I’m fighting a battle on a dozen different fronts. I feel like I’ve faced more backlash and complaints in the last three weeks than I did in the entire previous school year. When Anne was principal, she was my champion. She loved my innovative ideas, the way I brought in guest artists from the community, the way I made sure every student, regardless of their background, felt seen and reflected in the art we studied and created. She would have shut down any parent complaint before it ever reached my inbox.
I knew things would be harder after she retired, but it’s not even October and I feel like I’m drowning. I’ve already had to scrap four different lesson plans because they were deemed “too complex” or “not aligned with traditional fundamentals” by Trevor. Anne trusted teachers, she never even made us turn our lesson plans in. Not only does Trevor make us turn our plans in to him before we teach them, he goes over them with a microscope, as if he’s just looking for something wrong.
And then there are the emails. Ten of them. From one mother, who is deeply concerned about my usual Halloween decorations. For years, I’ve created a display that celebrates how different cultures honor this time of year: the vibrant sugar skulls of Dia de los Muertos from Mexico, the earthy altars of the Gaelic festival Samhain, the candlelit traditions of Ognissanti in Italy, the soul-songs of Pangangaluwa in the Philippines, the vibrant costumes of Día Nacional de la Mascarada in Costa Rica. It’s beautiful and global and the kids love it. But this mother wants me to focus more on “American” Halloween traditions. She means pumpkins and candy corn.
That, on top of the constant, humming anxiety of keeping my lupus a secret from the new administration, is wearing me down to a nub. The stress is a physical weight, settling in my joints, and it’s making me wonder if I should just give up. Find a new job that’s not teaching, maybe listen to my mother andmake art just for the gaze of the rich and famous. The thought is immediately followed by a wave of exhaustion. I don’t have the time or the energy to even think about looking for another job. And on top of that, I don’twantanother job. I love Pine Island and I love being a teacher, even when it’s difficult and exhausting.
“Maya?”
Zachary’s voice is soft, interrupting the frantic spiral of my thoughts. I turn from the water to see him standing a few feet away, his hands tucked into his pockets. The check must be paid.
“I know you're not okay,” he says, before I can even begin to formulate a lie. “So what can I do?”
His directness is disarming. He’s not prying, not demanding an explanation. He’s just offering. The anger and frustration from the phone call are still simmering inside me, but his simple question cools them slightly. I don’t want to go home alone. I don’t want to sit in my quiet apartment with nothing but my own churning thoughts for company.
“Will you walk me home?” The question comes out quieter than I intended, more vulnerable.
“Of course,” he says without hesitation.
A comfortable quiet settles between us as we walk away from the dock and through the quiet streets of Pine Island. The only sounds are our footsteps on the pavement and the distant hum of traffic on the main road. With every step, I feel the tension in my shoulders begin to recede. The walk is a soothing balm. I consciously push aside the parent emails, my mother’s demands, the fear of a flare-up. I put it all in a box and shelve it for the night. I make myself a silent promise: tomorrow, on Saturday, I will not do any work. I will not sneak in a few hours of grading in the afternoon or plan lessons for the week ahead. I will give myself one whole day off.
When we arrive at the front steps of our apartment building, the spell of the quiet walk is broken. I turn to face him under the warm glow of the porch light. “Thanks for dinner, Zachary. And for… everything.”
I start to turn toward the door, ready to retreat into my solitude, but he reaches out and catches my wrist. His grip is gentle but firm enough to stop me.
“Maya, wait,” he says. I look from his hand on my wrist to his face. He looks so earnest, so kind, his brow creased with genuine concern. “If you were struggling… you'd tell me, right? I know we're not exactly friends, or…” He hesitates. “Whatever this is, but I want you to know I'm here. If you need anything.”
His words hit me with the force of a physical blow. The emotional whiplash of the evening—the easy happiness at the bar, the blinding rage at my mother, the quiet despair on the dock, and now this unexpected, profound kindness—is too much. My carefully constructed walls crumble. I don’t think. I act.
I step forward, closing the small space between us, and pull him in for a kiss. For a second, it’s sweet and soft, just a grateful press of lips. But then he responds, his hand moving from my wrist to the small of my back, pulling me closer. The kiss deepens, going from sweet to steamy in a heartbeat. My hands come up to cup his face, my fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck. It’s everything I remember from our first kiss and more, a dizzying rush of want and need.
But as much as I want this, as much as I want him, a single, clear thought cuts through the haze of desire. I want him on a night when my head isn't so full. I want him when my mind isn’t a toxic soup of my mother’s voice, my own self-doubt, and the ever-present shadow of my illness. When I kiss him again—and I know I want there to be an again—I want him, and this chemistry between us, to be the only thing on my mind.
