He pulls back, resting his forehead against mine. “Now,” he whispers, “about this combination lesson guide. I think... if we add a spooky-themed word search, Trevor's head might actually explode.”
I laugh, a real, genuine laugh. The nausea is still there just beneath the surface, but for the first time today, it doesn't matter. I’m not alone.
“Okay,” I say, pulling my chair back to the desk and grabbing a pen. “Let's do it. But I'm drawing the cartoon ghost.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Zachary
The bright overhead lights of the library conference room hum at a frequency that feels specifically designed to drill into my skull. It’s 3:45 p.m. on a Tuesday, which means it’s time for the monthly all-staff meeting, a sad symphony of muted-ticking clocks and the slow, agonizing death of morale.
Trevor is at the front, clicking through a PowerPoint presentation about “Synergistic Learning Modalities,” and I am mastering the art of looking engaged while mentally cataloging the contents of my refrigerator. I shift on the rock-hard plastic chair, my gaze drifting from Trevor—who is now pointing emphatically at a pie chart composed of truly offensive shades of maroon and teal—to the window where a perfect, crisp autumn afternoon is being wasted on us.
My thoughts, as they have so often lately, drift to Maya, who is sitting a respectable and non-suspicious distance away from me looking as bored and miserable as I feel. Instead of focusing on that, I think about the way her brow furrows when she’s concentrating on something, the way she always has some sortof ink or paint on her hands, the low, warm laugh she let out last night when I showed her a stupid meme.
My phone, resting face down on my thigh under the table, gives a sharp buzz.
My head snaps down. I feel a flush of heat. In this morgue-like silence, broken only by Trevor’s monotone, it sounds like a fire alarm. A few heads turn. I see Ms. Jensen, the librarian, give me a look of profound disappointment over her spectacles. I slide the phone into my pocket, my heart thumping with the minor ridiculous adrenaline of being a teacher caught breaking his own “no phones in class” rule. I force my eyes back to the pie chart. Trevor is talking about “leveraging student testing data,” and I am thinking about who just texted me.
Is it Maya? Is she sending me a sneaky text from across the room?The thought sends a stupid, hopeful jolt through me. But when I look at her again, I can tell she’s doodling on the notebook paper in front of her. Probably some of her whimsical castles and dragons she likes to draw. I don’t think it was her that texted me.
The next twenty minutes of the meeting are a physical trial. I resist the urge to check my pocket a dozen times. Finally,finally, Trevor claps his hands together.
“Okay, team,” he says, a phrase that makes my skin crawl. “We’ll take a fifteen-minute coffee break and then we’ll circle back to breakout groups to brainstorm implementation strategies for your joint lessons.”
A collective, quiet groan. Chairs scrape. I’m up and moving before anyone else, beelining for the relative anonymity of the hallway. I bypass the lounge—I know the coffee in that urn, and it tastes like burnt regret—and duck into the empty alcove by the stairwell.
My fingers are clumsy as I pull the phone out. One new message. My stomach does a weird little flip.
It’s not from Maya. It’s from Tim.
Tim:Hey, man! Hope you’re doing well! Quick heads-up, I’m gonna be in your area next week meeting with some new vendors. Are you free for dinner on Wednesday?
I smile. Of course I want to see Tim when he’s in town. He doesn’t live far, but we’re both so busy that we don’t get together as much as I would like.
Tim:Also, been seeing this girl Patty for a couple months. She’s great. She might be coming with me. Would you and Maya want to meet up for a double date? Let me know.
I blink at the text. Tim is seeing someone? Seriously? He hadn't mentioned that when Maya and I visited. As far as I knew, he hadn't datedanyonesince he and his ex broke up last year. He'd been pretty torn up about it for a while.
I read the message again. And a third time.Double date.The words feel foreign. Since Whitney and I broke up my entire romantic life has been... well, non-existent, until Maya. Visiting Tim was one thing, but a double date on Pine Island where we could run into a coworker, or worse, Trevor, seems more daunting. Are Maya and I a “double date” couple?
I need to take her on a proper one-on-one date before we double date with my best friend and his new girlfriend. But what would Maya like to do? My mind immediately flashes back to her apartment. What struck me most when I first went in wasn’t the stacks of books or the overflowing mug of pens. It was the walls. They were covered in canvases.
Some were huge, abstract washes of color—deep blues and violent reds. Others were small, detailed charcoal studies of hands, or trees, or the way light hits a fire escape. And in the kitchen by the sink there wasn't a dish rack. There was a tallceramic jar filled with freshly cleaned paintbrushes, standing bristles-up to dry.
She wasn't just an art teacher. She was anartist. The real, breathing, can’t-help-it kind. The idea hits me like a lightning bolt. It's so perfect, I almost laugh out loud in the empty stairwell.
I pull up my browser, my fingers flying. “Paint and sip near me.” A place called “Canvas & Cork” pops up, five miles away. I click the link. Tonight's painting is “Starry River,” a beginner-friendly riff on Van Gogh. It's cheesy. It's a little basic. But it's painting. And there’s wine. We can talk,reallytalk, away from the school, away from our jobs. We can just... be.
I book two spots for the 7:30 p.m. session. A surge of anticipation, sharp and bright, cuts through the gray fog of the staff meeting. I feel clever. I feel excited. This is a good plan.
I text Tim back:Awesome news! Definitely want to see you when you’re here! The double date thing sounds cool, but let me check with Maya. Things are still pretty new. Will let you know.
It’s a non-committal commitment, which is the best I can do. Right now,mydate with Maya is the only one I care about.
The rest of the meeting is a blur. I don’t even care about the breakout group. I nod, I smile, I use the word “holistic” twice. When five p.m. finally, mercifully arrives, I’m out of my chair like a shot. I pack my satchel, toss my laptop in, and make my way against the flow of departing teachers heading straight for the trailer where I know Maya will be.
I find her standing in the middle of the room. She’s not cleaning up or gathering her things, which is what I expected. Instead, she’s standing there, looking down at her phone, beaming. The usual, weary, end-of-day tension that all teachers carry is gone from her shoulders. Her face, which I’m so used toseeing in a state of mild, creative chaos or professional stress, is relaxed and absolutely, incandescentlyhappy.
