I gathered up my things and drove to school. I liked getting there early so I had plenty of time, not just to prep for the day, but to relax a little before the students descended on the building. My mouth turned up in a smile as I parked next to Theo’s truck. He was the same way—always got there early.
Absent the hustle and bustle of students, the building was eerily quiet. I needed to put my lunch in the fridge, so I veered toward the teachers’ lounge. Maybe I’d make myself another cup of tea.
A low hum of voices greeted me when I went in. Several of my colleagues had gathered at the tables, sitting and chatting with their coffee.
“Pen Diggity,” Theo said behind me as I put my lunch in the refrigerator.
“Ooh, nineties hip-hop reference.” I closed the fridge door. “I like it.”
He held out his fist. I bumped it with mine and we spread our fingers, making our familiar explosion sound.
We took a seat at the open table. His hair was a little disheveled and he had dark circles under his eyes. I could tell by the way he held his head that his neck was stiff, and I wondered if he’d spent his weekend nursing a migraine.
“How was your weekend?” he asked. “Oh, wait. I made you tea.”
He got up and I noticed the subtle rigidity to his movements. Poor guy. I hoped it hadn’t been too bad. He handed me a cup of tea and sat with his travel mug of coffee.
“I probably left the tea bag in there too long. Sorry.”
“Oh, that’s okay. Thanks for making it for me.”
“You bet. So, weekend?”
I took a sip. Hot and not too strong or bitter. And most definitely appreciated.
“It was fine. Pretty quiet. Just visited Grandma Colleen yesterday.”
“How’s she doing?”
“She’s well. Feisty. She hid Maury Haven’s reading glasses again.”
He chuckled. “Those two are so funny.”
“Aren’t they? She said the last time he retaliated, he replaced her sugar with salt. She put some in her tea but drank it anyway.”
“Solid prank. Solid response. I like it.”
“How was your weekend?”
He lifted one shoulder and took a sip of his coffee. “Didn’t do much.”
A lock of his hair flopped down over his forehead. Without thinking about it, I reached over and brushed it back. He flinched a little, his reaction almost imperceptible, and a flash of surprise crossed his features.
I pulled my hand away and was about to apologize, but just as quickly, his expression returned to normal.
He ran a hand through his hair. “I should have gotten it cut.”
My cheeks warmed, and I had the sudden desire to crack a joke to cut the tension. “I hear mullets are making a comeback. Maybe you should go for one.”
“No. No mullets.”
“Are you sure? That’d be a good look on you.”
He eyed me like I was crazy.
I kind of wanted to reach around and run my fingers through the back of his hair. Make another joke about how he was already halfway to growing one. But my stomach tingled a little and the flush in my cheeks grew.
“Anyway,” I said, my mind racing with the sudden need to change the subject. “Something else did happen over the weekend. I found out Edwin Morris died. He was a local painter.”
