“Either way,” he says. “Found this company that fills positions—maternity leave, sabbaticals, things like that—with certified teachers at regular salary. Sounded perfect. Move around. Never get bored. I’m trying to hit all the historical hotspots on the Eastern Seaboard. DC, Boston, Philadelphia, New York, Charleston, Savannah—” He pauses as if swept up in the daydream of his own modern-day Odyssey. “Maybe even St. Augustine and Key West.”
“Charleston.” My mom clasps her hands, utterly captivated. “That’s a wonderful city.” I went there once on a field trip in fifth grade and my mother adamantly refused to go, and we’venever once gone there on vacation. Other than her having a childhood friend who still lives there, her acting like it’s a city that holds personal significance is complete bullshit. “Hear that, Rue? Nash likes adventure.”
“Sounds like it.” I mindlessly open and close one of the tins, trying to hide my disappointment. Trying to pretend I didn’t somehow map out our entire lives together in the minutes we’ve been talking, all of them involving us being in Fontain and having 2.5 kids and a house with a white fence. Me making dinners, him coming home at the same time every day. “Why are you in Fontain then? Little town in North Carolina’s wine country is as far from any of those places as you can get.”
“It’s where the job was this time.”
I say nothing, annoyingly crestfallen.
“Iris,” Nash continues, “I was trying to convince your daughter here to show me around.”
I may have been instantly smitten by this man, but that is absolutely not happening.
“I have to work,” I say at the same time my mom says, “That’s a wonderful idea!”
My mom and I exchange a heated look. “Mom has pottery,” I remind her. “A horsehair firing.” To Nash: “Maybe another time.”
“We can close the store early,” Mom says, making my nostrils flare.
I angle my head toward her. “We cannot.” My voice drops to a tense whisper. “This is a business. It only works if we’re open.”
She bats an annoyed hand through the air. “It’s just one day—an afternoon really. Live a little.”
“It is not,” I snap. To Nash: “Sorry. I can’t.”
“Why not?” he asks.
“I don’t want to.”
“I think you do.”
I scoff. “And I think the bright colors of your shirt are making you delusional.”
“What’s the worst that could happen?”
“You could be insane, for one.”
He laughs and the corners of his eyes crinkle. “I’m not insane.” His tone gets a touch more serious. “But even if I were, I think you still want to go out with me. Maybe even fall in love.”
My mother finds this hilarious.
“That doesn’t sound like me.” I fight an irritated smile. It makes no sense why I’m attracted to him, yet I know without a doubt, if I spend five more minutes with him, I will fall in love with him: a traveling substitute teacher who has no plans on sitting still and I’ll never be able to keep. I know it the way the wind knows how to blow, and tides rise before falling. “I don’t know anything about you. I’m busy. And not interested.” With a sweet smile, I add, “But we do appreciate your business, Mr. Fletcher. Please come back and see us again real soon.”
“I like coffee with flavored creamers,” he says. “Any flavor. Hazelnut, vanilla, pumpkin spice in the fall.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“You said you don’t know anything about me, now you know my profession and how I take my coffee.” He blows the harmonica then adds, “And, of course, that I’m very skilled with my mouth.”
I don’t take his innuendous bait. “You should consider adding arrogant to your list.”
“Rue likes London Fogs,” my mom pipes in, garnering another withering glare from me.
“I’ve never had one of those. You’ll have to tell me where to get one when you show me around.”
My jaw drops. “I amnotshowing you around.”
“Ohhh,” he says, smiling like he thinks he’s so funny and cute. “So you’re one ofthosetypes.”
