“Err…” I cough. “Where do I sign?”
Her eyebrows lift as if she expected more of a fight. But she reaches for a clipboard on her desk, calm as ever, and slides it across to me. Our fingers don’t touch—she’s careful about that. Ten minutes ago, I would’ve blamed the gesture on snobbery about my appearance; now I’m pretty sure it’s contempt for my attitude. And she’s got every right.
I scrawl my name on the petition, noting that mine is the third signature after Rita Holbrook and Jennifer Martinez. Both single moms.
I return the clipboard and stand to my feet. She rises too, her eyes burning ambers that shine with disdain. I must’ve confirmed every ugly assumption she might’ve had about narrow-minded, small-town men.
“Miss Rose, I—” The words tangle in my throat. I want to explain about Abigail, about how she left when Rhys was barely walking, about how every mention of mothers scrambles my good sense. About how I’ve spent six years making sure my son never feels less than, only to have someone suggest I wasn’t doing enough. “I mean, it’s been a?—”
“The pleasure has been all mine, Mr. Evans.” Her smile is still polite, but a wall has sprung up behind it, solid as the limestone bluffs along the lake. She’s done with me, and I can’t blame her.
It’s been a pleasure to meet you is not what I wanted to say. Not even close. More like, It’s been a few hard years. But as she graciously glares at me with those incandescent eyes, I realize I’ve burned through whatever patience she had for me. Anything I say now will make it worse. I’ve already shown her my worst side—hotheaded, defensive, quick to judge. A man who storms into a classroom ready for war without bothering to check if there’s even a fight.
“Right.” I reach for my Bobcats cap, pulling it on backward. It’s a retreat, and we both know it. “Thanks for… for thinking of Rhys.”
“I think of all my students, Mr. Evans.” The dismissal in her tone is clear as lake water. “It’s my job.”
I nod, because what else can I do? I’ve torched this bridge before I even knew if I wanted to cross it. Not that I want to. Or that I could, since she’s Rhys’s teacher. Even if first grade is almost over and soon, she won’t be his teacher anymore. No. Nope. Not going there.
I turn and head for the door, glancing back when I get to the threshold. She’s pushing papers into a leather messenger bag like not only have I been dismissed, but also already forgotten. Her profile is sharp and lovely in the golden light, and I understand why Rhys raves about her nonstop. She makes you want to be better just by existing in the same space.
Too bad I’ve introduced her to all my worst flaws instead.
I step out, my boots heavy—and not for the mud caked to the soles.
3
RYDER
The school doors swing shut behind me with a dull thud as if they, too, were scolding me. Cool air sweeps across my skin, useless against the hot shame riding me. I stomp across the parking lot, headed toward the playground where my sister has taken Rhys while I was inside.
My son’s excited squeals carry over as he scrambles up and down the jungle gym.
“Dad!” He spots me before I’m halfway there, abandoning the slide mid-climb to barrel over the wood chips until he slams into me with the force of a tiny linebacker, arms wrapping around my legs.
I hug him, laughing despite everything, and ruffle his hair.
“Did you talk to Miss Rose? Isn’t she wonderful? Did she show you our reading corner? Did you see the flowerpots on the windowsill? We planted seeds, and Miss Rose said the first buds will appear any day now and?—”
“Yeah, buddy. I met her.” She sliced me to ribbons. I swallow around the knot of humiliation lodged in my throat. She must’ve written me off as one of those parents who show up once a year just to pass judgment. That’s how I came off.
It shouldn’t have taken until April to meet her. But my mom does the drop-offs. I’m up before dawn, coffee in hand, working through feed orders and equipment logs while the house is quiet. I do the administrative work in the early morning not to miss breakfast with Rhys. Mom shows up soon after and saves me the drive into town. She also picks up Rhys from school most days since I’m usually still out on the field when the last bell rings. Mom went to introduction week while I dealt with a busted irrigation line. She sat through conferences in October while I was knee deep in mud, helping pull a calf that was breech. She knows which cubby is his, which kids he plays with, and what color folder means what.
I told myself it was fine. That we had it covered. That Miss Rose got my emails, saw my name on the app when I checked his assignments. That she knew I was involved, even if she’d never seen my face.
Except now that makes me look like the dad who couldn’t be bothered. The one who waltzed in after eight months and questioned her judgment like he had any right.
No wonder she flayed me open in that classroom.
Rhys tilts his head back, blue eyes—my eyes, everyone says—wide and shining, oblivious to my discomfort. “Isn’t she the nicest?”
“Uh-huh,” I confirm, even if nice is not the word for Faye Rose. Sharp, beautiful, wonderfully cutting—any of these would be a better fit. I pat his shoulder, trying to match his enthusiasm for his teacher while my ego is still bleeding from her precision dismantling. “She seems… knowledgeable.”
“What’s ‘knowledge-able’ mean?” Rhys scrunches his nose.
“Smart,” I simplify. “Like you said.”
Rebecca strolls over. She’s wearing overalls with a sunflower embroidered on the front pocket, her country attire more fashionable than functional.
