It sounds like an accusation, as if I’ve suggested something shameful. And I feel like a hypocrite lecturing him. I didn’t go to therapy to sort my shit out, even if it would’ve helped. I fled and started somewhere new where I could pretend my past never happened. But I’m alone. If I screw up, the fallout stops with me. Ryder has a son. He can’t flee, and he doesn’t have the luxury of dodging hard truths and messing his kid up with avoidance. And I know how this sounds coming from the queen of running from things, but I’m not his whatever today, and he’s not my crush. I’m a teacher, and he’s a parent. So, I need to do what’s best for Rhys.
“A therapist is the most qualified person to guide you through how to process this difficult absence in your lives.” I cross my arms, standing my ground. “Asking for support isn’t a show of weakness. And if an expert can help you heal faster, why not do it?”
When Ryder speaks again, his voice has gone cold. He sounds formal… distant. “Thank you for the suggestion, Miss Rose. I’ll keep it in mind.”
The Miss Rose lands like a slap. How different it sounds from how I imagined it in my head the other night.
He turns toward the door, and I should let him go. Accept that I’ve pushed too hard, crossed a line. But I can’t.
“Ryder—”
He stops at the threshold, turning around. “My son is fine. He doesn’t need fixing.”
“I never said he did.”
“You implied it.” He looks back at me then, and the hurt in his eyes makes my stomach roll. “Just like everyone else in this town who thinks they know what’s best for my family, or enjoys turning a tragedy into gossip their kids repeat at school.”
Before I can respond, he yanks the door open and disappears into the hallway.
He doesn’t slam the door, but the silence screams louder than a bang.
I stand still for a moment, staring at the empty space he left behind. Then I cross to my desk and drop into the chair, lowering my head into my hands.
The afternoon sun casts long shadows across the tiny desks where my students squirm and giggle and learn. But right now, I’m alone with the ghost of Ryder’s anger hanging in the air like smoke after a fire.
Why does he have to be so stubborn?
Well. At least this time, he didn’t spend twenty minutes lecturing me about everything I’m doing wrong as an educator. But in a way, it’s more awful than that first day. Because now I know him better. I understand how fiercely he loves his son, how hard he works to be everything Rhys needs. And he thinks I’m suggesting he’s not doing enough. He still doesn’t trust me. When all I wanted to say was that he doesn’t have to do everything alone.
Any mention of Rhys’s mother really shortens his fuse to nothing. No kidding. Ryder becomes a bull that sees red and charges whenever Abigail comes up. All defensive rage, wounded pride, and pain he doesn’t know how to process.
But I won’t leave him to hide his bull-head in the sand. Not when a child is caught in the middle, trying to make sense of why he’s different, why the other kids have the love of someone he doesn’t.
The classroom feels too small, too full of the echoes of our confrontation. I gather my things, shoving papers into my leather messenger without bothering to organize them. I want to get home, take a bath, and figure out how to fix this.
Because I need to fix it. Not just for Rhys, though he’s the priority. But for Ryder, too. For the man who looked at me with such betrayal in his eyes.
I drive home in a nervous haze. Sunlight stretches across the yard when I pull up, turning the cottage’s windows to gold. It’s a scene too peaceful for how hollow I feel. I let myself in, dump my bag by the door, and head straight for the bathroom. I soak in the tub forever as if the water’s heat could soothe feelings and not just muscles. After I dry, I change into leggings and an oversized sweater and move to the kitchen. I eat cheese and crackers because I’m still too keyed up to cook.
But even after eating my feelings in cheddar and Colby Jack, I can’t settle. I curl up on the couch and stare at my phone, rolling it in my hands. And it’s not for Ryder that I start typing. I want to make sure he doesn’t hide from the problem for Rhys’s sake.
Faye
How are you? How is Rhys?
I hit send, not giving myself time to second-guess if texting a student’s father is a savvy decision.
Then I wait.
One minute. Two. Five.
I stare at the screen, willing it to light up with a response, but nothing comes through.
I get up, pace to the window, contemplate the dark lake. A few lights from other cottages reflect on the water, wavering like my resolve.
My patience evaporates. I type another message.
Faye
