“It’s… interesting. Some days are great, some are tough. Kindergarten can be a lot, especially at the beginning of the year when the kids aren’t used to being away from their parents and have no idea how to socialize or follow rules. Teaching looks different at such a young age because they’re also learning how to be in school.”
“That must be difficult.”
“It can be, but kids are quick learners. I set rules right away, and it doesn’t usually take them long to understand that you behave a certain way in school.”
“And they respect that until they hit high school and become punks again?”
I laugh, picking up my spoon to scoop whipped cream.
“Sometimes it’s as soon as fifth grade.”
“That’s—” He stops speaking when his phone starts to vibrate with a call. It’s on the table in front of him, screen up, and he glances at it. I can’t see what’s on it, not that it’s any of my business anyway. But he frowns, looking almost concerned. Maybe scared? It’s hard to tell. “I have to take this,” he says, his tone cold. He grabs the phone and hurries out the door.
I watch through the window as he answers the call. I see his lips move, but I can’t make out anything he’s saying. The only thing I can tell is that he isn’t happy. He’s confused. He paces around, running a hand through his hair. Anyone could tell this isn’t a good phone call, and I can’t stop staring at him, wantingto go out there and check on him but that’s none of my business either.
He’s saying something as he turns, our eyes locking. I don’t pull away, just keep staring until it starts to feel weird. I give him a small, reassuring smile. He doesn’t return it, just says something into the phone and pulls it from his ear to end the call. I go back to my milkshake. It doesn’t settle in my stomach the same way, and I don’t know why him being upset is bothering me so much. I also don’t know why it’s so hard to have this conversation with him. It doesn’t even have to be a full conversation. It can just be a question. One question. One answer.
“Hey,” I say when he takes his seat.
He smiles tightly, grabbing his milkshake but not taking a sip or reaching for the spoon.
“Are you okay?” I ask gently, trying not to sound pushy but wanting to know what’s going on all the same.
“Fine.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“About what?” he asks.
We hold each other’s gaze for a long moment, the silence thick between us.
“Just feels like that wasn’t a good phone call. I’m not trying to pry, I just want to make sure you’re okay.”
“It’s fine. Just a friend.”
I choke out a laugh. “A friend made you feel like this?”
He narrows his eyes, frowning.
“Sorry,” I mutter. “It’s not my business, but you don’t have to keep pretending you’re okay when you’re not.”
“I said I’m fine.”
“But you’re clearly not.”
“Why are you pushing this?” he asks, sliding his milkshake away. “You don’t even know me.”
That hurts. Way more than it should. Because he’s right.
Maybe I’m not being as casual as I think I am? Is this my fault? Am I pushing him too much? Moving too quickly? Making this feel like more than simple?
“You’re right,” I say flatly. “I’m sorry.”
“You say that a lot,” he comments, a bitterness to his voice.
I don’t like the way this is going—not at all. Now he’s starting to come across as cruel, not just distant.
I clear my throat and reach for my wallet. “I’m going to go.”
