That makes her smile, a real one that reaches her eyes. "They said that?"
"Direct quote from my quarterback: 'Coach, Miss Wilson is actually cool. Like, she gets us.'" I mimic his teenage drawl and she laughs.
God, I want to make her laugh like that again. Want to be the reason that guarded expression melts away.
"I'll think about it," she says.
"That's all I'm asking." I push off from her car. "Text me if you need help moving into the new place. I'm pretty good at hauling furniture."
"You've already done so much."
"Mia." I wait until she looks at me. "I want to help. Let me."
She nods, and I see her throat work as she swallows. "Okay."
I watch her drive away, her brake lights disappearing around the corner. The parking lot is nearly empty now, most of the staff having left for the weekend. I'm about to head back to my truck when movement catches my eye.
Someone is standing at a second-floor classroom window, watching. The figure is backlit by the classroom lights, making itimpossible to see who it is. But I can feel their gaze, focused and intent.
I look up, trying to make out any identifying features. The person doesn't move, just stands there staring down at the spot where Mia's car was parked moments ago.
Then, as if realizing they've been spotted, the figure steps back quickly. The curtain falls into place, blocking my view.
A chill runs through me that has nothing to do with the cooling evening air. That wasn't a casual observation. That was surveillance.
I stand there for another minute, watching that window, but whoever was there doesn't reappear.
9
MIA
The stadium lights blaze against the darkening sky as I climb the metal bleachers, each step echoing my uncertainty about being here. Friday night football at Riverside Academy is apparently a sacred tradition, and Blake made it clear that showing up would help me integrate into the school community. What he didn't have to mention is that it would also make me a spectacle.
But here I am. Ready or not.
I find a spot halfway up the bleachers, trying to position myself where I'm visible enough to seem engaged but not so prominent that I draw attention. That plan fails within minutes.
"Is that her?" a woman's voice carries from two rows behind me.
"I think so. The new English teacher."
I keep my eyes fixed on the field where Blake stands on the sidelines in athletic pants and a Riverside Academy coaching jacket. Even from this distance, I can see the intensity radiating from him. He's completely in his element, gesturing to hisplayers, his voice carrying across the field in sharp commands that somehow sound encouraging rather than harsh.
My eyes catch and hold on the way his coach's shirt stretches across his broad chest. I can actually see the play of his muscles and the sight makes my breath catch.
"She's pretty," the first woman continues, breaking my ogling. "I wonder why she really came back."
My shoulders tense but I don't turn around. The crowd around me swells as more parents and students arrive. The marching band plays the school fight song while cheerleaders perform elaborate routines on the track.
Blake catches my eye from the sideline and flashes a quick smile before turning back to his team. That simple acknowledgment sends warmth through my chest that has nothing to do with the hot chocolate stand I can smell from the concession area.
"I heard she left town right after graduation," the second woman says, her voice pitched just loud enough for me to hear every word. "Just disappeared in the middle of the night."
"That's what I heard, too."
I pull my jacket tighter around myself even though the evening isn't particularly cold. As if wrapping myself in it can shield me from the gossip. The whispers are exactly what I feared, what I knew would happen the moment I decided to return to Riverside.
"Why do you think she left?" the first woman asks.
