I'm managing decently, all things considered.
The one wobble comes at the end of third period, when Lisa stops at my desk on her way out, hugging her binder.
"Have a good weekend, Ms. Gable," she says, and the two girls waiting for her at the door dissolve into giggles that have nothing to do with weekends.
"Thank you, Lisa," I say, serene as a lake. "Reading journals are due Monday."
They go out groaning, and I permit myself one small private smile at the attendance sheet. The whole town saw me kiss him on Main Street. Of course the whole school knows. Three days ago the idea would have kept me up at night. Today I write MONDAY: JOURNALS on the board in my best handwriting and let myself sink into the memory of last night like it’s a warm bath.
At 12:14, one bite into a sad desk lunch, my phone lights up.
Finn:Are you free this weekend?
Me:Which part of it?
Finn:All of it. The whole thing. Tonight at 5 through Sunday night.
I put down my fork.
Me:That's very open-ended. What did you have in mind?
Finn:Not telling. It's a surprise. Trust me and be ready at 5.
I stare at the screen. I know what I'm teaching on a Wednesday three weeks from now. He is offering me a blank page and a departure time.
I barely hesitate.
Me:Okay. I'm in.
Finn:That's my girl. Pack light. You won't need a lot of clothes.
That’s my girl.I read that sentence grinning like a woman who has recently escaped from somewhere. The runner-up’s not bad either:You won't need a lot of clothes.
Two days with no class bells, no essays, no dawn drive home in yesterday's dress. Two nights of that filthy, wonderful mouth and those strong, skilled hands. Two days and nights with a man who treats slow like a discipline he's studying and my body like a subject he's decided to get a doctorate in. I can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be.
I pull myself together and go back to interrogating him.
Me:That is not packing guidance. I need parameters. Dress code? Climate? Are we leaving the country?
Finn:No passport required. One more question. Do you have hiking boots?
Me:I think so. Why?
Finn:Broken in?
Me:Enough. WHY, Finn?
Finn:That's all you get. 5 o'clock, Darcy. I'll pick you up.
Me:You're impossible.
Finn:That's not what you said last night.
I laugh to myself, grateful that my students have left the room and aren't here to witness my snort and the full-scale blush that floods my face.
I sit with my cooling lunch and my heart racing in a way that only Finn seems capable of causing. But there's fear in there, too. I'm not going to pretend there isn't. A blank weekend with no exits marked is everything I've organized my life against. But it's sitting in the same seat as something bigger and warmer that keeps crowding it toward the window, and I think, with some astonishment, that this must be what brave feels like from the inside. Less like a decision. More like appetite.
At home by four, I stand in front of my closet and confront "pack light" as a concept. Packing light for a destination is a skill. Packing light for a mystery is a personality test, and mine comes back with notes. I pack underwear that's probably not appropriate for a weekend that also involves hiking boots—a lacy bra and the kind of panties that exist for a five-second window of being seen. I pack layers, because whatever else this weekend is, it is apparently outdoors. A jacket. Wool socks, because a man who asks about boots means it.
