Page 3 of Working for the Teacher

“Maybe your lesson was boring.”

I feel the urge to defend my lesson plan, and I let it pass. This isn't about persuasive writing, and we both know it.

“Tell me what’s going on,” I demand.

His expression changes. Whatever was there a second ago disappears behind a shrug.

“Nothing.”

“Mason.”

“Whatever.” He shoves his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. “Don't act like you give a shit.”

Before I can respond, he turns and starts down the hall.

“Mason.”

He keeps walking.

“Mason!”

This time I say it louder, but he doesn't even look back. He pushes through the doors at the end of the hallway and disappears outside.

Great. Three weeks into the job and I've already lost a student. Literally.

I eat lunch alone in my classroom instead of going back to the teachers' lounge, because I don't have it in me today to answer one more question about New York.

I know I shouldn't open Instagram. I know it the way you know you shouldn't pick at a scab, and I do it anyway.

Daniel is there, of course. He's always there lately, showing up in my feed like the algorithm has decided my healing isn't its concern. There's a new photo. Him and Ashley at some rooftop bar, both of them laughing at something out of frame, her hand resting easy on his arm.

I zoom in because I can’t help it. I study her perfect face, her perfect outfit, the way she looks like she's never once had to explain herself to anyone. I compare myself to her the way I promised my therapist I would stop doing, and I fail at that promise the same way I fail at most things involving Daniel lately.

I scroll further, back through Daniel's feed until I find the photo. I've looked at it a dozen times since I found out about Ashley. It's a group shot from some work thing, six or seven people crowded around a table, Daniel in the middle with Ashley beside him.

The first time I saw it, I didn't think anything of her.

Now I notice everything. How close she's sitting. His arm stretched along the back of her chair. The way she's turned toward him instead of the camera.

Daniel ended our engagement, and now he’s Instagram official with Ashley, his coworker. People don’t move that fast. Not unless they started moving on long before you knew they were going anywhere.

The rest of the day moves slower. I catch pieces of conversation in the hallway between classes, students talking about lives that feel uncomplicated in a way mine hasn't in months.

I gather the last of my things slowly, in no hurry to be alone with myself. By the time I leave the building, most of the parking lot has emptied out. The late afternoon sun stretches long and gold across the asphalt, catching on the windows of the few cars left.

I'm so far inside my own head as I walk toward my car that I almost don't notice the pickup truck parked near the athletic fields.

There's a man unloading lumber from the back of it, and the first thing I notice is how big he is. He has to be six-four, maybe more, with the kind of solid muscle that makes the stack of lumber braced against his shoulder look light as a feather. His faded gray T-shirt stretches across his strong back and thick arms, one forearm dusted with sawdust as he lowers the boards to the ground.

He says something to Vice Principal Reyes, who also coaches football and is still Coach Reyes to pretty much everyone in Forge Creek, then reaches for another stack. Dark, wavy curls peek out from beneath a backward baseball cap.

Then he turns.

My heart jumps into my throat.

I know those eyes. Even from across the parking lot, there’s no mistaking them.

Ryder Kane.