I’m keeping my opinions to myself on that—you know, since she dropped dead of a heart attack. My day did not improve. My history classes ended up being worse than my wellness classes. Especially this one.
“It says online you’re married to David Chambers. Is he going to be teaching here as well?” The girl holds up her cell phone, showing me a picture of myself with David.
“Why is your last name different than his if you’re married to him?”
And here we go. Fuck the internet. It really is an ugly, nasty bitch. I mean, only when it’s out to get me, that is. “I do not answer questions about my personal life. They are not pertinent to your education and therefore irrelevant.”
That’s my new party line. I receive a collective knowing grin for that, like they have the inside track on my miserable life. Maybe I shouldn’t have said that? Maybe that somehow undercuts my role as an authoritative presence?
Teaching sucks.
Luckily all my classes are on a rotating schedule, so I don’t have to see these kids again until Wednesday.
“How about we divide into pairs and discuss how imperative trading routes were for the people of ancient Mesopotamia. Write them down and I’ll look through your answers after class.” Yep, that sounds brilliant. Totally something a teacher would say.
The bell rings twenty minutes later and all the students rise, collecting their belongings. “I’m looking forward to meeting your parents at the open house tonight.”
I get some noise, and then the last class of the day empties. I drop into my chair across the room, my head falling back and my eyes closing as a heavy, relieved breath escapes my lungs. How I’m going to make it through the year, I don’t know. I like the idea of teaching. I like the idea of educating young minds.
I get there’s first day razzing. That the first day is always the hardest.
That’s all that was. Tomorrow will be easier. It has to be.
I spend the next few hours going through everything here. Setting up my classroom and organizing my materials. Printing out handouts for parents—for both my wellness and history classes. And when it’s all finished, I take a moment to breathe, knowing the storm is about to come.
“Rough first day?” A voice startles me, and I bolt upright only to find that it’s Bridget. Thankfully not the principal.
I stand, reorganizing my papers for the fifth time. “About what I expected, actually. But it’s one thing to expect something and another to live through it.”
Bridget perches herself on the corner of a student’s desk. Her dark brown curls look like they’re at the end of a long day. She pushes up the bridge of her glasses and offers me a hopeful smile. “It gets better. It always does. Just don’t let these kids know they got to you. They live for that and will torture you for it. Just wait till you meet their parents.”
“Thanks,” I deadpan. “Because it’s not like I was at all worried about that before.”
She laughs. “I’m sure you’ll be great. At least the open house comes before you teach their kids about sex.”
“Speaking of, did you know about this wellness bullshit I’m in no way qualified to teach?”
“I sure did.” She gleams at me. “Mrs. Hastings somehow was teaching it, and she’d been around since condoms were made out of sheep intestines, and I think it’s safe to say had never put one on an actual penis. Imagine learning safe sex from someone who’s old enough to be your grandmother.”
Touché.
“Thank you again for getting me this job. I was planning on yelling at you, but I’m happy to be here and have this opportunity.”
“Thank Mrs. Hastings. She’s the one who dropped dead.”
A little more than a week ago, I had called Bridget at midnight crying. I had indulged in one too many drinks—clearly it’s turning into a pattern. “Please tell me you’re waking me up in the middle of the night because you’re finally signing the papers.” That was how she answered, and I knew I’d made the right decision in calling her. I told her I had, just that moment, and she replied with, “Are you psychic or just gifted with the best timing in the history of the world?”
She then proceeded to explain how Mrs. Hastings, the school’s history teacher—and apparently wellness teacher—dropped dead and that they needed someone to fill her role ASAP. Somehow I got the job. I then secured my rental house and started packing up my life.
“Still, I owe you a glass of wine and a meal,” I tell her.
Her eyes light up at that. “Oh, if you’re cooking, and I don’t have to clean up or try to deal with getting the twins to eat while I manage a few bites of lukewarm food, then I’m there.”
I snicker. “You’ve got a deal. I’ll make you anything you want.”
“God, I love you.” She rises off the edge of the desk. “Okay, get your game face on, babe. The vultures, otherwise known as the overly opinionated and super nitpicky parents of your entitled kids will be here any second. I’ll come by after it’s over and give you a lift home since you don’t have a car yet.”
She casts me a wink, then leaves my classroom, but I’m ready for this. I am. At least as prepared as any hot mess brand-new teacher can be on her first day at a prep school for the rich and elite. And for the most part, I hold my own as the night goes on.
That is until Landon fucking Fritz walks through my door.
8
There are so many things I hate about this moment, I’d find it difficult to rate them in order of importance if they didn’t all center around one person. Ellery Chambers. Or is it Wilde as the plaque outside the door said?
I can’t stop myself from glaring at Stella’s new history and wellness teacher while she talks, presenting her syllabi to all the parents in the room and discussing her plan for the year. They’re eating out of the palm of her hand, and half the women in this room don’t eat, or like other women who are prettier than they are—which she is. The men are worse. They’re unabashedly staring at her—regardless of their wives being right by their sides—clinging to the way her perfect tits show off just the tiniest hint of a lace bra beneath the cream silk of her blouse.
A lace bra I likely saw scattered on the ground outside her house the other night. Or possibly the same one I removed from her body in the dark of her hotel room. And now my cock is getting hard in my scrubs, and let me tell you, scrubs hide nothing.
Other than when I first entered the room and noted her shock, the woman hasn’t acknowledged me. I might as well not be here for all the attention I’ve garnered. I’m Patrick Swayze in Ghost. I’m here, but am I really?
I wasn’t prepared.
Considering her reflected surprise, I highly doubt she had Stella today in her class. I’m not sure if I’m grateful she was equally blindsided or not. I came here straight from the hospital and haven’t even had a chance to shower or change clothes or eat a meal or to see my daughter and ask how her day was.
Does Stella even know that her teacher is our new neighbor?
The neighbor I had sex with—that part I know she definitely doesn’t know. The neighbor I absolutely despise for being so sweet and bubbly and perfect when I know it’s an act. It has to be.