“I’m getting bored. Might branch out into libel-and-slander law,” Charlotte adds.
Libby is growling like I haven’t heard her growl since the drama department was disbanded at the high school. “I’m starting a petition to block any site that says bad things about Junie from Hell’s Bells forever. First Hell’s Bells. Then all of Wyoming. And then the world. Maisey, too, for that matter. She brings good treats. But Junie—she’s such a good kid.”
“Send me the link,” Regina calls. “I’ll share it with my cousin up in Montana. He’s, like, TikTok viral for splitting logs or something. We’ll get the right side of this story out.”
“She dump you?” Kory asks as I lower myself back into my seat.
“It’s a temporary thing.”
“Temporary dumping or temporary fling?”
“Dumping.”
“How temporary?”
“June has another year and a half of high school.”
He snorts in his tea. Chokes on it, actually. “Oh, wait. You were serious.”
I don’t answer.
“You’re serious,” he repeats.
“I’m a sucky soccer coach, and I need to step aside and let someone else run the program.”
He drops his fork. “Excuse you?”
“A fucking teenager brought those kids together in ways I never could’ve. A teenager who had every reason to hate all of us and not a whole hell of a lot to gain, but she did it anyway. And you know why? Because that’s what her mother taught her to do. And you know what’s sexy as hell?”
His face twists into a horrified grimace. “Single mothers?”
“People who fucking care. People who try. People who get back up. People who can look beyond what you do when you’re down to who you’re trying to be. People who—”
“Are hard to get?” he supplies.
I glare at him.
And then I take my bison burger to go, and I head home, where Maisey’s truck is still parked at the gatehouse.
Dammit.
I peek in the truck.
No keys.
Can’t get it back to her house.
Not that it matters.
After an hour of trying to force myself to eat the burger while I’m not hungry, I get a text from her.
I told Junie we went on a couple dates and that it’s over. I’ll move my truck when we get back tomorrow. Apologies for it being in your way until then.
“You’re not in my way.” I toss the damn phone across the room, knowing she can’t hear me and wouldn’t listen even if she could.
Not today.
Maybe tomorrow.
Maybe not.
I give up on dinner, head into my bedroom, and spot the crumpled sheets plus the spare pillow on the floor, since we shared mine last night, and I almost walk away again.
Still smells like Maisey in here.
And I want it to always smell like Maisey in here.
But if I want Maisey, it’s not just about Maisey.
Which means I know exactly what I need to do.
I stay scarce on Saturday, and when I get home, Maisey’s truck is gone.
Keep to myself Sunday too.
Monday’s a bitch and a half. None of the kids want to be back in school. All of them are counting the days until winter break. Since Thanksgiving was early this year, they still have weeks.
I hand out test results, and we start new units in every class. I act like I had a great Thanksgiving break. Interrupt trash talk about who got more candy at the parade. Steer them back on course. Ignore the questions about if I have a stick up my butt.
And get really pissed myself that the winter break is so far away.
Most of the rest of the week is the same.
Me pretending like I’m not a grumpy bastard. The kids hyped up but mostly able to focus. Fellow teachers avoiding me the same way they did when I got here six years ago, before I pulled my head out of my ass.
Even the PTA volunteers flinch when I step into the teachers’ lounge and find a holiday spread laid out for us.
I skip it without being force-fed anything by Libby and spend my time getting looks from my horse out in the school’s stable. I’ve been riding Parsnip instead of driving, to use some of my pent-up energy.
Not like there are any projects around town I can volunteer to help with to get out of my own head.
Maisey’s either working them or has them done.
And then it’s Thursday.
A week since the best night of my life. Six days since I let Maisey walk away from me. Six days when I haven’t changed my mind.
She makes my life better. She makes me want to be happy. She makes me want to be better for her. For Opal and my students and my colleagues. For everyone around me.
And having June sit there quietly in class, not looking at me the entire week but turning in perfect homework every day, is utterly killing me.
I keep it together during my classes, but I’m in the foulest of foul moods by the time Thursday’s over.
Logically, I know why I have to wait for winter break to go see Maisey again.
I need to give her space. I need to give June space to finish the semester without added stress if I have any chance of accomplishing what I need to accomplish with both of them.
The logic makes sense.
Emotionally, though, I’m a wreck.
I don’t know if Maisey’s okay. I don’t know if she saw the tabloids. I don’t know if she’s hurting. I don’t know if she’s not, and I really do need to move on.
But I know that when I’m standing on a chair, reaching up to rehang the damn Einstein poster that fell off my wall in fifth period today, I don’t want to hear footsteps behind me, and I don’t want to deal with one more thing.
“Study hall hours are over,” I say shortly without looking back.
“My mom misses you.”
I almost fall off the chair. “June.”
She hovers in the doorway, arms wrapped around herself, looking at me like I might bite. I don’t know how it’s possible that she looks even more like Maisey now than she did in class this morning, but she does, and it makes the wrench flung through my heart twist even harder.
I climb off the chair slowly, sit on it, then gesture for her to come in.
I didn’t mean to imply that you should run away probably isn’t the best start here.
No blame.
And knowing that she wasn’t so much running away as trying to get home—and seeing that she’s back home and acting normal in the cafeteria—I’ll still own my part if I need to, but I’m also so fucking proud of her that I can’t bring myself to ask if it was my fault.
“My dad’s a total dick,” she says.
There is literally no good answer to that, so I don’t say a thing.
“But my mom—she’s always tried to make everyone around her happy. I know she didn’t like doing my dad’s show, but she wanted him to be happy. And I know she didn’t love roller coasters, but she’d ride them with me because she wanted me to be happy. And the thing is, she deserves to be happy too.”
“She does,” I agree, but I stop talking when I get the teenager look of You are not in charge here, so be quiet and listen.
“She’s not happy,” June continues. “And I hate when she’s not happy, even though I’m supposed to be a teenager who doesn’t care, because you always hate to see the people you love hurting. Always. And you look miserable, too, and you’re not a dick—not like my dad—not yet, anyway—and I just—look. If you want to date my mom, I don’t care. I mean, I do care. Don’t hurt her. Don’t make her sad. Don’t use her. Don’t take her for granted. Don’t be a toadstool. Don’t cheat on her. Don’t lie to her. And don’t push it, because I will know, and apparently I can bring the entire tabloid industry to their knees, so do not test me.”