Page 17 of After the Rain

EIGHT

RETREAT

EZRA

I woke to the memory of Wade's kiss and the look of complete shock on his face afterward.

Six AM, and I was staring at my ceiling like it might provide answers to questions I was afraid to ask. The kiss had been sweet and genuine—tender in a way that made my chest ache even remembering it. But Wade's obvious panic about what it meant had me worried in ways that went bone-deep.

I'd been through this before with questioning men.

The pattern was always the same: confusion, experimentation, panic, retreat.

Sometimes they'd disappear entirely. Sometimes they'd stick around long enough to break my heart properly before deciding they were definitely, absolutely, one hundred percent straight.

Rolling out of bed, I caught my reflection in the bathroom mirror.

Same face, same tired eyes, same cautious hope that I should have learned to suppress by now.

But Wade felt different. His confusion seemed genuine, not calculated.

The way he'd looked at me before the kiss—desperate, searching, like I held answers to questions he'd never thought to ask—that wasn't performance. That was discovery.

My phone sat silent on the nightstand. No text from Wade, which could mean anything. Maybe he was processing. Maybe he was panicking. Maybe he was pretending it never happened.

Getting ready for work, I tried to prepare myself for every possible scenario. Wade might avoid eye contact, act overly casual, treat me with careful professional distance. Or maybe—and this was the hope I was trying not to nurture—maybe he'd want to talk about what happened between us.

The coffee tasted bitter, which probably had more to do with my mood than the beans. I found myself standing at my kitchen window, looking out at the quiet street and wondering why I kept hoping that this time would be different.

Maybe because Wade had seemed so lost yesterday, so genuinely confused about his own reactions. Maybe because the way he'd kissed me back had felt like recognition, like coming home.

Wade appeared at school drop-off looking like he hadn't slept, his usual easy confidence replaced by nervous energy that made my stomach clench with recognition.

The signs were all there—the careful way he scanned the area before approaching, the way he avoided direct eye contact while still trying to appear normal for Cooper's sake.

But instead of immediate panic, I felt something sharper. Annoyance. Why did it always have to be this way? Why did I always have to be the one managing everyone else's emotional comfort?

"Good morning, Cooper," I said, forcing warmth into my voice as the boy bounded toward me. "Ready for another exciting day of learning?"

"Mr. Mitchell! Guess what? The baby ducks at the park can swim now! Well, they could swim yesterday too, but today they can probably swim better because that's how growing up works. And Daddy says we might go back this weekend to see if they've gotten bigger."

Cooper bounced between his father and me with typical enthusiasm, completely oblivious to the tension crackling between the adults. His innocent chatter about their evening at the park made both Wade and me stiffen, worried about what details a six-year-old might innocently share.

But Cooper focused on ducks and playground equipment, not adult complications. Thank God for the selective attention span of children.

Wade's attempts at normal conversation felt forced and overly casual. "Good morning, Mr. Mitchell. How are you today? Beautiful weather we're having."

The stilted politeness stung. It suggested Wade was trying to pretend our kiss never happened, that the moment of connection I'd felt so deeply was just an inconvenient blip in his consciousness.

"I'm well, thank you," I replied with equal formality, though inside I was fighting the urge to grab him by the shoulders and demand we talk about what happened. "Yes, it's a lovely morning."

We sounded like strangers making elevator conversation. Like two people who'd never shared a meal, never laughed together over Cooper's architectural ambitions, never kissed by a river while ducks paddled in the background.

When Cooper ran ahead into the school building, Wade and I were left alone for a moment. He opened his mouth as if to say something important, then closed it again, clearly struggling with what to communicate.

I waited, hoping for acknowledgment of what happened between us, some sign that the kiss had mattered to him even if it scared him. But Wade just mumbled "Have a good day" and hurried away like I was contagious.

Watching him retreat to his truck, I felt anger rising alongside the hurt. This was exactly what I'd been afraid of—being treated like a mistake he regretted making.

During morning work time, I found myself observing Cooper for signs that family stress might be affecting him.

Children often picked up on adult emotional turmoil even when they didn't understand it.

But Cooper seemed his usual happy, engaged self, focused on his art project and chatting normally with classmates.

"Ezra." Brook appeared in my doorway with coffee and a concerned expression. "Okay, what happened? You don’t seem like yourself today.”

I deflected with general comments about having a complicated evening, but Brook's knowing look suggested she suspected romantic drama.

"Let me guess," she said, settling into the chair beside my desk. "Wade Harrison happened."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Uh-huh. The same Wade Harrison who couldn't take his eyes off you during the parent-teacher conference? The one who invited you over for all-day domestic bliss last weekend? The one who's been looking at you like you hung the moon and he's trying to figure out how to ask for the blueprint?"

"Brook..."

"Did something happen? Because you look like you're grieving something, and he looked like he hadn't slept when he dropped Cooper off."

I couldn't tell her about the kiss. Not yet. "It's complicated."

"Honey, complicated means he's worth the risk. Easy means he's boring." Brook leaned forward, studying my face. "What kind of complicated are we talking about? The good kind or the 'I need to hide his body' kind?"

Despite everything, I almost smiled. "The kind where I'm probably setting myself up for heartbreak."

"Ah. The best kind." Brook's expression softened. "Ezra, I've watched you build walls around yourself for three years. If someone's making you consider tearing them down, maybe that's worth exploring."

"Even if it destroys my career?"

"Even if. Because what's the point of protecting a career if you're miserable in every other part of your life?"

Cooper approached my desk during independent work time with questions about his reading log, and I found myself studying his face for resemblance to Wade. The same hazel eyes, the same stubborn cowlick, the same easy smile that had made me fall for his father.

"Mr. Mitchell, are you okay?" Cooper asked with the perceptiveness that sometimes caught adults off guard. "You look kind of sad."

"I'm fine, sweetie. Just thinking about lesson plans. What did you want to ask about your reading log?"

But as Cooper chattered about the chapter book he was working through, I realized how much I'd already invested in both father and son. How much it would hurt to lose not just Wade's tentative affection, but Cooper's easy trust and friendship.

During lunch duty, I overheard Cooper telling another child that his dad "seemed really tired this morning, like when he stayed up too late doing work." The innocent observation confirmed that Wade was struggling with something, though Cooper obviously didn't understand what.

Was Wade having a full identity crisis, or just regretting our kiss? Either way, the silence from him felt worse than rejection.

By afternoon prep time, I'd composed and deleted three different text messages to Wade.

Each one sounded either too casual or too intense, too demanding or too understanding.

The cursor blinked at me mockingly as I tried to find words that would bridge the gap between what had happened and what came next.

Finally, I typed:

I hope you're okay. No pressure to talk, but I'm here if you need someone to listen.

I stared at the message for ten minutes before deleting it unsent.

Dr. Williams appeared in my classroom doorway at four PM with a concerned expression that made my stomach drop.

"Ezra, do you have a minute?"

"Of course." I gestured to the chair beside my desk, trying to read her mood. Professional check-in, or something more serious?

"I've had a few more comments about your interactions with the Harrison family," she said without preamble. "Nothing specific, just suggestions that you might be getting 'too involved' with a single parent. I wanted to check in about how you're handling those boundaries we discussed."

My blood went cold. If there was already community speculation about my relationship with Wade, our kiss last night was incredibly poor judgment. Small towns noticed everything, and my career couldn't survive romantic scandal.

"I've been maintaining appropriate professional distance," I said carefully. "Cooper needed extra support with a family tree project, and I provided that support. Beyond that, my interactions with Mr. Harrison have been limited to normal parent-teacher communications."

It wasn't technically a lie. Everything I'd said was true. I just wasn't mentioning the domestic dinner, the lingering phone calls, or the kiss that had changed everything.

"I'm sure that's the case," Dr. Williams said gently. "But perception can be as important as reality in a community like this. Some of our newer families from the suburbs expect different boundaries than our longtime residents. They might misinterpret friendly professionalism as something more."

The principal's gentle reminder about avoiding even the appearance of impropriety hit home. I'd worked too hard building my reputation and career to risk it for a man who was already pulling away from our connection.

"I understand completely," I said. "I'll be even more careful about maintaining clear boundaries going forward."

"I know you will. You're one of our most professional teachers, Ezra. I just want to make sure you stay that way."

After she left, I sat alone in my classroom confronting the reality of my situation.

I was falling for a parent who was having an identity crisis, in a community that was already watching our interactions with suspicion.

Every logical consideration argued for stepping back and protecting myself professionally and emotionally.

But for once, I didn't want to be logical. I didn't want to be the mature one who protected everyone else's comfort at the expense of my own happiness.

I picked up my phone and called Wade before I could lose my nerve.

It went straight to voicemail.

"Wade, it's Ezra. I know things are complicated right now, but I think we should talk. Call me when you're ready."

After I hung up, I felt both relief and terror. I'd reached out. I'd made the first move. Whatever happened next was at least partially out of my hands.

The drive home felt longer than usual, every familiar landmark reminding me of conversations I'd had with Wade about small-town life, about building something lasting in a place where everyone knew your business.

My apartment felt especially quiet that evening. I heated up leftover Chinese food and tried to focus on grading papers, but my mind kept drifting to Wade's face after our kiss. The wonder, the fear, the way he'd looked at me like I'd just rearranged his entire understanding of himself.

Uncle John called at around eight PM, and I found myself needing guidance about fighting for something that might not fight back.

"You sound troubled, kiddo," he said after we'd exchanged pleasantries. "What's eating at you?"

"I think I might be falling for someone who isn't ready for what I have to offer," I said without preamble. "And I'm not sure whether to fight for it or walk away."

Uncle John was quiet for a moment. When he spoke, his voice carried the weight of hard-won experience. "You know, when I was your age, I met a man who was married. Nice wife, two kids, the whole suburban dream. But he looked at me like you were the first sip of water after wandering the desert."

This was new territory. Uncle John rarely talked about his own romantic history.

"What happened?"

"I waited for him to figure himself out. And waited. And waited. Turns out, some people need permission to want what they want, and some people need time to build the courage to claim it. The trick is knowing which kind of person you're dealing with."

"How do you tell the difference?"

"The ones who need permission keep looking to you for answers. The ones who need time disappear for a while, then come back when they've done the work." Uncle John paused. "This man of yours—which type does he seem like?"

I thought about Wade's desperate confusion, the way he'd kissed me like he was drowning and I was air. "The kind who needs time."

"Then give him time. But not forever. And not at the expense of your own happiness."

"What if giving him time means losing him?"

"What if not giving him time means losing yourself?"

After we hung up, I sat in my living room acknowledging a truth I'd been avoiding. Wade needed space to understand his feelings without pressure from me. But I also needed to protect my own heart while he figured things out.

The balance felt impossible to strike.

Before sleep, I made a decision that felt both mature and terrifying.

I would give Wade space, but I wouldn't disappear.

I would maintain professional boundaries, but I wouldn't pretend nothing had happened between us.

I would protect my career, but I wouldn't sacrifice my chance at happiness on the altar of other people's comfort.

It wasn't stepping back completely, and it wasn't fighting recklessly. It was something in between—a careful dance between hope and self-preservation.

As I turned off the lights, I found myself wondering what Wade was doing right now. Was he lying awake thinking about our kiss? Was he regretting it? Was he missing me the way I was missing him?

Some questions would have to wait for answers. But unlike every other time I'd fallen for a questioning man, this time I wasn't willing to disappear while he figured himself out.

This time, I was going to stay visible and let him decide if I was worth the risk.

It felt terrifying and empowering in equal measure.

And for the first time since waking up this morning, it felt like hope.