Page 19 of After the Rain

TEN

SMALL CRACKS

EZRA

M onday morning arrived like a slap to the face, cold and unwelcome.

I'd spent the weekend in a haze of forced normalcy—grading papers, meal prep, calling Uncle John to pretend everything was fine. But underneath the routine, I could feel something fracturing inside me, hairline cracks spreading through the careful walls I'd built around my heart.

The decision to step back from Wade should have brought relief. Instead, it felt like I was slowly suffocating.

Mrs. Garrett was waiting for me in the school parking lot.

Not lurking, exactly, but positioned strategically near the main entrance where she could intercept me before I reached the safety of my classroom.

She stood beside her pristine SUV with another parent I recognized but couldn't name—a woman with perfectly styled blonde hair and the kind of smile that never reached her eyes.

My stomach dropped. This wasn't coincidence.

"Mr. Mitchell," Mrs. Garrett called out as I approached the building. "Could we have a word?"

Everything in me wanted to keep walking, to mumble something about needing to prepare for class and escape into the building. But refusing would only fuel whatever narrative she was building about my character.

"Of course. How can I help you?"

"We've been discussing some concerns about classroom dynamics this year," she began, her voice carrying the false sweetness that usually preceded character assassination. "Some of the parents have noticed that you seem to have... favorites among the students and their families."

The other woman nodded sagely, like this was a profound observation rather than thinly veiled accusation. "It's important that all children receive equal attention, don't you think?"

"I treat all my students with equal care and respect," I said carefully. "If you have specific concerns about your child's experience in my classroom, I'd be happy to discuss them during conference hours."

"Oh, this isn't about our children specifically," Mrs. Garrett said with a laugh that sounded like breaking glass.

"It's about maintaining appropriate professional boundaries.

Some of us have noticed that you spend quite a lot of time with the Harrison family.

Home visits, personal conversations, that sort of thing. "

There it was. The real reason for this parking lot ambush.

"Cooper Harrison needed additional support with a family project. Any assistance I provided was educational in nature and well within my professional responsibilities."

"I'm sure it was," the blonde woman said, but her tone suggested otherwise. "It's just that in a small community like ours, people notice when a single teacher spends personal time with a single parent. Especially when that teacher is... well, you understand."

The words hung in the morning air like poison gas. Especially when that teacher is gay. They didn't need to say it directly—the implication was crystal clear.

"I'm not sure what you're suggesting," I said, though I knew exactly what they were suggesting.

"We're not suggesting anything," Mrs. Garrett replied smoothly. "We're simply concerned about the appearance of things. What message does it send to our children when boundaries become... blurred?"

Heat flooded my face, but I forced my voice to remain level. "The only message I hope to send to any child is that their teacher cares about their education and wellbeing."

"Of course," the blonde woman said. "We just think it's important that care remains appropriately channeled. Professional, you know? Some relationships can become complicated when personal feelings get involved."

They were dancing around direct accusations, but the threat was unmistakable. They'd been watching me, documenting my interactions with Wade and Cooper, building a case based on prejudice and paranoia.

"I appreciate your... concern," I said finally. "But I'm confident that my professional conduct speaks for itself. If you have specific complaints about my teaching, I encourage you to speak with Dr. Williams."

"Oh, we certainly will," Mrs. Garrett said with satisfaction. "We just wanted to give you the courtesy of speaking with you first. Professional courtesy, you understand."

The courtesy of a warning shot. The opportunity to modify my behavior before they escalated their campaign.

By the time students started arriving, I'd managed to compose myself enough to smile and greet them normally. But the morning's encounter had left me feeling exposed and vulnerable, like everyone could see the target painted on my back.

Cooper arrived with Wade at our usual time, bouncing with his typical Monday morning energy. But Wade looked worse than ever—dark circles under his eyes, clothes that suggested he'd grabbed them off the floor, the general appearance of a man falling apart.

"Mr. Mitchell!" Cooper launched himself toward me with uncomplicated joy. "Guess what? I found three new library books about architecture, and one of them has pictures of buildings that look like the ones Daddy draws!"

"That sounds fascinating. We'll have to discuss them during our reading conference."

Wade approached more slowly, his eyes scanning the other parents dropping off their children. When he looked at me, I saw confusion mixed with something that made my chest tighten—not quite longing, but a searching quality that suggested he was trying to understand what had changed between us.

"Good morning, Mr. Mitchell," he said with careful formality. "Thank you for encouraging Cooper's reading interests."

"It's my job, Mr. Harrison."

The professional distance felt like swallowing broken glass, but I could feel Mrs. Garrett's eyes on us from across the parking lot. Every word, every gesture would be analyzed for evidence of impropriety.

When Cooper ran ahead to hang up his backpack, Wade stepped closer, lowering his voice.

"Ezra, I need to talk to you. About what happened, about?—"

"This isn't the appropriate time or place for personal conversations," I said quickly, hating myself for the words but knowing they were necessary. "If you have concerns about Cooper's education, please schedule a conference through the office."

Something flickered across Wade's face—hurt, confusion, maybe anger. The urge to reach out, to explain, to apologize hit me like a physical blow. Here was this man who'd been vulnerable with me, who'd trusted me enough to share that moment by the river, and I was treating him like a stranger.

But he just nodded and followed Cooper into the building, leaving me standing alone with the weight of my own cowardice.

The rest of the morning passed in a haze of forced normalcy. During lunch, I sat alone in my classroom, picking at a sandwich I couldn't taste while staring at the stack of papers that needed grading.

Three years I'd been doing this job. Three years of early mornings and late nights, of celebrating small victories and working through educational challenges with patience and creativity.

I'd helped kids learn to read, overcome anxiety about math, find confidence in their abilities. I'd made a difference.

But sitting there in the fluorescent-lit silence, I realized that none of it might matter.

All those late-night phone calls with concerned parents, all the extra time spent creating individualized learning plans, all the professional development workshops and continuing education courses—they could all be erased by whispered accusations from people who saw my sexuality as inherently threatening.

I looked around my classroom—the reading corner with its comfortable pillows and carefully curated book collection, the science station where kids conducted experiments with wide-eyed wonder, the art supplies organized in colorful bins that invited creativity.

This space was mine. I'd built it with intention and love, designed every corner to inspire learning and growth.

Mrs. Garrett wanted to take it away from me because I'd dared to care about the wrong family. Because somewhere along the way, my professional interest in Cooper's education had become tangled with personal feelings for his father that I was only beginning to understand myself.

The injustice of it burned in my chest, but underneath the anger was something more complicated: shame.

Not shame about being gay—I'd worked through that years ago with therapy and Uncle John's unwavering support.

But shame about the choices I was making now.

The way I'd pulled back from Wade without explanation.

The professional distance I was imposing on Cooper, who didn't understand why his favorite teacher had suddenly become cold and formal.

I was protecting myself by hurting people I cared about. That realization sat in my stomach like a stone.

I drove to the Cedar Falls Community Center instead of going straight home. I needed space to think, somewhere that didn't carry memories of Wade or echoes of Mrs. Garrett's accusations.

The community center gym was nearly empty—a few teenagers shooting baskets, an elderly man walking laps around the track. I found a corner and sat on the bleachers, staring at nothing and trying to process the day's events.

My phone buzzed with a text from Uncle John:

Uncle John

How's your Monday treating you?

I stared at the message for a long time before typing back:

Ezra

Like a root canal performed by someone who hates me personally.

He called immediately.

"That bad, huh?"

I told him about Mrs. Garrett, about the growing campaign against me, about the impossible choice between my career and my heart.

"Sounds like you're caught between people who want you to be smaller and someone who might want you to be bigger," he said after I finished.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, these parents want you to shrink down, hide who you are, make yourself less threatening to their worldview. But this Wade fellow—he kissed you, right? That suggests he wants more of who you are, not less."

"He's having an identity crisis. He doesn't know what he wants."

"Maybe. Or maybe he's figuring out what he's been wanting all along and just didn't have the vocabulary for it."

"Even if that's true, I can't afford to wait around and find out. My job?—"

"Will be there whether you fight for it or not," Uncle John interrupted gently. "But the man you care about? He might not be."

After we hung up, I sat in the quiet gym thinking about courage and cowardice, about the different ways people could disappear from their own lives.

I was so lost in thought that I almost missed Sarah Harrison entering the gym with Cooper. They were both in workout clothes, Cooper carrying a basketball that looked comically large in his small hands.

Cooper spotted me first, his face lighting up with uncomplicated joy.

"Mr. Mitchell! Are you here to play basketball too?"

Before I could answer, he was bounding up the bleachers with Sarah following more slowly. She looked tired but friendly, offering the kind of polite smile that divorced parents perfected for navigating shared social spaces.

"Hi, Mr. Mitchell," she said. "Mind if we sit? Cooper's been excited about basketball, but I think he needs a break from trying to make shots on a regulation hoop."

"Of course."

Cooper settled between us, chattering about his basketball ambitions and the "special techniques" he'd been practicing. Sarah listened with the patient attention of a mother who'd heard this particular monologue several times before.

"Thank you for encouraging his interests," she said to me during a pause in Cooper's enthusiastic explanation. "Wade mentioned that you've been helping him with some school projects too. It's nice to know he has teachers who care about his whole development, not just academics."

"Cooper's a remarkable kid. It's been a pleasure having him in my class."

"Wade speaks very highly of you too," she said, then paused, seeming to choose her words carefully. "I hope... well, I hope you know how much your support means to our family. With everything that's been changing this year, it's good for Cooper to have consistent, caring adults in his life."

Her tone was warm but carried an undercurrent I couldn't quite read. She seemed content to watch Cooper attempt increasingly ambitious basketball moves while chatting pleasantly about school activities and upcoming events.

When Cooper's attention was fully captured by the teenagers playing pickup basketball, Sarah turned to me with a more serious expression.

"I've heard some... rumors lately," she said quietly, glancing around to make sure Cooper was out of earshot.

"About some parents having concerns about your teaching.

I wanted you to know that from my perspective, you've been nothing but professional and caring with Cooper.

He adores you, and that means everything to me as his mother. "

The unexpected support caught me off guard. "Thank you. That... means a lot."

"I don't know what's behind the rumors, and frankly, I don't care.

What I care about is Cooper having teachers who genuinely invest in his success.

" She smiled, but there was steel underneath the warmth.

"Some people in this town have too much time on their hands and not enough real problems to worry about. "

After they left for Cooper's basketball practice, I sat alone in the quiet gym, processing the unexpected encounter.

Sarah's support had been genuine but purely focused on Cooper's wellbeing and my professional reputation.

She was clearly a mother who'd heard whispers and wanted to make sure her son's teacher knew he had at least one parent firmly in his corner.

The gesture was kind, but it also highlighted how precarious my situation had become. If rumors were already circulating widely enough for Sarah to hear them, Mrs. Garrett's campaign was more advanced than I'd realized.