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chapter two

Graham

N othing I’d said in the last ten minutes had anything to do with the day’s lecture—or journalism, for that matter.

A nagging voice in the back of my head told me to get back to the mock article up on the screen, but we were too deep into a debate about whether hot dogs were sandwiches to turn back now.

We were supposed to be composing a news article about a small-town hot dog eating contest. How did it devolve into this?

“Wait, wait, wait. Hear me out on this,” I said, pacing the front of the room.

I wiped the sweat from my forehead with the back of my Expo-marker-wielding hand.

Pausing for effect, I made sure all twenty-two pairs of eyes in the room were on me before dropping this bomb: “None of you have even considered the fact that hot dogs more closely resemble tacos than sandwiches.”

This declaration had its intended effect, with half of the young adults in the room gasping in protest and the other half laughing at my absurdity.

Michael, the kid in the back who thought I didn’t know he hid his vape pen in sleeve, declared, “You’re on crack,” to which Nia replied, “No, I think he’s actually making sense for the first time! ”

Truth be told, I enjoyed getting a rise out of them.

Arguing over the taxonomy of a hot dog was more interesting than the inverted pyramid structure of informative storytelling.

I just hoped the department chair wasn’t lurking in the hall outside the lecture room.

Then again, it was late Friday afternoon, and she was probably gone for the day.

Remembering I had somewhere to be myself, I glanced at my watch and muttered, “Shit.” It was a forty-minute drive back to Woodvale, and I hated keeping Andrea waiting.

“Listen, this has been fun, but I’ve got to head out before my ex-wife has my throat for being late.

” A few students chuckled at the mention of an ex-wife, and I kept talking to prevent them from asking any personal questions.

These kids loved to pry. Just last week, I accidentally let it slip that I was once arrested at a protest in my early twenties.

In a matter of minutes, I was staring at my own mugshot on seven different phone screens.

And it was all we talked about for the rest of class.

“Does everyone feel like they have a clear understanding of today’s lesson?

” Knowing nobody would raise their hand for clarification, I quickly rattled off the key points I’d been trying to teach that day and reminded them of their assignment.

“And as always, you can reach out via email if you have any questions, guys.”

As they began to shuffle out of the room, I disconnected my laptop from the smart screen and gathered up my own things. Reese, with his bag slung over his shoulder, cleared his throat and stood beside my lectern. “Mr. H?”

With a subtle inhale, I braced myself for the conversation I knew was about to follow. “What’s up, Reese?” I asked, tossing the HDMI cord I’d used on the shelf below the lectern.

“I’m really struggling with this profile assignment,” he admitted, glancing over his shoulder at the students exiting the room. “I’m having some regrets with the person I chose to interview, but I feel like it’s too late to set something else up.”

This nineteen-year-old brought a new existential crisis to the podium every week.

Last Friday, it was about whether journalism was even worth pursuing in the age of AI.

The week before that, he had a full-on panic attack when he realized journalism involved making lots of phone calls—his biggest fear.

“You’ve got, what, a week?” I’d asked them to profile an entrepreneur in their community, someone they could meet in person and observe in their element.

It was one of the bigger assignments of the semester, worth enough points to make or break a grade.

“In the real world of journalism, you might have less than a day to prepare for something like that. It can be done.”

“But I’ve already set up my interview with the chef.”

I knew this. He’d emailed me about this. For some reason, Reese treated his emails to me like a damn diary, detailing everything he was working on and requesting my feedback at every turn. I liked the kid, but he had even less confidence than I did at that age.

And that was saying something.

“And you’re second-guessing yourself about the chef because…?”

“He doesn’t seem like he wants to talk to me. He thought it was going to be published somewhere. When I said it was for a class, he just… I mean, he sighed really loud.”

I blinked a few times, wondering if he’d elaborate.

If a loud sigh could have him so rattled, he wouldn’t last a day in the real world.

I’d been hung up on, threatened, kicked out, and even swung at while working for the Woodvale Times .

Journalism wasn’t for the thin-skinned or the overly sensitive—it chewed people up and spit them out if they weren’t tough enough to handle it.

I ran one hand along the stubble on my cheek, choosing my next words carefully. “You could offer to print it for him, so he’ll at least have something to show for it,” I suggested. “And just, you know, be courteous. Maybe buy a meal at his restaurant as a thank you.”

“I could offer to do the interview by email?” He raised both eyebrows in a hopeful stare. “So it would take up less of his time?”

“Yeah, and then you’ll never hear from the guy again.

” I glanced at my watch again, knowing I was going to have to cut this pep talk short.

“If you’re really that worried about it, you’ve got time to choose someone else who’ll be more enthusiastic.

I wouldn't blame you. But interviewing people who’d rather not speak with you will be a great learning experience. ”

He tilted his head back with a groan. “Now I really don’t know what to do.”

“You’ll figure it out,” I said, tucking my laptop case under my armpit. “Anyway, I have to get home. I look forward to hearing about your decision on Monday.” There. That ought to end the conversation.

Unfortunately, Reese followed me all the way down the hall and through the parking lot to my car, weighing his options aloud every step of the way. I half-expected the kid to follow me home, but thankfully, he said goodbye when I opened my car door.

I dialed Andrea the second I pulled out of the lot.

The thing I’d said about her “having my throat” couldn’t have been further from the truth.

I was probably supposed to hate my ex-wife, curse her name, and compare her to Cruella de Vil or something, but Andrea didn't deserve any of that. We were high school sweethearts, marrying when we were just twenty-one. We didn’t even wait until we were done with college.

And then we didn’t just grow older—we grew apart. We gave it our best shot, trying to stay together for the kids, but ultimately decided it was better for everyone if we split.

The divorce was hell. But both of us came out on the other side of it in a much better place. And now we could sit together at Olivia’s choir recitals, or bitch about Caleb’s baseball coach like a couple of old friends. Because that’s what we were.

“Hey, Andrea,” I said when she picked up. “I’m running about ten minutes late. I was talking with a student.”

“No problem. Did you have something in mind for supper, or should we hit a drive-through first?”

“Oh, I’ve got a pizza and movie night planned,” I said, grinning as I pulled onto the highway.

I was excited—our first movie night in the new house.

The kids were with me on moving day, ensuring everything was put in its rightful place in their new bedrooms, but we didn’t really get to hang out.

In fact, it had been a few weeks since one of our legendary pizza and scary movie nights.

And now that Caleb was a little older, it widened the selection of films to choose from.

Tonight’s pick? It. The classic one, of course. I couldn’t wait to witness Caleb’s reaction to the infamous storm drain scene.

“Tell Olivia I’ll get those garlic knots she likes,” I said.

“She’s with Richie.”

At the mention of that name, I let out a sigh that would’ve sent Reese into a full-blown spiral. Richie. “I thought Richie was history?”

“They made up.”

“Super.”

“Don’t be so sarcastic, Graham. He makes her happy.”

“He’s a delinquent.”

“Well.” She knew she couldn’t disagree. Last I knew, the kid was doing community service because he got caught with weed at school, embarrassing Olivia so much she broke up with him during his suspension.

Maybe she’d changed her mind since school was out for the summer.

With a little grunt, Andrea said, “Let’s just let her get through her bad boy phase. It won’t last.”

“Let’s hope not. So she's with him tonight—where?”

“A friend’s house.”

“She’s still coming to my house after?”

“Yes. She has her bag packed.”

Well, at least I would still get to see her. I knew when she got into high school and started dating, I’d see less and less of her, so this was inevitable.

It still sucked.

Andrea’s car was already parked in front of the house when I pulled into the driveway. I was a little surprised to see Pete step out of the passenger seat, shoving his hands in his back pockets as he glanced up at the house. “Someone’s got that CEO money now,” he said with a wink as I approached.

I wanted to tell him this new house was the smallest on this street in terms of square footage. That, and it had more to do with a dead wealthy grandpa than the interim CEO nonsense.

But we didn’t have all night.

Chuckling at his assertion, I opened the car door for Caleb, who was struggling with a duffel bag and an Xbox clutched to his chest. I made a mental note to get him a second gaming console for his next birthday so he wouldn’t have to schlep this one around.

“Hey, bud,” I said, taking the Nintendo Switch from beneath his armpit before turning back to Pete.