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CHAPTER 49

POURED OUT

CASS

W e stayed home from the tournament Sunday.

Wilder was already scheduled to work, but we decided after all the drama that Cricket and I should hang back too. A weather system moving in our direction hit in the afternoon, raining out all the evening games. Cricket and I spent the gloomy day watching movies and eating our Sonic, and by the end of the day, I had a feeling that tots, limeades, and Princess Diaries had at least quieted Saturday’s upset.

Thankfully, Cricket didn’t see Wilder hit Avery’s dad—her back was turned—but I did. It happened so fast, too fast to even process. Suddenly, the guy was on the ground and Wilder was backing up with his hands in front of him. The whole thing was a mess. Patty and Paul took Cricket and me home before the police showed up, and when Wilder finally came home a couple hours after, he looked like hell.

Cricket was shaken up and confused. I was overwhelmed. Wilder was exhausted, avoiding arrest thanks to the many witnesses who made sure the police knew Avery’s dad took the first swing. But the whole ordeal was long and intense and scary for the kids. We’re not entirely sure the rec league will want him to keep coaching.

I’m also not sure what kind of retaliation we’ll experience, but I hope it’s minimal, for all our sakes.

School Monday is quieter than I expected, potentially because Cricket is glued to me all day. She sat next to me at recess and I didn’t encourage her otherwise, not today, with Avery circling the playground like a hawk. At lunch, she asked to eat in the library with Molly, and I agreed. In class, she’s safe enough. And at the end of the day when the bell rings, I only leave Cricket to take the kids down to their respective dismissal lines.

I hate that it’s come to this, that there’s nothing I can do. There’s no way to protect her like I want to.

All I want is for her to be okay. But I have no idea how.

When I get back to the quiet classroom, Wilder is standing next to the cubbies, helping her into her jacket.

The second he looks at me, I feel a thousand pounds lighter, a smile easing onto my face.

Within a second, my face is buried in his chest, breathing up the scent of him like a freak and preening like a fat, happy cat in his arms.

He chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest and into me. “Hey.”

“Hi. How was your day?”

“Better now that I’m here with my girls.”

The pitter patter of my heart flushes my cheeks. How can one person affect my happiness and comfort so completely? How was I so dumb as to ever let this go?

I’ll never make that particular mistake again.

“C’mon, Daddy.” Cricket tugs at his hand. “We’re gonna be late!”

When I let Wilder go, it’s to smooth her hair. “You’re awfully excited for therapy today.”

She shrugs. “Miss Shannon said I get to pick from the prize bucket, and I saw a little pink finger monster I really, really want.” She sticks her index finger in the air and hooks it, saying on a giggle, “He has crazy teeth. Like me!” The exaggerated grin displays so many teeth, I can count her molars.

“All right, bug. I’ll see you at home,” I promise, moving to kiss Wilder on the cheek. “I might be a bit later than you, but not by much. Just have some papers to grade and I’ll head home.”

“Good. See you in a bit.” With a parting kiss, he heads out with Cricket, striking up a conversation I wish I was a part of. But alas.

I watch them until they’re gone, then head to my desk to get to work.

But I don’t even make it through one math sheet before the intercom sounds.

“Cassidy, could you come down to the office please?” Principal Harris asks.

Cold anxiety zips through me. “Of course. I’ll be right there.”

Instantly, I have to work full time to wrangle my thoughts, certain I know what this is about. My heart thumps painfully with every step I take down the long hallway to the office. When I get there, Christine is leaning on the counter, talking to the receptionist in a hushed voice.

Her eyes are sad when they meet mine. “Hey, Cass. Come on in.”

I try to smile, following her obediently into her office. She closes the door behind me.

“Have a seat.”

Again I obey, trying to stay calm despite my nerves screaming that something’s wrong. I watch her walk around her desk and sit, clasping her hands on the desk in front of her.

“I got a call today from Jeremiah Lewis, the head of the school board. Avery’s grandfather.”

The blood drains from my face—my skin is icy in its wake.

She sighs, seemingly unhappy about the situation. “He informed me that your husband assaulted his son at a children’s baseball game. Is that right?”

“It is.” The words are shaky, and I swallow in an attempt to settle myself.

She nods through another sigh, this one heavier, as she picks up the folder under her hands and passes it to me.

“I’m afraid the board has moved to dismiss you.”

A wave of nausea is chased by the momentary dimming of my vision. I reach out and take the paper numbly. “I’m…what?” It says Notice of Dismissal across the top in bold, damning letters. The rest of it swims in my vision, illegible.

“They’ve cited many reasons, like breeching the clause about using reasonable effort to protect a child. They’ve accused you of looking the other way on the playground at times when children were being bullied by Cricket, suggest that you’ve intentionally embarrassed Avery, cited an advantage for Cricket having you as her teacher and a disadvantage for Avery. And…they’ve listed incompetence using notes from classroom observations. You’ve been very late posting grades and returning homework, and they’ve suggested that you’re unfit.”

The blow knocks the wind out of me. I grip the arm of the chair to brace myself. “This…this can’t be serious, Christine. This can’t be happening.”

“I wish it wasn’t.” She pauses, weighing something out before speaking again. “If you want to know my opinion, off the record? This has nothing to do with your performance—I have observed your class myself, and I’ve seen none of these behaviors. The grades and homework, as long as they’re in by the quarter, are fine. It’s your first year. I understand.”

“Then why?”

“Because your husband assaulted his son and embarrassed him quite publicly.”

I’m hot and cold and sweating, my heartbeat thumping in my neck. I’m almost too overwhelmed to speak. “He couldn’t press charges—the police said it was self-defense.”

“I’m sure it was. But your husband’s behavior is a reflection on you. I know it’s not fair. But…well, this is thorough, Cass. They’ve been working on this for a while, and I wonder…” Another sigh. This one sparks anger in me because she’s so resigned. She’s not going to fight for me. I can see it all over her. “Well, I just wonder if they’ve been putting this together since the whole thing began with the girls.”

I sit back in the chair hard enough that air puffs out of me from the impact. My eyes focus on nothing. Tears nip the corners. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

“You’ll have a chance to defend yourself in front of the board, but until then, you’ll be suspended. They’ll be in touch with the date and time of your hearing.”

“And what are the odds that the board that put this together is going to acquit me?” I ask, already knowing the answer as I hold up the paper.

When she sighs again , I imagine that I snap and throttle her. “I’m sorry, Cass. I really am. My hands are tied.”

I’m too hurt and angry and devastated to say anything at all. Even if I could speak, the words would be lost. They’d make no difference.

“Is there anything else?” I ask from what sounds like a mile away.

“No. Let me know if you’d like a reference letter, or any leads to neighboring schools, I?—”

“Thank you.” I’m standing up, driving my body like it’s not my own. “I’ll let you know.”

Christine looks concerned when she stands, but I turn for the door. “Cass, I really am sorry?—”

“It’s okay,” I say, even though it’s not. “Thanks, Christine.”

Before she can answer, I’m out the door and hurrying to my classroom. The moment I’m in the hallway, tears flood my vision. I blink them back, but it’s no use—they slide down my cheeks silently. With trembling hands, I start grabbing things and shoving them into my bag, gathering it up and all but running out the door, desperate for solitude. I even leave out the side door so I won’t run into anyone. I can’t explain this to Molly or one of the other teachers, and I don’t want to see Christine again. I’m too humiliated.

When I’ve climbed into my truck and the door is closed, I crumple, folding over the steering wheel, my shoulders wracked with sobs and my heart broken. The loss splits me through the middle, and I spill out. There’s nothing left to hold me together.

I’ve lost my job.

The one thing I’ve worked so hard for.

The only thing that’s truly and only mine.

It’s gone.

Despite doing nothing wrong, my dream is smashed and shattered. And why? Because the wrong kid picked a fight with Cricket. Because Wilder hit the wrong guy.

Because of my husband. Because of my stepdaughter.

Because I gave everything to them, I lost the one thing that’s mine .

I’m crying so hard, I can’t breathe.

I can’t find it in me to be angry with them—we’re all victims of the circumstance. But I chose this. I chose to pretend to be married to him. I chose to take on the roles that have put me here. If I’d chosen differently, I wouldn’t be here.

But here I am.

Bile roils around in my ribs, climbing up my throat. I barely get the door open in time to avoid vomiting in the car, distantly thankful for parking next to a set of bushes between parking spots. The horrible violence of throwing up sobers me, and when I close the door, I’m only sniffling and can breathe again, though my chest feels crushed.

The keys shake in my hand, making it hard to get them in the ignition. A raindrop plinks against the windshield, then another in fat, heavy splats. I just have to get home , I say to hype myself. Just get home and then you can fall apart .

As I pull out of my spot and the sky opens up, I realize that I don’t have all that much time before Wilder and Cricket come home. In this moment, I don’t want to see them—I’m too raw, too frayed. I love them. I will always choose them. But right now, I need to be fucking hurt. I need a minute to acknowledge how fucked the whole thing is. And how I did it to my fucking self.

No one did this to me. It was all me.

Thank God we don’t live far, because I’m crying again when I turn down our street, rain falling in sheets. But when I approach the house, shock halts my tears.

A huge, gunmetal Dodge Ram is parked haphazardly in the driveway. My brows draw together as I sort through everyone I know to figure out whose truck that is.

And then I see him, sitting hunched over in the pouring rain on the front steps of the house.

Trent’s hair is plastered to his face, his eyes hopeful and tortured and wild when he sees me. The fabric of his soaked tee is plastered to his torso, his wet jeans painted on. He stands when I pull into the yard and park—the driveway is occupied with his oblique truck. Before I get out, I fire off a text to Wilder. Surely Trent is harmless. Surely I don’t need to call the police or anything, right? All I’ve got to go on are vibes. And the vibes are off.

I shake off the feeling, leaving everything but the keys and my phone in the truck, running for the front porch.

“What are you doing here?” I shout over the din of rain as I brush past him and under the cover of the porch.

“Where’s Cricket?” he shouts back, climbing the steps to get under the porch with me, leaving me wondering why he was sitting in the rain instead of up here where it’s dry.

But I realize then that he has cracked.

The wildness in his eyes is weighted by a vacant space. Fear climbs up my spine.

“She’s at therapy with Wilder. What do you need?” My voice is calm, easy, fake.

He rakes a hand through his shaggy, dripping hair. “I wanted to say goodbye to her.”

Goodbye? “Are you leaving town?”

Trent shakes his head. “I just don’t know when I’ll see her again.”

Oh my God, is he going to kill himself? “I’m sure you’ll see her soon. I know Wilder’s tough, but if you two just talk?—”

“No! No. It’s not that,” he snaps, his mood shifting again. “I know he thinks I killed Ashley. He’s keeping Cricket from me because he thinks I hurt her mom, but I didn’t. I didn’t do it.”

Something in the way he says it shakes me. In that moment, I believe him.

“I’m going to prove it,” he continues, shifting again to solemnity. “And I just wanted to say goodbye. But she’s not here. Sorry to bother you.”

Trent turns to leave, and I panic, afraid of what he’ll do if he leaves, afraid of what he’ll do if he stays. “Wait!”

He stops on the stairs and looks back.

“They’ll be home soon. Do you want to wait with me out here on the porch?”

He looks off for a moment, but in the end, he shakes his head. “He’ll be pissed I’m here. I thought she’d be with you like she usually is this time of day.”

My stomach turns. He’s been watching us.

“He’ll be okay. Maybe you two can have a real talk.”

Again, he shakes his head. “I get it. I fucking hate him too.”

“But you love Cricket. Do it for her.”

That breaks something in him, his face cracking. “I do love her. But I can’t even fucking see her until I clear my name. So that’s what I’m going to do.” He turns again.

“What do you mean?”

“Tell her I said I love her, would you?”

I rush into the rain behind him. “What do you mean?”

“Just tell her, okay?” he shouts over his shoulder through the noise.

I stop in the yard under the deluge of rain, stuck to the spot from shock and confusion, watching him climb into his truck and back out of the driveway.

And then I call Wilder.