Page 12

Even though I do enjoy the occasional to frequent old fashioned and I was known to dabble with the wacky tobacky a time or two back in college, I’m pretty staunchly anti-drugs these days. A position I waver on one day a year, every year, since I began teaching: back-to-school night.

And for some totally unknown, not at all Lucas-related reason, I’m more nervous this year than ever before.

“Are you sure it looks okay?” I straighten out the piles of the information packets I spent all last night assembling and triple-check to make sure the beginner reader books I bought for each student are placed neatly in front of the name plates on their desks.

“It looks amazing,” Keisha says way too fast.

I throw my hands in the air. “You didn’t even look!”

“I’ve looked a hundred times.” She grabs a cheese cube off of the tray I ordered from the grocery store. “It looks great and you have a cheese tray and juice. They’re going to love it. Do you want to know what my parents are getting?”

“If you say you got the dessert tray I wanted, I’m going to lose my mind.” That thing was like a hundred dollars, and as much as I wanted to impress my parents with my snack options, I couldn’t swing it.

“Emerson, my love, please be so for real.” Her body shakes with laughter, but I don’t see what’s so funny. Back-to-school night is for anxiety, not fun! “My parents are getting a warning.”

“A warning?” My eyebrows scrunch together, and I can feel my forehead wrinkles deepen. Note to self, ask Nora which Petunia Lemon product to use for that.

“A warning. Multiple warnings, actually.” She holds up her hand and begins to tick off her fingers.

“Don’t email me about paint on their clothing.

Don’t call me because you saw an idea for an art project on Pinterest. Don’t reach out because I made your kid read a book about art instead of doing art one day.

I don’t want to hear it. I’m not spending hours of my time answering unnecessary emails. ”

It’s only the second week of school, and I already have an inbox full of emails from parents. I haven’t been able to get through them all, but from what I can tell, they range from sight word concerns and dietary needs to recess updates and carpool line protocol.

“Stop it!” I don’t know if I’m horrified or in awe of her. “Do you really tell them that?”

“Of course I do.” She sits in one of the kindergarten-sized chairs, and it makes her already long legs look even longer.

“I try to be nice about it, but I also remind them that I am the only art teacher for almost five hundred students. It’s my goal to teach their children the skills, technique, and history they need to learn while also making them excited about their craft and proud of their work.

It’s not my job to follow the whims of social media trends or tend to their laundry concerns.

If we get this out of the way now, it makes the year much more enjoyable for all of us. You should try it.”

And throw away years of pushing my feelings to the side in order to avoid any and all conflict? Who does she think I am? Some kind of quitter?

“Forthright and direct communication? Like a professional adult?” I scoff at the idea. “I think I’ll pass.”

“You do you, boo.” She raises her cup of sparkling grape juice and toasts the air in front of her.

“Just don’t come crying to me when you’re stressed and inundated with parent phone calls about how little Johnny came home singing about dinosaurs which is in direct opposition to their religious beliefs. ”

Confide in your friend one time about the kid who was almost pulled out of your class because of a dinosaur lesson and she holds it over your head forever.

“That was one time! And his name wasn’t even Johnny. It was…” I close my eyes, searching the furthest corners of my brain to try and remember. “It’s on the tip of my tongue.”

What was it? He was in my class three years ago, and even though I remember his shaggy brown hair and the red sneakers he wore every day, I can’t for the life of me remember his name.

“Jacob? Johnathon? Jasper?” I list out names. This is going to make me crazy. “Elijah?”

“Lucas!” Keisha, the comedian, shouts.

“Oh god no. Could you imagine?” I laugh at the thought. “What kind of kid is named Lucas anyway? He probably came out of the womb a grumpy, middle-aged man.”

“My mom did say I was grumpy, but I’m pretty sure I was still a baby,” a deep voice says from right behind me. “And the name is growing rapidly in popularity. You’ll probably have quite a few kids named Lucas in a few years. “

My eyes snap open, and I spin around in my chair. My knees crash against my desk, slamming into it with such force that my Stanley cup—which a parent bought for me, no way am I dropping that much money to drink water—tips over and spills all over the packets that were, at one point, stacked nicely.

Of fucking course. I don’t know what it is, but whenever Luke enters my orbit, chaos follows. He’s like my own personal Mercury retrograde.

I snatch my Stanley off of the table and set it on the floor beneath my desk.

“No, no, no!” I grab the packets that managed to stay dry and toss them onto an empty desk before rushing to save the rest from complete destruction. But when I turn around to rescue them, I stop dead in my tracks when I see that Luke has beaten me to the punch.

“Grab a few more paper towels, please.” He glances up from the mess in front of him. “They aren’t too wet, I think we’ll be able to salvage them.”

“We”? Am I part of a we with Luke?

No! This is absolutely not the time to go there.

I bought and set up a printer in my apartment to avoid getting yelled at for hogging the school printer.

I went through two ink cartridges so parents would have all of the paperwork and resources they need for the school year.

I absolutely refuse to let that go to waste.

Keisha runs back into the room waving the blow dryer she uses to dry the water paint art the little kids always get a little too carried away with. “I have a blow dryer!”

I didn’t even realize she left the freaking room! I’m grateful for her quick reflexes, but I’m even more annoyed that the moment Luke appears, the rest of the world seems to fall away. I don’t even want to notice him, let alone be consumed by his presence.

“You’re the best.” I plug it into the extension cord beneath my desk and turn it to low; the warm heat makes quick work of the waterlogged papers.

I try to remain calm, but Luke is too close.

He holds down the papers on my desk while I aim the blow dryer at them.

His cologne invades my personal space, and unbidden memories of our evening together spring to the front of my mind.

His large body bumps into mine as we try to avoid this crisis and sends my body into overdrive.

My brain remembers the bad, but my body can’t seem to forget the good.

The incredible.

“I’m going to go to my room to hang up a few more pictures,” Keisha shouts over the blow dryer, her eyes flickering back and forth between me and Luke. “Are you going to be okay?”

NO!

“Of course. Go.” I wave her away with my free hand. “I’ll bring this back to your room at the end of the night.”

I can tell she doesn’t believe me—which, good! I’m clearly lying through my fucking teeth—but after some hesitation, she nods and goes.

Leaving me alone.

With Luke.

Again.

The gentle whirring of the blow dryer masks the awkward silence as we work in tandem, me drying the papers and Luke placing them beneath the kids’ encyclopedia to keep them flat, until we’re finished. Crisis successfully averted.

I collapse into my desk chair and wipe the beads of sweat from my forehead.

I can only imagine what I look like, but I’m sure the slicked-back ponytail I worked on for much longer than I’d like to admit is completely ruined.

Luke, on the other hand, has never looked more put together.

His thick hair is smoothed back, and he’s wearing a suit that fits him so well it has to be custom.

He tucks his hands into his pockets and shifts on his brown leather derby shoes.

I know I need to thank him, but the words taste like acid rising from the back of my throat.

“Thanks for helping.” I’m being sincere, but even I can hear how false the words ring.

“You’re welcome.” He smirks, a knowing gleam sparkling in his emerald eyes. “How much did you hate saying that?”

I consider lying just to shut him up, but on principle, I try to be as honest as possible.

I’m not saying I don’t lie on occasion, but I save those for hard and important topics, like why I have to leave an event early or the quarterly “sick” day I take.

No way am I staining my soul to protect Lucas “Luke” Miller’s feelings.

“A lot.” I don’t even attempt to soften the blow. “You helped, but it was the least you could do since it was basically your fault to begin with.”

“My fault?” His shocked laughter explodes like a gunshot in the empty room. “How? Because I heard you talking shit about me? Very unprofessional, by the way.”

“Oh please! Your entire career is basically glorified shit-talking.” I lean back in my chair and cross my legs, hoping I look much less bothered than I feel. “And if you would’ve arrived on time like a normal parent, you would’ve never heard my tiny little joke at your expense.”

He shrugs, completely—and irritatingly—unfazed by me. “Fifteen minutes early is on time and on time is late.”

“Yuck. Don’t quote Lombardi to me.” I stick my tongue out like I’m gagging. “Number one, I’m not your employee, so that doesn’t apply to me. Number two, no Pack no. We don’t do Packer references in this classroom.”

Also, that’s a stupid rule. I’m sure this is what the internet would call a hot take, but I think showing up thirty minutes early is light-years ruder than arriving thirty minutes late.

I don’t need the pressure of trying to guess when someone is going to show up.

If I tell you a time, that’s the time. But I’m not surprised that the Sir Knows-It-All standing in front of me would go by his own rules.

“I thought you said you didn’t do sports,” he says, missing—or more likely ignoring—my point.

I don’t know what pisses me off more: the willful obtuseness leaving his gorgeous mouth, him forcing me to think about the time we spent in that hotel room, or even worse, knowing that he still remembers everything…even the offhand comment I made before things went up in flames.

“I never said I didn’t do sports. I love sports. What I said was I hoped you weren’t a sportswriter, because sports people annoy me.” I should stop there. A mature person would stop there. “Even though it seems like you can accomplish that anyway.”

I can’t help it. He brings out the worst in me.

“Oh.” He nods slowly, and I can see the wheels turning in his mind. Like I’m a puzzle he’s determined to put together. “Then what’s your problem with the Packers?”

“Dear lord.” I throw my head back and groan. I guess persistence and an all-around sense of nosiness is a professional hazard of being a journalist, I just never realized how irritating that could be until now. “I thought you didn’t like me. Why do you care?”

“I was just making conversation.” He raises his hands in front of his chest like he’s warding off a wild animal, which only serves to piss me off that much more. “I didn’t realize the Packers would be such a sensitive subject.”

“It’s not,” I snap, using one of my precious lies because it absolutely is a sensitive subject.

I’m sure this conversation would already be over if I just told him my dad was a Bears fan, and call me stubborn if you want, but I’ve already given this man so much.

I refuse to give him another piece of me, no matter how small it may seem.

“I just don’t understand why you think anything personal should be up for discussion.

I’m your daughter’s teacher, not your friend. ”

Not to mention the fact that he’s made it abundantly clear that he doesn’t like, respect, or trust me. Why he would think I’d open up to him is beyond me.

“You’re right.” He steps away, his voice gentle—maybe even apologetic—and his eyes more puppy dog than infuriating sex god. “Sorry for asking.”

Just as fast as the anger came, it goes.

An unwelcome rush of guilt hits me like a freight train.

He didn’t know he was stepping into the dead dad danger zone, and I guess if I’m going to demand a professional relationship from him, I should probably not call him annoying (to his face) and snap at him every time he focuses his stupid, sexy AF eyes on me.

This would be so much easier if he was a monster who was terrible in bed.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, bracing for the searing pain that comes from apologizing to someone you hate. But before I can even exhale, the classroom door swings open and another two parents arrive.

Oh no.

How disappointing.

“Welcome!” I greet the couple with what some might consider too much enthusiasm. I recognize the woman, but this is my first time seeing the man she’s with. “So nice to see you again, Mrs. Anderson. Thank you for coming tonight.”

She introduces me to her husband, who happens to be the spitting image of their son, and I show them around the classroom.

I walk them through the different stations set up in the room, point out the reading corner and explain the different sections of books based on reading levels, and show them to Ethan’s desk.

And I do it all with a smile, ignoring the searing pain as the green eyes I’ve spent weeks dreaming about burn a hole into the back of my head.

I guess I’ll just have to apologize another time…or never.

Whichever comes last.