Page 33 of What He Doesn't Know

Charlie didn’t show on Tuesday.

I ate lunch alone that day, staring at the text I’d sent her and wondering how crazy it would be to show up on her doorstep with soup and a get well soon balloon. She never got sick, right? Maybe I could say the thoughtful gifts were from the entire faculty.

When her classroom was void of her again Wednesday, I nearly tore my hair out from frustration. I was driving myself crazy with the possibility of what might be going through her head, even though I technically didn’t know for sure anything even was. She was probably just sick. She was probably just resting and doing everything she could to get better, to get back to her kids. That was the kind of teacher she was.

It’s not always about you, I chastised myself as I left Westchester that afternoon. It was classic me to be so self-absorbed that I would make her illness about our night together. I spent that evening doing everything I could to push it out of my mind, blaring Arvo Part’sDa Pacemas loudly as I could as I finally unpacked the boxes littering my house. When my belongings were partly organized and I’d built up a sweat working around the house, I felt marginally better, settling in for a smoke by my sliding glass door as my thoughts calmed.

She was just sick. Everything was fine.

I called Blake to catch up, feeling guilty that it had taken me so long to get back in touch after ending our call so abruptly Friday night. But Blake was busy, too, and long conversations on the phone never were our thing. We talked for a long while, longer than we had since I left, before I finally felt tired enough to sleep, toactuallysleep.

And finally, on Thursday morning, Charlie was back at Westchester.

A sigh of relief found me when I leaned against the door frame of her classroom and saw her standing there, back to me, dark hair smoothed into a high bun. She was writing the day’s agenda on the white board, and for a moment I just watched her, checking her profile for signs of weariness. Her eyes were bright, a small smile etched onto her face, and her cheeks held more color than I’d seen in all the other mornings since I’d been at Westchester.

“She’s alive,” I said in my best Dr. Frankenstein voice. I slipped my hands into my pockets as Charlie smiled, her eyes still on the board. “Welcome back, Tadpole.”

“Thank you.”

Her voice was soft, but not hoarse, and she didn’t turn to look at me as she continued writing.

“Feeling better?”

“Much,” she said. “Just needed a bit of rest, I suppose.”

“Did you have the flu?”

Charlie capped the marker she’d been writing with, turning to me then with a worried expression.

I saw it then, the lie, the one she’d been able to pull off until the moment her eyes met mine.

I’d always been able to tell when she was lying. Her eyes gave her away, the gentle crease of her forehead above her brows, the way her pupils dilated quickly as she moved them around the room.

“No, just a cold, I think.”

I nodded.

Westchester was particularly quiet that morning, and the silence surrounded us like a dark, wet blanket, suffocating in its heaviness. Charlie cleared her throat, clasping her hands together at her waist, and I glanced down the hallway before moving into her classroom.

“You sure you’re okay?”

Her eyes widened as I moved into her space, and she took a step back, her hip hitting the silver ledge under the white board. “I’m fine.”

“You’re fine,” I repeated, moving in closer.

She was doing everything not to look at me — picking at lint on her skirt, moving markers around under the white board, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“You’re sure you were sick, that this has nothing to do with Friday night?”

“I was sick,” she insisted, but her breath caught when my hand reached forward for her elbow. I held it softly, just enough to let her feel me as I stared down at her, willing her to return my gaze.

“Don’t lie to me.”

Her eyes fluttered, closing as a long exhale left her chest. Her tiny, cold hand wrapped around my wrist that held her, and she pulled me away. “Reese…”

“Charlie.”

And there it was, thereshewas, the girl I’d spent hours with on Friday night. Her eyes were wide and soft when she opened them again, the chocolate irises taking on a golden hue as they traveled their way up my chest, over my face, finally falling on my own eyes. She swallowed.