Ava
“Sydney, I got your application, and you’re good to go.” I scroll down my list, making sure I’ve talked to all the students in drama club who want to help with the children’s theater this summer. “Lance, I still need the permission slip from your parents, but other than that, you’re good to go.”
“On it,” Lance says.
“May I help at auditions tomorrow?” Sydney asks, packing up her things.
“I’d love that.” I grin at her. “Are you prepared to deal with a bunch of incredibly hyper and nervous grade-school kids?”
She shrugs. “I wish someone had let me get on stage when I was little. I think it’s cool that they’re getting into it so young.”
Lance sticks around with Sydney as the other students file out. “I can come too,” he says. Then he remembers to look apathetic and shrugs. “I mean, if you needed help, it wouldn’t mess with my plans or anything.”
I grin. Drama club met after school today, but since we’ve already wrapped up the spring Windsor Prep performance, the weekly meeting is more of a planning hour for these last few weeks of the year. “I can always use extra hands on audition days.”
“Miss McKinley?” I look up to see Mr. Mooney sticking his head in the door to my classroom. “May I see you in my office before you leave today?”
My stomach sinks. Being called to the principal’s office isn’t any less terrifying when you’re an adult. “Of course. I’ll be down in about fifteen minutes.”
Mr. Mooney doesn’t even attempt a reassuring smile. Instead, he gives a tight nod and walks away.
“Are you in trouble?” Lance asks.
“Is it about the layoffs?” Sydney asks.
I wave them both off. “You two worry too much. Go ahead and get out of here. I’ll see you at the theater tomorrow.”
They look skeptical but gather their things and leave my classroom. I’m glad when they’re gone, and I no longer have to fight to keep my smile in place.
It’s been a long day at the end of an even longer week. A meeting with Mr. Mooney wasn’t on the agenda, and I can’t imagine it’s likely to make an already tough week any easier.
My phone buzzes, and seeing Jake’s name in the text notification makes something knot in my stomach.
Jake: I’ve missed you this week.
I’ve been avoiding Jake—easy enough to do. The children’s theater is beginning its inevitable takeover of my life, as it does this time every year, and the end-of-the-school-year grading seems never-ending. But now it’s been six days since he walked out of our hotel room. I’m bound to see him when I’m out for girls’ night tonight, and maybe again when Lilly comes to her audition tomorrow. We’ve texted a couple of times, but he’s been busy too. Kathleen had surgery on Sunday and was released from the hospital but needs a little extra help getting around.
Me: I’ve been so busy. If I don’t see you at the bar tonight, I’ll try to catch you tomorrow morning.
I bite my lip and force myself to hit send. I need to see Jake. I need to admit to him that I’m hitting the brakes on Operation Pregnancy . . . at least for now. I’m just not sure how to have that conversation. What will that mean for me and Jake? Will we go back to how we were before? Is that possible or have I ruined everything?
Jake: Oh, you’ll see me tonight. In fact, I might pull you away from the girls. Give me fifteen minutes in my office. I promise you won’t regret it.
A thrill rushes down my spine and my thighs tighten at those words, and I have to squeeze my eyes shut for a beat. Part of me—a very selfish, undersexed part that’s lusted after her best friend for longer than she’ll admit—wants to hold off on telling Jake. I know letting him give me a baby is a capital-B, capital-I Bad Idea, but having him flirt with me and touch me has been nothing short of a fantasy. I don’t want it to end. I know I turn him on, and he’s admitted he’s been attracted to me for a long time, but is that enough? Is either of us willing to give Ava-and-Jake a try without a baby as an excuse?
I type three different replies before I settle on a cryptic We’ll see about that, and tuck my phone back into my purse.
I take my time packing my things, needing the few minutes of alone time before facing Mr. Mooney. Last week, I let my plagiarizer have another chance on his research paper, and even though I’d bet money he had someone write it for him, I couldn’t prove a thing, so I graded it, and everyone but me seemed pretty pleased with that outcome. Today must be a different unhappy student. Or worse, unhappy parents.
Just a day in the life of a private school teacher.
I roll my shoulders back and head to Mr. Mooney’s office, knocking twice on the frame of the open door before poking my head in. “Mr. Mooney?”
He gives me a tight smile from the other side of the desk and waves me in. “Please, Ms. McKinley, have a seat.”
“Thanks,” I say softly. My hackles are up, but I need to assume the best until I know there’s a reason not to.
“As you know,” he begins, “we’ve been having to grapple with some pretty difficult choices with all these layoffs.”