Trust (Wrong 3)

“His name isn’t Cal.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“The guy you came here with is not named Cal,” he repeats.

I mull that over for a second. Maybe I should just cross ‘learn how to date’ off my to-do list without completing it.

“And if you didn’t notice, he ditched you.”

“Ditched me?”

“He saw stadium security headed towards him while you were still sitting in the stands. I assume he told you he was going to grab a beer and he’d be right back?”

I blow out a breath. “Not beer, cheesesteaks.”

“How did you meet him?”

“Dating website.”

“Yeah.” He shakes his head. “You gotta be careful on those things.”

“You think?” I retort.

He smiles at my sarcasm. “How long have you known him, Miss Scott?”

“This is our second date. I don’t really know him that well. Obviously. He’s a firefighter, said he got these tickets from a guy at work.”

Agent Gallagher tilts his head at me, saying nothing.

Oh. “Not a firefighter either. Got it.” I shake my head and avert my eyes to the ceiling for a second to collect myself. “So why am I here anyway? Are you investigating tragically bad dates?”

“The tickets,” he says, tapping his index finger on the table next to the offending tickets, “are counterfeit.” He pauses before continuing. “There’s a lot more to it than that, but all I can tell you is that your date has been taken into custody.”

I nod. I cannot catch a break. Also, this is humiliating. Why does this agent guy have to be so hot? I’m all flustered. If this happened to Everly she’d end up with a date. I’ll be lucky not to end up in jail.

“Where’d he take you on the first date?” Agent Gallagher asks. He’s tapping the pen against his lip, watching me.

“We met for coffee. I never let guys pick me up the first time I meet them. They could be criminals, you know?” I ask, then realize it’s a stupid rhetorical question since I’m on a date with a criminal. Allegedly.

He nods. “Sure.”

“So I met him at this great little coffee place. Really good coffee, by the way. Close to my apartment, but not too close. Super cute…” I trail off, frowning.

“What is it?”

“I met him at Mugshots. That coffee place on Fairmount? That’s where we went for our first date. A place called Mugshots.” I slap my palm against my forehead. “Fitting for my first date with a criminal. It’s me. I attract weirdos. He seemed nice, you know?” I say, picking up steam. “You don’t know what it’s like out there. Cal seemed nice! He didn’t even send me any POD’s, which is more than I can say for most of the guys I meet online. I obviously have no business dating if I think the criminals seem nice. I’ve been watching crime TV for a decade and I’ve learned nothing. Nothing!”

“What’s a POD?”

“Um…” Oh, shit. “Never mind,” I say, waving my hand. “It’s not important.”

“Miss Scott,” he says slowly, his face unreadable, his eyes intense. They’re brown, but with all this depth. Flecks of gold and green that draw you in while still being enigmatic at the same time. I don’t think I could lie to him, even if I had any talent at lying. “What is a POD?”

I blow out a huge breath and glance away. I am never repeating this story to Everly. “It’s a dick pic.” I dart a glance back to Agent Gallagher. “Guys send them all the time. It’s so stupid.” I roll my eyes. “I don’t know why guys do that. Why do they do that?” I don’t wait for a response. “My friend just started calling them POD’s—Proof of Dick. She thinks it’s classier or something, but I think she just wants to invent a new phrase. So yeah,” I finish in a rush and shrug. “Sorry.”

He stares at me for another moment, not saying anything, before he sits up and drags the notepad closer and starts writing again. He’s probably making a note about dick pics in my file. Wait, do I have a file? I can’t have a file, I’m a teacher, not a criminal. Anyway, I wish he would stop writing. No one needs a mention of POD’s in his official report.

He asks me a few more questions, then tells me to sit tight while he verifies my information so he can release me.

Another half-hour later he returns and motions for me to follow him. “I think we’re done here,” he says. “Do you need help getting home?”

“No.” I shake my head. “I’ll catch a cab.”

I’m not sure he’s going to say anything else, but then he kinda smirks at me and says, “Be careful with the internet dating,” before he walks away.

Um, thanks.

Four

Chloe

“Bye, Miss Scott!” The last of my students waves and bounds down the sidewalk to one of the buses idling at the curb. I wave back, a genuine smile on my face. These kids are the best part of my day, always.

I’ve known I wanted to be a teacher since I was a kid. School was my happy place, my constant no matter what was going on at home. My teachers supported me with kind words and patience and made me feel needed. I couldn’t wait to grow up and be just like them.

I head back inside to straighten up my classroom before I head to the hospital. Sophie and Luke’s daughter was born yesterday afternoon—Christine Caitlin Miller, weighing in at seven pounds, four ounces. Luke sent us a group text shortly after, a picture of a bundled Christine held by a beaming Sophie.

I sit at my desk and jot down notes from the day, reminders to myself on the kids who are struggling with one topic or another. I take notes where the children are excelling as well. Parent-teacher conferences will be here before I know it, and I want to have good feedback for each parent. But more than that, I want to ensure every child in my classroom is getting what they need from me.

An hour later I’m walking into Baldwin Memorial Hospital, headed for the maternity floor. I know you’re not supposed to like hospitals, but I always have. I think it’s the activity. There are so many people in a hospital, like a small city filled with people working together to heal people. Some people might think sadness lingers in hospitals, but I’ve always thought the promise of hope is what lingers. People get fixed in hospitals. Bones set, wounds stitched. And brand-new human beings come into the world here, every single day.