The Player Next Door

Yes, I remember what you did all those years ago, I want to say.

Yes, I could have gotten you into hot water had I reported it. I probably still could.

Does she feel guilty?

I steal a glance at her necklace and the beaded eye staring back at me. She used to stand in front of the class and claim she was “all-seeing” as she toyed with that thing between her lengthy fingernails. Students called it her witch eye.

Did it see Mr. Bott banging the soccer mom?

She makes an odd hissing sound between her teeth. “You look like your mother.” I note a distinct edge in her tone, one fortified with distaste. “Time will tell,” she mutters under her breath, so low that I barely catch it. She turns on her sandaled heel and strolls out of the staff room, her lunch bag dangling from her fingers, her lips moving unintelligibly.

“Okay, that was weird. Even for her.” Becca grimaces. “What did she say, at the end?”

I never uttered a word to anyone about that exchange with Madame Bott all those years ago, and there’s no point doing it now. “Nothing new.” It’s just another line item on the long list of shit I’ve dealt with for being Dottie Reed’s offspring. What’s jarring is that I forgot what this felt like—being judged for my mother’s sins, and by people who should focus more on their own mistakes. I forgot what it felt like to have someone look at you and ponder if the clichéd apple-and-tree metaphor was accurate.

I sigh, hoping the act will shed the uncomfortable cloak that comes with that old identity. If I let it get to me, I’ll start regretting moving back to Polson Falls.

No, some things haven’t changed at all.

Shane’s front door creaks open as I’m hauling cans of paint from my trunk. My attention veers to his porch before I can stop myself, and my stomach flips with a nervous flutter at the prospect of seeing him.

But it’s Cody who trots down the steps, a football tucked under his spindly arm. When he spots me by my car, his brow furrows first with recognition, and then surprise. It’s still surreal to me that Shane has an eleven-year-old son.

My arms are weighed down by paint supplies, so I offer Cody a smile and nod.

He responds with a half wave.

Shane emerges a moment later, and my stomach does a second nervous flip. He hasn’t shaved yet, his face still scruffy. I intentionally avoided peeping into his bedroom window last night, but I assume he showered.

“That’s my new teacher,” I hear Cody say in his boyish voice.

“Oh yeah?” Shane’s gaze touches mine for a moment before it drops to scan the paint cans in my hands. “What’s her name again?”

I stifle a snort. He’s playing dumb. How cute.

“Ms. Reed.”

“Don’t you think we should go over and help Ms. Reed?”

“But you said we’d play—”

Shane snatches the football from his son’s impatient grasp and trudges toward me. “Hey, there!”

Cody lingers behind, kicking a loose stone with his sneaker, reluctant to follow.

“Go long!” Shane hollers over his shoulder.

That seems to perk the boy’s spirits. He takes off, his skinny legs pumping fast as he tears across the sizable front lawn. That’s the great thing about our houses—deep lots. He reaches the other side of their yard just as Shane stops next to me, balancing the pigskin between the tips of his fingers. I forgot how big his hands are.

“Heard you had a good first day.” His deep voice is melodic and soothing.

I inhale the delicious scent of bergamot—yes, he showered. “Cody said that?”

“Maybe not in so many words.” He smirks. “But his grunts were definitely happy grunts.”

I chuckle as I consider my day. Yes, the teaching part went off without a hitch, despite the stale air and oppressive heat in the classroom. “Did you know Bott is still teaching there?”

“Yeah, Cody asked to move schools before eighth grade.” Shane shudders. “That woman freaked me out when I was a kid.”

“She still freaks me out.”

He crooks his neck to check the label, and I admire the hard lines of his jaw. “What are you painting now?”

“The kitchen.”

“White?”

“Yeah. I figured that’ll give it a fresh look, and maybe I’ll resist burning it down before I can afford to renovate.”

He winces.

“Oh, sorry. Should I not joke about things like that with a firefighter?”

“Not if you’re being serious.”

I laugh. “I’m not. I love my house. Old, rotted pipes, creepy basement, and all.”

“Good. Because I’ve seen people do some crazy shit for insurance claims.”

“Even in Polson?”

“Especially in Polson. What about those?” He juts a chin toward the three other gallon cans in my trunk.

I sigh, dreading the upcoming task. “Those are for the bedroom.” And the sooner I finish, the sooner I can hang my curtains and artwork. There’s something about waking in chaos every day that leaves me feeling … well, chaotic.