The Player Next Door

I steal a glance out my window at the unlit bungalow and my insides clench. I’ve seen him in passing every day since Saturday’s fire, as we’ve come or gone. Once, he was outside tossing the ball to Cody. I caught his wave of greeting but nothing more. No jog and hop over the fence, no offer of help to paint, no invitation for lasagna.

I guess this is how it’s going to be from now on.

I hate it.

I was downstairs making myself a salad for dinner when I heard the rumble of his old car. I scurried to my window to catch a glimpse of him checking something under his hood. He was dressed in dark-wash jeans and a black button-down. Casual, but more stylish than usual, like he’d put in extra effort.

He looked good. Far better than I look, with my messy bun and ratty, long T-shirt and old shorts that I’ve relegated to “paint wear.”

He left three hours ago and I know where they went. Dover is smaller than Polson Falls and there’s only one steak house. It took me all of ten seconds to find the website. The place looks nice—upscale, cozy. Some may say romantic. They even boasted having their own sommelier. I know there are courses and wine selection and all that, but could they still be eating dinner? Or have they moved on elsewhere?

For drinks on Route Sixty-Six’s patio, perhaps? Or have they skipped that and gone back to her place? What is Shane doing right now?

Peeling his shirt off, probably.

Or unbuckling his jeans.

Or palming his erection.

Maybe he’s already dragging her panties off with his teeth?

God, it’s like I’m back in high school. All those nights of these very same thoughts, tormenting me for most of senior year, no matter how much I told myself I didn’t care about Shane Beckett anymore.

What’s Shane doing with Penelope right now? Are they laughing? Kissing? Screwing? Does he ever think about me?

Closing my eyes, I chant over and over again, “You don’t care … you don’t care …” But I can’t ignore my dread. It bothers me that Shane is with any woman. I cannot believe that the thought of Shane with other women—any woman—is bothering me!

I have regrets.

I wish I’d not been so hung up on the past. I wish I’d said a simple yes to dinner. If I ever get another chance, I’ll say yes. I’ll do things differently.

But for now … “Forget about Shane Beckett,” I say through gritted teeth, annoyed with myself. I should be finishing up prep for tomorrow’s curriculum night with the parents, but I can’t concentrate on anything right now. I take a big gulp of my Shock Top, crank my music, grab the paint roller, and get back to work.

“I remember my first curriculum night.”

Wendy Redwood’s reedy voice pulls my focus from the whiteboard where I’m making last-minute notes to guide tonight’s presentation. I smile. “Were you as nervous as I am now?”

“Yes. Though, they didn’t do these types of nights back when I first started. You know, a hundred years ago.” She strolls in, arms folded across her chest, her usual black pumps clicking across the classroom floor. I noticed earlier that the heel caps have been worn right down. They should be tossed, but Wendy’s limited wardrobe is stocked for comfort—flowy dresses and loose blazers—and I’m guessing the soles of those shoes have long ago molded to her feet. “Stand me up in front of a gymnasium of children any day, but parents?” She mock shudders. “They’re terrifying.”

I laugh, and the simple act relieves the tension in my spine. In less than thirty minutes, this room will be full of them, eager to hear how their children will be enlightened this year and by whom. Thankfully, I won’t have to do all the talking. The rotational-subject teachers will each claim their ten minutes, and they’re seasoned veterans who’ve been doing this for decades. I’ll be the only novice teacher. “I’ll be glad when it’s over.”

“Any last-minute questions? Or concerns? I can pop back in, if you’d like. Of course, that’s assuming Lucy doesn’t say something that requires my swift intervention.” She says this with a resigned sigh, as if she’s assuming Bott—I can’t think of her as Lucy or Mademoiselle Parish—will do something crazy and Wendy has accepted it.

I’ve seen the gamut of principals during my years filtering in and out of various schools as a substitute—the nurturing, the apathetic, the militant, the disengaged, the micromanaging, the politics-player. It’s still early days, but I’m quickly learning that Wendy Redwood is as good as they come. She’s calm and rational. She’s supportive without being overbearing. She expects order, but hasn’t buried us in administrative processes. The stories I’ve heard say she’s the first to have her teachers’ backs when a parent storms the office in a fury, but she can also dance along that tightrope to make the parent feel heard. It’s a bipartisan game that she plays well. The students love her. She greets every child by name and with a warm, genuine smile, and yet they all seem to have a healthy respect for her as the boss. No matter what doubts I’ve had about moving back to Polson Falls, taking Wendy up on this teaching offer was one smart move on my part.