Chapter 4
Josh
“And one last signature here.” Linda, an administrative assistant at Braemore Middle School, points to the dotted line at the bottom of the page with her pen. I sign my messy signature and hand the paperwork back to her. There had been a lot of forms. More than I’d ever had to complete before starting a new job. Maybe it’s because I’m coming from out of state.
Linda had been helpful and friendly as she walked me through the mountain of papers. I give her a warm smile. The first rule of starting at a new school is to always make friends with the admin assistants. My ass has been saved more times than I can count by those heroes without capes.
“I didn’t actually read any of those,” I tell her, laying on the charm. “Am I property of the school now?”
She shakes with laughter, making her glasses slide down her nose. She’s a sweet lady in her late fifties. Her desk has framed photographs of six different kids of various ages. I guessed that they were her grandchildren and told her they were beautiful. I’ve found the quickest way to a middle-aged woman’s heart is to compliment her grandbabies, and Linda confirmed my theory. She beamed with pride and proceeded to tell me their names and ages. She strikes me as the fun grandma. One who bakes with her grandkids and lets them destroy her living room, making pillow forts because she knows they’re only young once. I had one of those and she meant the world to me. When I told Linda she looked far too young to be a grandmother, the high-pitched giggle let me know I had won her over. “You’re all set, Josh. We will see you first thing Monday morning.”
I thank her profusely and start to leave.
“Oh! I almost forgot,” she calls after me. “Your criminal record check came back clean.”
“Well, that’s a huge relief.” I grin at her, and she laughs as she waves goodbye.
I walk down the bright hallways, taking in my surroundings. It’s much nicer than my last school and I’m excited to get started. It’s a large school with nearly six hundred students. The school itself was built in the eighties, but it’s been completely renovated. Bright blue lockers sit against white brick walls. A huge “Welcome Back Broncos!” banner hangs from the ceiling. The school year doesn’t start until next week, but there are several teachers and staff around. I nod politely to the ones who look busy and introduce myself to the ones who are relaxed and smiling.
One of those smiling faces turns out to be the other PE teacher, Frankie. She gives me a surprisingly hearty handshake. For a woman who barely clears five feet, she’s got a strong grip. She offers to show me around and I take her up on it happily. I’d had a tour when I interviewed for the position a few months ago, but Frankie’s version is much better. While walking me through the school, she tells me what’s edible in the cafeteria and what should be avoided at all costs. She also gives me the lowdown on which teachers are cool and which are pains in the ass. I learn she has a wife named Abby and they have a toddler named Oscar.
“And this gorgeous mutt is Bark Ruffalo.” She shows me a picture of a shaggy dog on her phone.
“Well, I’ll be damned.” I laugh, staring at the picture on her screen. “He looks exactly like Mark Ruffalo.”
“Thank you!” she says, clearly pleased that I see the resemblance. “Abby wanted to call him Thor, and I was like baby girl, you’ve got the wrong Avenger.”
By the time she walks me to the main entrance, we’ve exchanged phone numbers, and she’s invited me for dinner with her family later in the week. I officially know more about her than anyone I’ve ever taught with.
The school is a twenty-minute drive from my apartment, but I notice there’s a train station a couple of blocks away. I make a mental note to look into the schedule. I hate sitting in traffic and would be happy to support public transit. I wonder how Betty gets to and from work.
Betty. My reaction to seeing her caught me off guard. My breath had actually caught in my throat. In my head I always picture her as a smart-ass fifteen-year-old fresh out of braces, but that was not who was standing in the doorway. She was wearing a fitted button-up white collared shirt and a gray pencil skirt that hugged her hips. A few strands of hair had escaped her ponytail and were framing her face. I honestly don’t know what I was expecting, but it was not the shapely, wide-eyed beauty that appeared before me.
I could hardly take my eyes off her the entire time I was in her apartment. When she walked into her kitchen, I knew I was in trouble. If I thought her skirt looked good from the front, it was a goddamn miracle from the back. I realize I haven’t seen much of her in the past decade, but when did all this happen?
You look incredible. That’s what I’d said to her. I could have said “good” or even “great,” but I’d gone with “incredible.” And I’d meant it.
It had been so great seeing her, and not just because I’d enjoyed the view. I’d forgotten how easy she was to be around. Effortless, even. It felt like picking up where we left off in high school. Except now we’re both single and I’m suddenly aware of what an attractive woman she is.
I stop at a grocery store and grab enough food to get me through the next few days. I also get a ready-made deli chicken sandwich and chocolate milk for lunch. I’ve been living on trail mix and granola bars since Sunday, and I need to put some real food in my body. The store is busy and seems overpriced. I’m really looking forward to getting my neighborhood tour this weekend. And, if I’m honest, to seeing my tour guide again.
You need to stop, I tell myself. I’m on my own for the first time in my life. I finally get the chance to be completely selfish and do what I want. Lusting after my sister’s best friend is not part of the plan. No matter how much her eyes remind me of emeralds or how great she fills out a skirt.
I get back to the apartment just before 2:00 p.m. and decide to go for a run. Between the drive here on Sunday and the unpacking yesterday, my body is tight and wants to move. After a quick change, I hit the pavement, pick a direction, and take off. I usually run three times a week, if not more. Running is my therapy. It helps me process the feelings I find too big to feel and work through the problems that I don’t know how to solve.
During those last few months living with Eleanor, I was running almost every day. It’s not that we were fighting all the time, in fact, we almost never fought. Every time she looked disappointed in me, every passive-aggressive comment she threw my way, every eye roll when I tried to tell her how I felt, it all kept adding up until I couldn’t take it any longer. I told her I didn’t want to be with her anymore. She’d seemed more inconvenienced than sad. What was she going to tell her friends? How would she explain this to her parents? Who was she going to take to her cousin’s wedding in the fall? She wasn’t heartbroken that I was leaving her, she was upset that I had fucked up her carefully laid plans. I packed my things that night and moved into my friend Trevor’s guest room.
I hit my stride around the three-mile mark. The early September sun beats down on me, but there is a steady breeze that keeps me from overheating. I don’t need to know where I’m going, as long as I can figure out how to make it home. My body feels loose and limber. I’ve released more tension on this run than I could have with an expensive sports therapy massage. I’ve never run with music, preferring to listen to the sounds around me. The breath leaving my lungs. The beat of my heart as it works overtime to keep up with me. My feet as they hit the pavement over and over again. The rhythm of the run.
When I finally drag myself up the stairs to my floor, I feel great.Thank you, endorphins.Once inside my apartment, I inhale a bowl of granola over yogurt. Leaving the bowl and spoon on the kitchen table, I strip my clothes off on my way to the bathroom, the sweaty clothes falling behind me, and take my second shower of the day. I stay in there long after I’m clean, letting the warm waterfall beat down on me. I dry myself off and leave my wet towel on the floor, just because I can. The apartment is quiet except for the faint sounds of the cars outside. I crawl into my unmade bed naked for an impromptu afternoon nap.
I think I’m going to like living alone just fine.
Chapter 5
Betty
“If he thought you looked incredible before, wait until I’m done with you,” Maggie says, as she skillfully threads my eyebrows.
