He knocked softly.
“Just a moment,” she called out.
Then, from the window, he watched a long-fingered, capable hand gather those shoes. After a moment, a black-clad arm reached for her jacket. Another few moments, and the tap of her heels came toward him.
He shouldn’t be disappointed. He really shouldn’t.
She opened the door and seemed unsurprised at the sight of him.
“Come in, Mr. Krause.” She clicked back to her desk with all due speed, but her descent into her desk chair lacked a soupçon of her usual grace. It was a revealing hitch, although it didn’t tell him anything her enormous trough of coffee that morning hadn’t.
“Just dropping off handouts for tomorrow.” He entered the room, leaving the door cracked behind him. “You’re tired too, huh?”
She’d placed an intricately pierced ceramic lamp, like one he might choose for his nightstand, on the corner of her desk. The light, warmer than the fluorescents overhead, gilded the smooth curve of her hair and cast a glowing, dappled circle on the floor. Her long fingers sorted through student papers one by one, each motion precise and beautiful.
He could have watched her forever.
“Not especially,” she murmured.
Such a liar. A good one. No tells that he could ascertain.
For some reason, he didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He just followed her movements as she sorted, then typed, then jotted a few notes to herself on a sticky pad. When she finally lifted her eyes to him again, he blinked like a man awakened from a trance.
Her lips, now pale and dry, thinned. “You need sleep. Go home and go to bed.”
She was right, but he didn’t move. Couldn’t move.
“How did your classes go today?” he asked.
“They were fine.” She closed her eyes for a brief moment, her lashes a sweep of darkness. “If you’re not going to get home to your daughter and rest, at least sit down, Mr. Krause. Before you collapse.”
The same student chair as earlier was calling his name, so he dropped into it with a sigh. “I know you’re teaching all U.S. history this year, including AP, but I don’t know how many of each prep.”
He looked down at himself, listening to his own words—emerging, somehow, from his own mouth—with mingled awe and horror.
Had he truly just sat down in her classroom again? While she was trying to work? And he really just inquired about her schedule? Him, Mute Boy?
She wanted him gone. He didn’t make idle conversation, especially with people who wanted him gone. So what the hell was Old Sobersides doing? Did he crave another of her smiles that badly?
She rested her elbows on her desk. “I’m teaching two periods of Regular U.S. History and three periods of AP U.S. History.”
He leaned forward, astonished. “Three periods? How many students are in each class?”
“Right now, around thirty. But that number will drop a bit, as some of the kids flee from all the homework.” She lifted a hand toward her forehead, then dropped it back to the desk. “Which might be for the best, since we don’t have enough textbooks for everyone.”
He had no explanation for those numbers. None.
“But how is that possible? I only have two periods of AP World, and those classes aren’t even completely full.” His mouth was open and fish-like, but he couldn’t help it. “How in the world did you attract that many kids to your AP classes?”
She met his gaze directly, those dark-amber eyes solemn but not bitter. “Until recently, I taught two periods of Honors World History every year.”
Now his own eyes closed for a moment, as everything coalesced in his beleaguered brain.
“And those kids followed you to AP,” he finished for her. “Shit. Shit, Rose. I’m sorry.”
He wasn’t just fucking with her schedule this year. His presence would change what and whom she taught next year, and possibly for years to come.
She lifted a shoulder in a fluid shrug. “It’s fine.”
Oh, God, that meeting of AP teachers last week. “The funding for AP programs will drop if our numbers drop. Which they will, since you’re not attracting the Honors World History kids to AP U.S.”
She didn’t deny it. “Only if they drop too much. I’m brainstorming different ways to recruit those kids to my AP classes.”
“That’s not solely your responsibility. I’m part of the AP program too, and it’s my arrival that caused this whole problem.” He dropped his chin to his chest, distress shortening his breath. “When my brain is functioning more effectively, I’ll come up with some strategies to fix this and run them past you. Rose, I’m so sorry. But I’ll come up with something good. I promise.”
God, she had to hate him. She must be furious.
But when he forced himself to look up, to face her anger, she didn’t look angry at all. Instead, she was holding up a hand, palm forward.
“Martin.” Her voice was low. Soothing. “It’s okay. None of this is your fault. You didn’t choose your preps. And no matter what happens, everything will be fine.”
Her gaze was as soft and warm as a quilt fresh from the dryer. The kind he’d once swaddled Bea with when she was sick, or when she’d been outside too long in the snow. Back when Bea needed him.
But for Christ’s sake, why was Rose comforting him?
Pansy, he could hear his father spit. Boy’s got no spine. Look at him snivel.
No. He wouldn’t listen.
He’d spent too many years erasing that voice with better, kinder, more truthful ones. The voice of his therapist. His daughter. His oldest friends. His students, as they hugged him after graduation and thanked him for caring. His ex-wife, once upon a time.
He breathed as he’d been taught, and his father abruptly went silent.
But he still had no idea how Rose, a woman and colleague he barely knew, could bring back that old panic. That old fear that he’d disappointed and angered someone powerful in his life. Someone important. Someone he—
He needed to go. Now.
When he stood abruptly, her hand fell to her desk.
“Sorry again.” With an effort, he kept his voice steady. “I’ll make this right somehow. But for now, I’d better get home to Bea, just like you said.”
He left her sitting there in her classroom, a halo of golden light surrounding her like a nimbus as she wordlessly watched him go. Then he hustled to the parking lot as fast as he could, the dogs of his past growling and lunging for his heels with every step.
Five
When Rose entered the department office, Martin didn’t turn her way. Instead, he kept speaking into the clunky office phone, his voice hoarse but impassioned.
“Kevin, I know you have a lot of things going on right now. But I promise you, dropping out now won’t help you get where you want to—” Martin paused and rubbed his eyes with his free hand. “I’m so sorry she’s sick. Why don’t we discuss your options with the guidance counselor? If Marysburg High doesn’t work for you, there are alternative sch—”
This time, he went silent for a while as he listened to the agitated voice on the phone.
Rose closed the door quietly behind herself, so quietly she wasn’t sure he even heard her.