“That’s what we need.” He hurries to add, “Oh, and a girls’ basketball coach. It would be ideal if you could do both.”
“I haven’t played basketball since high school,” I tell him. “I’m not sure I’d be any good at coaching.”
“But you know the game. That’s a great start.”
A thousand thoughts start to spin around in my head. Focusing on the predominate one, I tell him, “I don’t know if I’m going to stay in Elk Lake.”
“It’s a substitute job, not a permanent one. Even if you leave before the year is out, something is better than nothing.”
I suppose he’s got a point. “I don’t know …”
“Why don’t you just go in and meet with Mr. Cooke and get more information.”
“Mr. Cooke is still there?” I shouldn’t be surprised. Things never seem to change in Elk Lake.
“He’s still there,” he assures me. I hem and haw for another minute, before he asks, “Should I tell Mr. Cooke you’ll call him?”
Forgetting my pledge to stay away from Noah, I agree. “Sure. I’ll call tomorrow.”
“Great!” His tone is full of excitement, which I find oddly invigorating. “I’ll let him know, and thanks again for mailing Lorelai’s sweater.”
“No problem.”
We’re both silent for long enough that it starts to feel weird. “Thank you for thinking about me,” I tell him.
“You bet. If you have time, stop by the gym and say hi. I spend most of my time there.” He hangs up before I can say anything else.
The thought of seeing Noah at the school we last attended together breathes life into a slew of old feelings. Butterflies invade my stomach as I envision freshman me following senior him through the halls like a starving wanderer in pursuit of a bacon double cheeseburger. I would stay after basketball practice to sit in the bleachers to watch the varsity team scrimmage. Then there was stalking his locker with a pathetic zeal like just laying eyes on him could solve all the world’s problems. At the very least, all of mine.
Oh brother, this is not good.I don’t want a man in my life. Not now, maybe not ever. Having said that, Noah didn’t sound the least bit flirtatious. He probably isn’t even interested in me in that way. And while I should be relieved, I find I’m oddly annoyed.
I can understand why he wasn’t interested in me when I was fourteen and he was almost eighteen, but the age gap isn’t thesame as it once was. Three years is nothing when you’re an adult. That’s when an awful thought hits me. What if Noah’s not interested because I’m divorced? I’d be royally ticked off if that was the case. Not only do people get divorced all the time, but the separation wasn’t even my fault. If it were up to me, I’d still be in what I mistakenly thought was a happy marriage. Heck, if I had the control, I’d be a mother, too.
I hate that Noah Riley is causing me to feel so much turmoil. I remind myself that I’m not interested in him, and he’s not interested in me. I should just be happy and move on. But the truth is that Brett left me feeling so rejected that any small feeling of dismissal is amplified to a ridiculous degree.
After several more minutes of trying to settle my inner unrest, I’m half tempted to find my mom and tell her about the teaching job. I know she’d probably see it as a step up from working the counter at Rosemary’s, but I still don’t see her being excited.
After a few more minutes of swinging, I finally get up and put my walking shoes on. I need to think, which means I need to move. I’ve clocked so many miles since Brett left me that I’ve gone through three pairs of tennis shoes in under a year. The upside is my legs have never looked better.
After going into the house, I stop off in my room and grab a jacket. Then I head out the front door and walk down the street with purpose. I don’t have a plan for where I’m going, so imagine my surprise when twenty minutes later I find myself in the park across from the high school.
I quickly cross toward the swing set before taking a seat. I don’t know what it is about me and swinging, but I’ve been doing a lot of it lately. I suppose I like the feeling of being in controlled motion. Back and forth, up and down, on repeat. No wild dips or dives like the trajectory my previous existence seemed to be on.
I stare at the entrance of the high school for what feels like hours but I’m sure it is only a few minutes. Even though I walked through those double doors more times than I can count, they look strangely foreign to me.
I would probably keep sitting here except for a young mother who shows up with a toddler. She puts her daughter in the infant swing near me, and my anxiety starts to build like an active volcano getting ready to blow.
I was once a person who loved babies, but not anymore. It used to be that I couldn’t get enough of their soft chubbiness and endless cooing. I loved watching them chew on their fat little fists while drooling down their arms. I was enchanted with everything about children. Now they’re nothing but a reminder of what I’m missing out on. I’m not over my miscarriages, and I’m not sure I ever will be.
Standing up, I do my best not to make eye contact with the mother. I’d probably burst into tears if she said anything to me.
I high-tail it across the street to escape only to find myself standing in front of the high school. I hadn’t planned on going in, but before I know it, my hand stretches out like a reflex from the past. After taking two steps inside, I stop dead in my tracks and look around.
“May I help you?” a middle-aged woman wearing a green pantsuit asks. Her gray hair is short and nondescript, but there’s nothing unexceptional about her brilliant blue eyes. I’d know those anywhere.
“Mrs. Hawthorne?” I ask, taking a step closer to her.
She smiles brightly as she tips her head back, probably to get a better look at me through her bifocals. “Do I know you, dear?”
