“Oh, he’s a daddy?” Marvin asks.
I wince because, well, Kent Lester is the definition of a daddy. The thought of him holding me close, his soft body embracing every inch of me, fills my mind.
“He’s Jewish,” I say, attempting to change the subject.
“Oh, a jaddy?” Marvin says, his eyebrows dancing. “Nicely done.”
“He’s older. Yes, but he’s, well, not that much older.”
“We all have preferences.” Olan pulls chairs out for Marvin and me. “As long as nobody’s getting hurt, there’s nothing wrong with that.”
“And what happened at your last school, it won’t happen—” Marvin says, but I interrupt.
“It might. I missed the meeting. They made the wrong decision. It was my fault,” I say, reminding myself how horribly the rollout at River Elementary went. Because of me. Wash. Scrub. Rinse. Repeat.
“Vincent.” Marvin places his hand on my forearm, my sweater shielding skin-to-skin contact. “This is a new school. A new project. A new principal. A sweet, sexy one.”
“Yes. One that is all wrong for me.” I dish extra macaroni and cheese onto my plate. The cheese stretches from the serving spoon, and I pause to prevent any from getting on the table.
“You hate your job anyway. Maybe getting canned would be a blessing. Bang the principal and make it happen.”
“I don’t hate it.” I grab my glass to quench my parched mouth.
“You don’t love it,” Marvin replies.
“Who loves their job anyway?” I ask.
“I do.” Olan hands me an extra napkin.
“Me too,” Marvin says with a shrug.
“In any event, my bills aren’t going to pay themselves. And ‘banging the principal’ isn’t going to help.”
“But you like him?” Olan moves the casserole dish closer. “And he likes you? I’m not comprehending the issue.”
“Sweetie,” Marvin says, serving me four slices of chicken breast. I smile because he remembers even numbers are my preference. “They’re working together. This job needs to go off without a hitch for Vincent. Shtupping Kent isn’t a good idea.”
“There’s shtupping?” Olan asks.
“No shtupping,” I say. “Maybe some shtupping-adjacent activities … but that was weeks ago. No more.”
“Shtupping adjacent?” Marvin asks with a tilt of his head.
“Before the holidays. Only twice.”
“Twice?” Marvin’s voice squeaks and Olan lets out a small laugh. “I thought it was just once?”
I force a smile, teeth showing, and shrug. “It just … happened. Again. I didn’t mean for it to happen the first time.” I turn to Olan, who nods with furrowed brows. “And the second time”—I glance at Marvin—“it was, well, him. It’s just … physical. Was physical.” I shake my head. “No need to conflate that with emotions. He does something to me. Did—past tense. We’re just friends. Or trying to be.”
“In my experience, when things happen, and then, well, happen again, it means maybe you’re bashert,” Olan says.
“Bashert,” Marvin repeats. “Meant to be.”
“Look at me.” I nod to my fingers. With precision, I fold my napkin inside out and twist it around, scouring for a spot that’s still pristine. “Nobody wants this. There’s nothing bashert about us.”
Marvin stands and moves toward a drawer in the kitchen. “Let me get you another. We have plenty!”
“Thank you.” I don’t protest. “Now tell me about the wedding planning.”
