As he raised his glass of water to take his next dose of ibuprofen and muscle relaxants, she eyed his careful movements. “I get the sense any falling you’ll be doing for the immediate future will be involuntary.”
She wasn’t wrong.
“Falling is what caused this whole problem, by the way. I tripped over an exposed root while I was hiking yesterday.” He grimaced. “Rookie mistake. Should have been paying attention to my feet. I thought I was fine afterwards, but I woke up with back spasms.”
Her face pinched in a wince. “That’s terrible. Remind me not to appreciate the wonders of nature anytime soon.”
His laugh wrenched his back. “Will do.”
But he hadn’t been appreciating the wonders of nature, at least not in forest form.
Instead, he’d been appreciating the wonders of Rose Owens.
The way her chin tipped high whenever she exited her classroom, her complete self-possession daring onlookers to challenge her. The way those zippered boots she’d worn last week cuddled the curve of her calf, the top edge teasing the backs of her knees. The way fond exasperation tugged at her lips as she watched her former in-laws plummet into decrepitude at a moment’s notice.
So, yeah, he hadn’t been watching his step.
He’d been wondering if he should finally ask her for a date.
“I really do wish I could help with your honors kids too.” Her fingers tightened on her sandwich, squeezing some of the mayo out from the edges. “I don’t know whether I’ve done enough to convince them to enroll in my AP classes next year. And besides, I…”
He let the pause linger, loath to interrupt her thoughts.
Her forehead wrinkled, and she seemed to force the next few words out. “Besides, I, uh, miss them. Miss teaching that class.”
Her initial distress at being stripped of that prep hadn’t simply stemmed from concern about the AP program’s funding, then, or even anger at Dale’s interference. He’d had no idea. None.
And he’d never heard her admit to an ounce—a micron—of emotional distress before.
If he said the wrong thing now, she’d shut down faster than an overheated copier.
He selected the words one by one. Tested them in his own mind, like a man venturing up the stairs of an abandoned home, making sure each step could bear his weight before he proceeded. “You like teaching students that age? Or is it the subject matter you miss?”
Her hands fluttered in agitated movements. They picked up the remaining half of her sandwich. Put it back down. Plucked at the hem of her silky-looking shirt. Played with the ends of her braid.
Rose was not a fidgeter. He was watching her fight every instinct she had.
Fuck, he wished he could make this easier for her. His heart hurt at the sight of such a smart, caring woman struggling so hard to share herself. All of herself, not just the bits she didn’t mind others seeing.
“Both, I guess,” she finally said. “I love ancient Egypt, like I told you, and I have some fun activities for the mythology unit. The plague and Joan of Arc too. And tenth grade is a fun age. The kids aren’t as determined to seem cynical as my eleventh graders.” She paused again. “But it’s more than that.”
He let his silence do the work this time.
“I grew up poor, Martin.” She tore little pieces from the crust of her baguette. “Really poor. Trailer park poor. Food stamps poor.”
No visible surprise. Keep your face neutral.
“People judge you all the time when you’re poor, especially if you’re on welfare. They think it’s their right. That you must be dumb or lazy or dishonest.” Blotches appeared on her bare cheeks, pink splashes of rage. “When my mom went back to school to become a nurse, the people at the welfare office didn’t believe her GPA. The woman in charge of our case kept saying, ‘This can’t be right. You’re not that smart.’” Her long, elegant hands had formed fists on the table. “Mom and I finally figured it out. The system is meant to keep you alive, but also to punish you. To humiliate you. To make sure you would never, ever be part of it if you had a choice.”
He forced himself to breathe normally.Your outrage, your anger on her behalf, don’t matter. This isn’t about you.
Her mouth pressed into a thin, white line. “Then there were the people behind us in line at the grocery store, who’d sigh and roll their eyes and make comments about what we bought with our food stamps. Who’d inform us when we’d chosen something they considered too expensive, since they didn’t want their valuable tax dollars paying for anything more than the bare essentials. And all the other people who looked at us and said we obviously didn’t need help, obviously shouldn’t get money, because we dressed too nicely. Didn’t look poor enough. Had a decent TV.”
All that flinty pride. All that fuck-you defiance and refusal to show weakness.
No wonder. No wonder.
She glared in his direction, but he didn’t think she saw him. “We scoured thrift stores for decent clothing, because Mom didn’t want to stand out in her classes, and she didn’t want other kids to mock me at school. Our hair always looked nice because we knew a good stylist, and Mom cleaned her studio sometimes in exchange for a cut and color. And we scrimped for years—years—to get a decent TV and cable, because God knew we weren’t going to movies, weren’t attending concerts, weren’t eating at restaurants or visiting amusement parks. We needed some sort of amusement other than library books, much as I loved reading.”
