“As a teacher—” His throat worked. “As a teacher, I can provide an orderly, quiet, safe space for children like me. Like the boy I was.”
If he’d had his wish, he’d have slept at school. Camped out in Mrs. Delgado’s classroom, which was always neat and clean. Her voice never rose. Her floor never cut his feet. Her hand was warm on his back as he worked on long division. Her questions always had answers, and he could provide them.
“I’ve seen you teach, you know,” she said, her voice slightly muffled, and he blinked his eyes open.
She’d turned away from him, and was pretending to deposit something in one of her labeled boxes, but he knew better. She was giving him time to recover himself.
“When?” His voice was embarrassingly gravelly. “I would have noticed if—”
Wait. He knew.
“You were part of the group that observed me the second week of school.” In his files, he still had their feedback forms. Now that he knew Poppy’s was among them, he’d search for her comments and reread them. “For ten minutes, while we talked about derivatives.”
He’d taken no notice of her, really, or any of the other observers. His students commanded his undivided attention between the bells, except in case of emergency.
It seemed impossible now—that he hadn’t recognized her presence, hadn’t acknowledged it, even without knowing her name or having exchanged a single word.
Somehow, he should have known. Should have seen.
“I stood in a corner and watched you discuss derivatives,” she affirmed. “It was the quietest, most structured classroom and lesson I’d ever seen.”
Terrifying. Not in a fun way.
But her eyes were soft, her lips curved. “You knew all their names already. You called them Ms. Blackwell and Mr. Jones and so on. Except for Sam, because those sorts of titles cause them gender dysphoria. Which I know, since Sam’s in my second period class. Earlier this week, they told me you always used their preferred pronouns and name. From the moment you received their information form.”
Her voice lowered almost to a whisper, as if they were sharing secrets, and maybe they were. “During the observation, when one kid didn’t understand how you’d solved the problem on the board, you explained everything a second time, clearly and patiently.”
Her praise was a warm tide in his chest, soaking into his limbs, spreading through his cold, aching bones. So welcome he had to fight against closing his eyes again.
“I was impressed. Beyond impressed. Those kids already adored you, Simon. After less than two weeks. If you wanted to provide them a peaceful, safe space…” In a graceful gesture, she spread her hands wide. “Mission accomplished.”
The question was neither his business nor appropriate to ask. He shouldn’t ask. Couldn’t.
Butreally. She was standing there, fine wisps of disordered hair haloed around her head, round and kind and so very lovely, smart and funny and accomplished, and—
“How the hell are you single?”Goddammit, Burnham. “Not that it’s any of my concern, and perhaps you have a partner you haven’t mentioned, but—”
“Oh, I’m single.” Her smile vanished. “No doubt about that.”
Thank fuck.
“I am too,” he told her without the slightest intention of doing so. “Never married.”
Which was way less surprising than her lack of a partner. A man like him neither experienced nor inspired passion and lust and devotion.
At least, he hadn’t. Before now.
Poppy’s mouth had tightened into a thin, pale line.
“I listen to podcasts about unsolved murders and serial killers.” It was a stark announcement, seemingly disconnected from the topic he’d raised. “I read books about psychopathology and Jack the Ripper and forensics. I watch terrible, hilarious reenactments of crimes late at night on cable. I make some tiny dolls bleed and others kill. And I do all that happily. Enthusiastically.”
She spoke slowly, giving each word emphasis.
A warning:Caveat emptor.
“The last woman I dated and brought home told me I was creepy as fuck. When she saw the workroom in my old house, she was out the door in less than five minutes. And when I’m not being creepy, I’m grading or planning lessons or going to IEP meetings.” Her chin had tipped high, and she didn’t break eye contact once. “I’m too wrapped up in my work and my hobbies. Which is why my last ex-boyfriend said I was a terrible partner and broke up with me after two months.”
He scoffed in mingled disbelief and disdain. “Because you refused to make yourselflessfor him? What a jackass.”
