And then my team was on me, cheering and patting my batting helmet, offering high fives. When I managed to see over everyone crowding me, I couldn’t find Bonnie anywhere.
Someone shouted out to both teams, “Drinks at Mattie B’s!” and another cheer went up.
We eventually retreated to the dugout to put away our equipment, which the parks department provided. A few minutes later, leather jacket in place, I walked toward my bike. I caught myself looking around the parking lot to see if I could spot Bonnie. She was probably getting into a minivan or something equally fitting. But I didn’t see her anywhere.
When I was twenty feet away, I noticed a bright spot of something on the seat of my motorcycle. As I got closer, I realized it was a turquoise Tupperware container, small enough to fit in my saddlebag.
There was a half sheet of notebook paper on top. A short message had been hastily scrawled in quick, messy script.
I read the note, an ironic smile twisting my lips as my fingers traced the torn edge. After a final glance around the busy parking lot, I still couldn’t find the woman who’d been nothing but a distraction since she’d stumbled her way into my life.
Huffing a quiet laugh, I placed my catching glove and the Tupperware carefully into my saddlebag. Then I folded the note and slid it into my pocket.
I didn’t know what it said about me that I couldn’t accept her thank-you the way she’d intended. That I’d argued with her and goaded her into reacting, scribbling on a piece of paper she’d likely found in her car. Maybe now, the baked goods weren’t just some people-pleasing gift to acknowledge something any decent human being would have done. It was quite possible they contained a little bit of spite that had me eagerly anticipating them with my morning coffee.
Finally, I revved my engine and took off toward Mattie B’s, thinking about the single line of snarky text Bonnie must have written in a fit of annoyance. I smiled beneath my helmet.
Blueberry Muffins (dairy-, nut-, and self-flagellation-free).
four
BONNIE
A quiet knock sounded before I heard “Hey, Bonnie. You got a minute?”
I glanced up from my planner to see Alex Brinkman leaning in the open doorway of my classroom.
“Sure,” I said, giving him a smile despite feeling the edges of it turning brittle and digging into my cheeks.
With hurried movements, I worked fruitlessly to slip errant papers back into my spiral notebook and to straighten the stack of mandala designs my fourth graders had placed on the end of my desk, all before Alex made his way across the room.
I wondered what my principal could want at almost four on a Friday afternoon. Surely he wasn’t going to?—
“So, our office manager was going through her checklist for the new school year, and she happened to notice that your background check was set to expire.”
“Oh.” I frowned, trying to mentally backtrack and remember how often that needed to be renewed.
“It’s okay,” Alex said quickly, stopping in front of my messy desk with a reassuring smile and his hands tucked casually into the pockets of his khaki pants. My attention snagged briefly on the tan fabric as I recalled Jack’s teasing comment from last night about principals. And the smirk that went along with it.
“You’re not the only one,” Alex added helpfully, drawing my attention back to his face and away from his pants.Good lord. “You submitted the required contact hours and continuing education credits back in May. So it’s just the background check left.”
“Right,” I said easily. But inside, I was shocked that I’d forgotten something like that. I was already reaching for my phone so I could pull up my more detailed online calendar. Surely I’d had a reminder to update my background check for the state. But as I scrolled backward and forward, I found nothing.
“I’m so sorry,” I finally managed. “I can’t believe I missed that.”
Alex’s smile was genuine. “It’s really alright. You’ve had a lot on your plate.”
I was mid-nod when my brain registered the implication from his statement. And bya lot on my plate, he meant my crumbling marriage and subsequent divorce.
My face must have reacted without my permission because Alex straightened and backtracked. “You know, with summer and everything. It’s a busy time. I know my summers get away from me. All that freedom,” he rambled.
“That must have been it,” I agreed quietly.
“Well, I called around and they can take you at the sheriff’s office this afternoon, if you can make it there before six. Just a coupleof forms, a small fee, and fingerprints,” he said cheerfully, like doing my job for me was no big deal.
Shame and guilt had my shoulders going tight. My principal felt so sorry for me that he’d taken time out of his day to handle this. “You didn’t have to do that, Mr. Brinkman.”
His affable smile slipped a little, and I felt like even more of a jerk. But it suddenly seemed important to keep this professional. The way I’d gone cold and clammy when I’d thought Alex might have been stopping by to ask me out solidified the fact that I was not ready for that. Not at all.
