Welcome to Rosehill,maybe. Something stupid and Southern polite. Hopefully charming.
I’m halfway there when she finally lifts her head, and our eyes meet across the hall.
Iris
I’m holding the letter in my hands.
Three pages, handwritten and signed by Ms. Price. Vice Principal Holloway said she left it for whoever would take over the art room, a welcome note with advice from nearly forty years of teaching.
I can’t help but feel like she’s speaking directly to me.
At the bottom, she included her phone number and email, in case I ever need to reach out.
The thought sends nerves fluttering through me.
Of course I want to. Ms. Price shaped my whole life.
She’s the one who sent me the email in the first place, a notification from my old high school email, after ten years of no contact.
Just a link to the application.
But there’s a nagging voice in my head that wonders if she would approve of who I am now. She always seemed open-minded, and I think she knew, on some level, that I was different.
But it’s still Rosehill.
I don’t think many people here would accept me if they knew the truth.
The halls are quiet now, with most of the students alreadygone home for the day, so when I hear heavy footsteps, I look up.
I immediately wish I hadn’t.
He’s tall, with broad shoulders and chestnut brown hair. The kind of small-town handsome that makes you think he can fix your car and break your heart all in the same afternoon.
And he’s headed straight for me.
I look away, hyper-aware of everything about myself. The dress I almost changed out of, the makeup I applied this morning.
Can he tell there’s something different about me?
I fight the urge to turn and walk away, which would be anything but subtle at this point. Because when I glance back, he’s standing directly in front of me, looking at me with the prettiest blue eyes I’ve ever seen.
Close enough that I catch the warm scent of coffee and something faintly woodsy.
My stomach does a flip that Ido notapprove of.
“Hey,” he says with a kind smile that might have made my sixteen-year-old self want to believe in love, before I learned better.
The kind of love my heart still secretly pines for.
“I don’t think we’ve met yet,” he holds out his hand. “I’m Nate Wesley. Football coach, PE teacher. I heard we got a new art teacher and figured I should introduce myself.”
Nate Wesley.
I remember him.
I remember every interaction I ever had with him.
My mind plays them all back too quickly while I’m unable to say anything of substance back.
