"Charlie—“
“Let’s just keep this professional. The Gallison Foundation proposal outlines a three-year arts integration initiative with six pilot schools. P.S. 34 is one of them. I've reviewed the scope of work." She pulled a sheet from her folder without looking up. "What I need to understand is the funding structure and the reporting requirements."
She was treating him like a vendor. Like a line item in a budget spreadsheet. Her voice was professional, clipped, stripped of every trace of the warmth he'd taken for granted for six months. This was Charlotte in her element — competent, organized, in control — and she was using that competence like a wall between them.
"The funding is structured as an annual grant," he said. "Fifty thousand per school per year, renewable based on outcomes. The Weston Group provides the capital. Gallison handles program design and teacher training. The school liaison manages implementation on-site."
"And the school liaison would be me."
"If you're willing."
She looked up. Her brown eyes met his, and the force of her gaze nearly pushed him back in his plastic chair. Six months of blocked calls, unanswered texts and silence. Now she was feet away and looking at him, and everything he'd filed, managed and controlled came flooding up his chest and into his throat.
"If I'm willing," she repeated. "That's interesting phrasing. Did you engineer this, Dominic? Did you find this foundation and steer it toward my school so you'd have an excuse to be in this room?"
"The Gallison Foundation was already partnered with P.S. 34 before I got involved."
"That's not what I asked."
He held her gaze. Didn't flinch. "I saw the proposal. Your school was on the list. I could have passed it to my grants team and never looked at it again. I chose not to."
"Why?"
"Because it matters to you. Education. These kids. This work. It matters to you. I never paid attention, and I'm paying attention now."
She was quiet. Her jaw worked: a micro-movement he recognized from the altar, the tightening that preceded something she was deciding whether or not to say. He waited. He was learning to wait.
"You don't get to use my school as a redemption project," she said. "You don't get to walk in here with a checkbook and act like funding art supplies makes up for—" She stopped. Drew a breath. "This isn't about us. This is about my students."
"I agree."
"So we keep it professional,” she repeated.
"Agreed."
"No flowers. No letters. No... us.”
He had to force the word past his lips. “OK.”
"Good." She looked back at her folder. Flipped to a new page. "The proposal mentions a spring showcase as a capstone event. My students would participate?"
"All six pilot schools. The showcase would be hosted at a public venue — gallery, community center, something accessible. Student artwork on display, performances, presentations. Gallison handles logistics. The school liaisons coordinate student preparation."
She was writing notes. Fast, focused, her pen moving in the tight, efficient handwriting he'd seen on lesson plans, grocery lists and the folded paper in his desk drawer. He watched her hand move and remembered the way it felt in his — tremblingat the altar, offered before he reached for it, always meeting him more than halfway.
"The funding covers supplies?" she asked.
"Supplies, guest artist stipends, field trip transportation, and a per-school budget for the showcase."
"What about teacher compensation? If I'm coordinating this, it's on top of my existing workload. I'm not volunteering extra hours so the Weston Group can put 'community investment' on their annual report."
He almost smiled. Almost. She was fiercer than he'd ever seen her. This wasn’t the accommodating, adjustable Charlotte who'd practiced fork placement from YouTube videos, but someone sharper, harder, forged in the months since he'd broken her. This version of her didn't smooth things over. She didn't fill his silences, manage his feelings or make herself convenient. She pushed back. She had edges.
He liked the edges. He more than liked them. The realization moved through him with a force that made him grip the underside of the table.
"Teacher compensation is built into the budget," he said. "Stipend for every participating teacher. I'll make sure it's in the final agreement."
She wrote that down. Underlined it.
