"Oliver drew a dragon playing guitar last week," she said during their sixth meeting, and then caught herself. She hadn't meant to mention Oliver by name, hadn't meant to let Dominic inside the part of her life that was sacred and unrelated to grants.
"The one who draws during math?" Dominic said.
She went still.
"You’ve mentioned him. The boy with the dragons."
He remembered. He'd been paying attention, and the fact that it made her chest ache was infuriating because she didn't want to ache. She'd done enough aching. She'd graduated fromaching. She was in the post-ache phase of her recovery, the phase where she ran four nights a week, painted her walls sage green and didn't think about him for entire weekday stretches.
Except on Thursdays.
"His mom's doing better," she said, because the silence was becoming a thing she'd have to navigate. Navigating silence with Dominic was dangerous territory. "She's responding to treatment. Oliver brought cupcakes last Friday to celebrate. They were terrible — dry, too much frosting — and every kid in my class ate two."
Dominic hid a smile. She could see it, the way his mouth pulled at the corner, the effort it took him not to let it become a full expression. He was being careful with her.
Charlotte didn't want his carefulness. She didn't want his attention. She didn't want the way he looked at her when she talked about her students… like he was seeing her, actually seeing her.
She wanted him to stay in his plastic chair and talk about line items.
"The showcase venue," she said, pulling them back. "Gallison suggested the Mercer Community Arts Center. Have you seen it?"
"I toured it last week with Amrita."
"And?"
"It's good. Big enough for all six schools, natural light, accessible by public transit." He paused. "There's a courtyard. For the overflow. The kids could do live demos there — painting, music, whatever you think works."
"You toured it yourself."
"I told you I'm paying attention."
She looked down at her notes. WroteMercer — courtyard optionin handwriting that was shakier than it should've been.
Eric foundher after the meeting, leaning against the hallway wall outside the gym with two cups of coffee from the faculty lounge.
"You look like you need this," he said, holding one out.
"I need an IV of it." She took the cup. The coffee was lukewarm and over-brewed, but all faculty lounge coffee was, and she drank it gratefully because it was normal. Eric was normal. Eric was uncomplicated.”
“How'd the donor meeting go?" he asked, falling into step beside her as they walked toward the parking lot.
"Fine. Productive. We're locking down the showcase venue."
"The mysterious Mr. Weston." Eric raised his eyebrows. "Linda says he sits in the conference room in his fancy suit looking like he accidentally walked into the wrong building. She offered him coffee last week and he said 'thank you, but I brought my own' and pulled out a thermos. A thermos, Charlie. In a conference room with motivational posters."
She laughed. She couldn't help it. The image was so perfectly Dominic: too polished for the setting, too stubborn to admit it, bringing his own coffee because the faculty lounge stuff would offend his sensibilities.
"He's committed to the program," she said, and the neutrality in her voice was a masterwork of self-control.
"He's committed to something." Eric's tone was light, teasing, but there was a question underneath it. He'd been circling closer for weeks, a gravitational drift that she could feel every time he found a reason to be in her classroom doorway, or offered to carry her boxes to the gym, or remembered exactly how she took her coffee without asking.
Eric noticed things and acted on them. He noticed she liked her coffee black with one sugar. He noticed she always wore the same watch: leather band, round face, a gift from Kate. He noticed when she was tired, when she was overwhelmed, when she needed someone to make her laugh instead of asking if she was okay.
He was doing it now. Making her laugh. Grounding her after an hour of sitting across from Dominic in a conference room where the air felt thin and charged.
"You should come to the chess club tournament next week," Eric said as they reached the parking lot. "I'm coaching, but I could use a cheering section. The fifth graders are ruthless. Mason has been trash-talking since September."
"Mason is ten."
