"Where the hell have you been, Mia?"
The question cracks through the air between us. There's anger there, yes, but underneath it, I hear the hurt. The confusion.
"I." I start, but the words tangle. "I needed to leave."
He opens his mouth like he's about to say more, then stops himself. His jaw works. Finally, he sinks into his chair and takes a breath.
"It's good to see you," he says, and despite everything, I can hear that he means it. "You look great."
"Thank you. So do you."
Another beat of silence. Then, "Have you seen your father yet?"
The question lands like a stone in my chest. "Last night."
He nods slowly, and I can see him wrestling with whether to say more. Instead, he pulls a folder toward him. Professional. Safe.
"Right. Well." He clears his throat. "Let's go over some things. You've already been through HR, so you should have your employee handbook and benefits information. I just wanted to touch base about expectations here at Riverside Academy."
I nod, grateful for the shift to neutral ground even as the tension between us hums like a live wire.
"Our students come from families who expect excellence," he continues. "We maintain high academic standards, but we also prioritize creating a supportive environment. You'll be teaching sophomore and junior English, which means you'll have students preparing for standardized tests as well as college applications."
"I understand."
"Faculty meetings are every other Wednesday after school. Department meetings are monthly. You'll need to submit lesson plans by Friday each week and maintain regular communication with parents." His voice is steady now, falling into the familiar rhythm of administrative procedure. "We have a zero-tolerance policy for inappropriate relationships between staff and students, obviously. And we expect professional conduct at all times, both on and off campus."
The way he says that last part, his eyes flicking up to meet mine. There's weight there. Meaning.
"Of course," I manage.
"Any questions so far?"
"No. It all sounds straightforward."
He pulls a folder toward him, finally breaking eye contact. His hands aren't quite steady. "Your credentials are impressive. Bachelor's degree in English Literature, Master's in Education, five years of teaching experience."
"Thank you."
The tour is torture. Jack walks slightly ahead of me through the hallways, pointing out the library, the cafeteria, and the gymnasium. His voice is professional and distant, but I catch him glancing at me when he thinks I'm not looking.
We pass the teachers' lounge where several staff members are gathered around the coffee maker. Then Jack leads me to my classroom on the second floor. It's spacious with large windows overlooking the front lawn. Student desks are arranged in neat rows. A whiteboard covers one wall. Bookshelves line another.
"This is yours," Jack says, standing in the doorway. "Your class rosters are on the desk along with curriculum guidelines and the faculty handbook. First period starts at eight-thirty."
"Thank you."
He should leave. This conversation is over. But he lingers, his hand on the doorframe, his eyes searching my face.
"Mia." He stops himself. "Miss Wilson. If you need anything, my door is always open."
The use of my first name, even for just a second, sends electricity down my spine.
"I appreciate that, Principal Lewis."
His jaw tightens again at the formal title. "We'll need to schedule regular meetings for new teacher evaluations. It's standard procedure."
"Of course."
