Delia fell into step beside me, and as we filed past Mrs. Petersen and back out into the October afternoon, Delia leaned close and murmured in my ear: “This conversation is not over.”
“It absolutely is.”
“It is not.”
“Delia—”
“He’s over there,” she said, very casually. “Stacking chairs. Just so you know.”
I did not look.
Then I did.
Nash was at the far end of the field, sleeves pushed up, moving folding chairs into a neat stack. He’d shed his jacket somewhere, and I could see those forearms and I could remember the way he’d leaned on the bar, then boxed me in against it, then?—
“Maggie.” Mrs. Petersen appeared at my elbow with a garbage bag. “Can you start collecting the tablecloths?”
“Yes,” I said, very professionally. “Absolutely.”
EIGHT
nash
Okay.So…it was casual. It didn’t mean anything.
Fair enough.
That was fine.
That was what I wanted, right? It had always been that way. I hooked up with women, gave them the time of their life, we parted ways perfectly friendly the next day. That washow it worked.
That was the Nash Effect, whatever the hell that meant.
Only a few parents had stayed behind to help, mostly teachers. Nell was with her cousins; she’d insisted on going, so I’d figured I would stay. No reason, of course. I just…didn’t have any reason to leave, and I could be helpful instead.
Now, I was carrying a bin back into the building, full of crafting supplies and glitter…a bin labeledLAINE, ROOM 107.
Also no reason.
I definitely had picked it up entirely at random, not on purpose.
I definitely wasn’t playing a pervy game of chicken with my kid’s kindergarten teacher.
The school was quiet. Most of the lights were off in the hallway, just the afternoon coming gold through the windows,my footsteps echoing on the tile. I walked the same path I would have if I was dropping off Nell, and I found myself in front of Maggie Laine’s classroom.
And there she was—leaning over her desk, carefully organizing gel pens back into a collection of plastic mason jars.
She looked up when she heard my footsteps, her eyebrows going up.
“Oh!” she said. “Hi, Mr. Nash.”
She was so damn calm about it. Made me want to drop the box, pull her into my arms, and kiss her senseless.
I had…not felt like this in a very long time.
Because the thing was—yes, I was cool about it, I was kind about it, but I didn’t have to try. I didn’t want her over it…I wanted her bashful and pretty and blushing, and maybe I’d dwell on that for a little while, then she’d move on and find someone better.
I didn’t want her acting like nothing had happened. Like it didn’t mean anything?
