Page 122 of Meant to be Mine

“We don’t. Not today, anyway.”

She disappeared below deck. By the time she returned, the sky was black and glittering with stars. She’d changed into a sundress, her hair still damp and pulled back loosely. She carried two cold beers and a bag of chips.

“For you,” she said, handing me one.

“Perfect.”

We settled into the lounge chairs on the upper deck, our chairs pulled close enough that I could reach over and take her hand.

“I could stay out here forever,” she murmured.

“We have time now,” I said. “All the time in the world.”

My mind drifted back to the beginning. To a seating chart arranged alphabetically. Blackwell, Blake. I’d walked into class that first day and seen her sitting there in the desk next to mine. The new girl. She’d looked nervous, her hands folded on her desk, her eyes darting around like she was looking for an escape route.

I’d had no idea what I was doing when I’d leaned over and introduced myself. No grand plan. No ulterior motive. She just looked like she needed a friend, and I figured I could help with that.

Turned out that was the best decision I ever made.

EPILOGUE

KENSEY

Two months later

Istood in my new classroom at Westbrook Prep, our old high school, surrounded by the organized chaos after the first week. Student work samples covered one bulletin board. My desk was buried under papers. The whiteboard still had remnants of today’s lesson on it. My classroom. The words still felt surreal.

I’d applied after seeing the opening. I honestly didn’t think they would give me the time of day. I was still a young teacher. When they’d called me in for an interview, I’d walked these same halls I’d walked as a teenager and felt something click into place. This was where I was supposed to be. When they’d offered me the position two days later, I’d cried.

Now here I was, a week into the school year, finally getting into a rhythm with my students. The first few days had been rough. I was still learning names, establishing routines, figuring out which kids needed extra attention and which ones would thrive with independence. But today, Friday, had gone smoothly. My last period class had actually laughed at one of my jokes. That felt like progress.

I was going to have to get used to the fact everything was digital here. Rich school. Everyone had laptops. The essays about their summer were all waiting in the portal for me to grade.

My phone buzzed.

Drew: How’d your day go?

Me: Good! Just packing up. Still on for dinner?

Drew: Absolutely.

Me: Perfect. See you soon.

I did one last sweep of the room, making sure everything was in order. Chairs pushed in, lights off, door locked. Then I headed down the familiar hallways toward the parking lot to my new used car. Drew tried to buy me one, but I refused. I needed to stand on my own two feet.

I drove home. Home. It was weird to call his mansion home, but it did make sense to live with him. We spent every night together and it cut my commute by fifteen minutes. I parked in the garage and made my way inside.

I could smell something incredible as I walked in. Garlic, tomato sauce, fresh bread. I smiled. We were supposed to be going out.

“Drew?”

The kitchen island was covered in takeout containers from Marino’s, my favorite Italian restaurant in the city. Not just a few containers. Dozens of them. Pasta in every variety. Chicken parmesan. Eggplant rollatini. Meatballs. Garlic bread. Salad. Tiramisu. Cannoli. It looked like he’d ordered half the menu.

“There’s my hot teacher,” he said. He pulled me into his arms. “Damn, I missed you.”

I laughed. “I was only gone eight hours.”

“Too long.”