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RORY
Sitting in my office, I watch the rain as it beats down on my window. It feels like it’s been raining since I left Jackson’s Saturday night. Fitting. I hate being apart from him, but unfortunately, this is how I handle things. The short time apart has helped to clear my head. But I need to find another way of handling my shit. Behaving this way toward him isn’t fair.
My feelings for Jackson are stronger than I’ve ever experienced. God, and the way I felt seeing him hold the baby was unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before. It stirred up feelings about children I thought were long gone. This sliver of doubt isn’t even about me. Thinking about it now, with a clear head, I believe what finally hit me is the severity of the sacrifice Jackson is making just by being in a relationship with me.
Somehow, he always ends up drawing the short end of the stick. This time, that stick is me. I wonder if being just the two of us forever will be enough. Will he feel like he missed out on something he truly wanted? Or worse, will he resent choosing me over having a family?
Deep down I know the answer to all of my questions is no. Jackson means what he says and does what he means. Whereas I still run away from my problems, Jackson now faces them head on. Mostly, anyway.
Tonight, on the way to his place, I’ll stop by the grocery store and get everything I need to make a nice dinner. I’ll apologize and tell him that from this point on I will try to be better at communicating. No more running scared. I’m still too chicken to call. So, I’ll text, letting him know I’ll be home tonight.
A small wave of panic rolls through my stomach as I remember his unspoken threat. Oh God. What if he tells me not to come over?
My hand hovers over my phone as I think of every mean thing Jackson could say to me. A knock on my door causes me to jump out of my seat.
“Shit, sorry,” Lyndsey apologizes. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“You’re fine.” I breathe out, my heart beating out of my chest. “What’s up?”
“Copier is down again. Ms. Melanie saw me walking by and asked me to grab you.”
“How is it I’m the only person in the entire school who can fix that damn thing?” I make my way toward Lyndsey and the two of us step out of my office.
“The real question is, why can’t they buy one made in this century?”
“Because then we’d all have to take another pay cut.”
“Shh, don’t give them any ideas,” she teases. “See ya after school.”
Lyndsey makes her way back toward her classroom as I head to the front office. Upon entry, I see Melody hunched over the photocopier. Already frustrated, she bangs her fist against the side.
“Ms. Melody, we have to be nice to the machine,” I say softly, while stroking the cold plastic frame. “It’s very sensitive.”
Melody has been the school secretary for almost thirty years. She’s a sweet woman who wouldn’t hurt a fly. In fact, the only thing that butters her biscuits—her words—is modern technology. The fact that she considers this late eighties model Xerox to be modern is adorable in and of itself.
“I swear, if it wouldn’t throw out my back, I’d toss this thing out into the rain right now.” She pushes her red-rimmed glasses higher up her nose and fixes a stray piece of salt and pepper hair that’s fallen out of place.
“Have a seat and I’ll see if I can fix it.” I pop open the front of the copier and look for paper jams. “It’s quiet in here today. Where is everybody?”
“Today is the first school board meeting. Those things usually take up most of the morning.”
“It must be nice to have a few hours to yourself.” Kneeling down to take a closer look, I see the cause of the issue. There are a few pieces of paper jammed in the gear.
“Ha. This office is a revolving door. Someone’s always coming in and out. Like right now.” Melody stands up and makes her way over to the desk. “How can I help you, sir?”
“I’m, uh, well, I was looking for Ms. Monroe.” My ears perk up at the mention of my name. “I was needing to talk to her about my daughter, but she wasn’t in her office.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No. She’s not expecting me.”
I rack my brain trying to figure out whose father this could be. It’s only the second day of school so I haven’t had to reach out to any parents yet. I pull the paper out of the gear and close the copier. Standing, I turn and my eyes immediately land on Troy Baucom. Annabelle’s father. The last I heard, his trial was still pending, and they had placed Annabelle with a temporary foster family.
Upon seeing me, he nervously shuffles from side to side before glancing back at the door. A wave of nerves settles in the pit of my stomach when I see how shifty he’s being.
“Mr. Baucom, you shouldn’t be here,” I tell him.
“I want my daughter back.”
