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“Come on in. I hope you’re hungry, because I made enough for a family of ten.” I stood aside so he could enter.
“I’m super hungry.” He handed me the wine. “I could use a glass of this too. Long day.”
“I hear you. I’ll open this, and you can keep me company while I finish up dinner.”
We went into my small kitchen. I’d often thought they should have torn down a wall and made it into a great room, but Trey told me the structure wouldn’t allow for it because of a major beam that held up the ceiling.
“Your place looks so much better than mine,” Darby said.
“It’s all my brother’s influence.”
Darby sat at the small table stashed in one corner of the kitchen. I opened the wine and poured us each a glass and set one in front of him. From the refrigerator, I grabbed slices of fresh mozzarella, tomatoes, and basil dribbled with balsamic reduction and set it on the table. Then, remembering the bread, I used a mitt to take a baking sheet with thinly sliced baguettes brushed with olive oil from the oven. “Good, I thought I might have had these in a minute too long.” They were toasted perfectly, with a tinge of brown. If they were overcooked, they became too brittle, but these would have the right amount of crunch. “Nibble on these while I cook the pasta?”
“You don’t have to ask me twice.” Darby’s eyes lit up at the sight of the toasted pieces of thinly sliced baguette. He scooped some of the cheese and tomatoes onto a piece of the toast, looking like a child with an ice cream cone. An appreciative half groan as he chewed nearly distracted me from the boiling pot of water waiting for the pasta. I remembered similar noises coming from him in a different circumstance.
We chatted about his work while I put the finishing touches on dinner. “The year’s been going well so far,” he said. “I have a great group of students. Other than a few knuckleheads, but those come with the job. Helicopter parents, too.”
“I never asked you why you became a teacher.” I leaned against the sink and sipped from my wine glass. “Did you always want to be one?”
“Yeah, ever since tenth grade of high school. I had a teacher named Mr. Ferris. He was absolutely phenomenal and watching him in action—the way he could bring literature alive and make grammar fun—I was inspired to do the same. Not that I had much choice. After I finished my work and came out of graduate school as an expert on Dickens, there wasn’t much else to do but teach high school English.”
“Why not teach university?” I asked.
“No way. Too easy.” He laughed. “I’m kidding. I didn’t want the pressure of publication and believe it or not, I love high schoolers. There’s more of a chance to influence them for the better in the high school setting. With college classes, they come and go quickly. I get to keep them for a whole year.”
“Any regrets?” I asked, taking the pot of pasta from the stove and dumping it into a strainer I’d set in the sink. He was totally adorable. A genuinely good person.
“None. I love what I do. If I made a little more money, I wouldn’t be sorry. It’s hard sometimes to have to say no to stuff with the guys because I’m always the only one without the funds.”
“I get it. I’ve been lucky because Tiff and Stormi have been as broke as me. Now, though, everything’s going to change. It’ll just be me on a budget.”
“Yep, I get it. I mean, not that they try to make us feel bad, but there’s no way I’m going to Vegas for a bachelor trip. That kind of thing is hard. I’m complaining. I hate whiners.” He shrugged, looking chagrined. “I sound like a complaining little boy.”
“Not at all,” I said. “There’s no reason to pretend things are perfect on my account.”
“Well, regardless, I’m lucky to live here and to have a steady job and so many nice friends. And my students, of course.”
“What does your dad do?” I asked.
“I haven’t seen him since I graduated from high school.” The firm set of his mouth told me he wasn’t interested in speaking about it further.
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. What about your family?” Darby asked, a little too quickly. He wanted to get past his family and move to mine. “I know your brother, obviously, but what about your parents? They’re divorced?”
“Yes, kind of recently, actually. My dad just up and left my mother for a woman my age. So stupid. He’s a mess. I’ve pretty much washed my hands of him. Trey has too.”
“I’m sorry,” Darby said, echoing me.
“Don’t be,” I said. The hardness that accompanied any thoughts of my dad was reflected in my tone of voice. “I’m better off without him. He’s one of these people who only loves you when you do exactly what he wants.”
Darby nodded, a flush creeping up his neck. “Yep, I know all about that.”
“What about your mother?” I had to ask. Curiosity had taken hold. Had she left them? Died?
He took another piece of bread from the platter but didn’t eat it, instead setting it on the small plate in front of him and studying it as if there were words written there. “She died when I was ten.”
“That must have hurt so much.” Tears pricked my eyes. What a tragedy for a little boy.
