Page 21 of Past Tents

“You okay there?” he asked. It’s a fair question because I was gaping at him like an art patron examining brushstrokes on an impressionist painting.

“Um, sure. Yes. Fine.”

He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel but continued staring at me. Waiting. For what?

“The coffee? Is it okay? It’s a vanilla latte. I wasn’t sure what you liked, and this is how I make mine.” Only then did I realize I hadn’t answered his question.

“Oh, yes, thank you. This is awesome. I usually drink whatever’s in the teachers’ lounge, so it’s a treat to have this on the way to work.”

He turned off the car engine and spun in his seat, looking like I’d hocked a wad of spit into his cup. “What?”

“Whatwhat?”

“Please tell me you’re joking. You do not drink the swill at school.”

“It’s not swill, it’s coffee.”

“It’s swill.”

I laughed as he started the truck again. “You are a coffee snob. I had no idea. All this time I’ve been giving you shit about your workouts, and I could’ve been razzing you for being a coffee elitist.” It felt good to get back on our normal terms of workplace banter. I needed to stop distracting myself with how nice he was being to me because it was throwing off my mojo. And those biceps...

I reached over and yanked his sleeve down to his wrist. Eyeing me suspiciously, he pulled the other one down.

He shrugged. “I’m not apologizing for liking real coffee. You know they don’t clean the urn out before they make a new batch, right? It’s just watered-down swill on top of yesterday’s swill.”

Feeling a small surge of bile, I took another healthy sip of coffee and swallowed. It was a hundred times better than what they had at school. “This is delicious. Thank you again.”

“So that garbage you’re always heating in the microwave...” He pointed an accusing finger at me after backing out of my driveway. “Not only is it old coffee, it’s old shitty coffee.”

“It’s coffee.” Frankly, I was surprised he noticed what I was doing with the microwave. He moved in and out of the teachers’ lounge so quickly, it always seemed like he had somewhere pressing to be.

“Coffee. Snob. I like this new bit of information.” Settling back, I shimmied against my seat, satisfied. Then I scooted a little closerto the cool window because he must have turned the heat on in the truck. That was the only explanation for why I was sweating.

He turned to face me, pointing two fingers between his face and mine to indicate he’d be watching me. “Drink your coffee. If I catch you heating it up later at lunch, we’ll have words.”

“Yes, sir.”

Clay’s eyes narrowed on me, his breathing suddenly deeper, those hands clenching the steering wheel tightly. But he turned his head to glare out the windshield, muttering something under his breath before pulling out onto the main road.

The day went by as usual, only Clay didn’t come into the teachers’ lounge during lunch. I doubted that anyone noticed. Anyone but me. A lot of teachers ate in their classrooms or ran errands during the forty-five-minute break, and we hadn’t exactly said we’d meet up. Just because he mentioned checking to make sure I didn’t reheat this morning’s latte didn’t mean we had a set plan. I was being ridiculous.

So why did I keep looking up every time the door opened?

No. Reason.

I didn’t see Clay again until after school, when he was standing on the track with a whistle. His team had finished their warmup laps and were dropped down to the grass in front of him to stretch. Head bent over his clipboard, Clay didn’t see me. The last thing I planned to do was go anywhere near the runners. Or the hurdles. Or the track.

Turning toward the teachers’ parking lot, I said a silent goodbye to Clay, found my car where I’d left it the day before, and drove home. Another soak in the tub, and I felt almost human again. Amicrowaved plate of lasagna and a Netflix binge, and I felt a little lonely. This was the reason I’d convinced my best friend, Lucy, to meet me at Genie’s Country Western Bar, and here we were. Lost in a crowd.

A group of guys drinking beers in a corner made me think of Clay, and it bugged me. The whole point of going out was not to think. Or to think in the company of good friends.

Genie’s was packed for a weeknight, every table full and two deep at the bar. Someone had turned up the music so it could be heard over the cacophony of voices, which only made people talk louder. But Carrie Underwood was going to take a baseball bat to her ex’s car, if anyone bothered to listen.

“Why’s it so busy?” I asked Lucy, who’d been my best friend since ninth grade when we’d bonded talking about our older brothers who didn’t want us following them around to parties.

She shrugged. “Always happy hour somewhere.”

Too focused on my current dilemma to question her analysis, I dug right in. “Lu, I need some advice.”

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