Page 24 of Writing On The Wall

I get it. Our storyline is getting more complicated than a plot onDays Of Our Lives.But unlike a soap opera, these tiny fibs and omissions of truth aren’t hurting anybody. In fact, mine’s more of an assumption I’ve yet to correct.

“Wow. Nice deflection from your grumpy construction man,” he says, wiping a tear from his eye. “But, yeah, that’s fine with me.” He lets out a loud, slow exhale as he finisheslaughing, then pushes off his chair. “I’ve got some things to prep in my class. I’ll see you later.” On his way out he pauses, turning to me with a hand on the door. “But next time, text me if you need my help. I’ve got your back, Vee.”

A sudden ache forms in my chest, along with a giant lump in my throat. I manage a series of quick, short nods to avoid letting him hear my voice crack. I honestly don’t know what I’d do without Toby, and that’s scary.

WhatwouldI do if I didn’t have someone with the intuition to fill in the gaps for all my shortcomings? Would I crack under the pressure or be forced to finally seek the help I know I need?

I bend to adjust the strap on my wedged heel before shuffling out of the lounge. Every now and then, I get the urge to wear flat shoes to school. But ultimately, I chicken out, afraid of having to hear someone compare my stature to my second graders’. Plus, parents tend to take me less seriously when I’m only a few inches taller than their eight-year-olds.

C.J. pops her head out her door, catching me on my way to my classroom. “Ivy. Can you step in here for a minute?”

“Sure.” Even as an adult, being called to the principal’s office is a new experience for me. As a child, I struggled to skate by and avoided any kind of reprimanding with every fiber of my being. Not letting my grades slip was a daily battle, and living in the shadow of my brother and his poor behavior was just as difficult.

You’d think that with such determination I’d have excelled and earned straight A’s. But I was stuck in that invisible state between under- and over-performing. My dyslexia was never diagnosed because I hid the evidence of my handicap so well. I was so concerned with making sure I never caused my parents any trouble that I internalized it all and made do with whateverI had. I guess it’s too bad I’m breaking my principal’s office streak today.

C.J. perches on the end of her desk chair at an angle, like she’s the model under the green check mark that says “Do This” in a posing tutorial. She’s all sleek lines at flattering degrees, while I’m the tiny slouch under the big red “What Not to Do” section.

“How’s the prep going for your field trip with Stef?” She glances at me over the rim of her dainty half-glasses. They’re the kind you’d callspectaclesand then stick your pinky out while sipping tea. I’m getting etiquette lessons just watching her.

“They’re going great,” I say, leaning forward. “I’ve confirmed all the details with the exploratorium, and Stef is sending emails to the parents this week.”

“Good.” She smiles, taking a seat and flashing me her perfectly white teeth framed by her flawless red lips. She’s like a living advertisement for graceful aging, and her fingers fly across her keyboard while she talks like she was born multitasking.

“Anything you want to tell me about you and Toby?” She peers at me briefly with a teasing smile, though her fingers don’t rest for a second.

I open my mouth to deliver the same fib I’ve given to everyone else in my life so far, but I just can’t bring myself to put on the fake-dating show for C.J. It feels like a ‘don’t poop where you eat’ sort of thing. And now that I’ve allowed this white lie to seep into so many other facets of my life, I realize the need to protect the place I call a second home.

“Only that Toby’s my favorite coworker and that he’s like a brother to me.”

Her dancing fingers pause their routine asshe gives me one of her gently appraising looks. One that lets me know I made the right choice telling her the truth.

“Okay. But if that changes, let me know.” She turns back to her computer before her hand shoots up to stop me. “Oh, wait! While I have you here…” Then she lowers her spectacles over her nose as she squints at her screen. “Where’s that email from Gil…” She intones the words as she searches, like she’ll forget I’m here if she doesn’t work to keep me entertained. “Here we are. As per Gil’s words, ‘We desperately need someone to head up the parent volunteers to paint backdrops and props for the end of year recital.’ ”

The glasses come off, and she holds them daintily in her hands as they rest together on her desk.

“I don’t want to overload you, but I’m asking you first because, well, you’re here. Do you have time to help with this?”

Nope.

“Absolutely.” I dip my head in a nod.

Do I have any more room on my plate right now? Of course not. But I desperately want to please her. Heck, I might accidentally call her ‘mom’ if I’m not careful here.

“Wonderful!” She beams at me, warming my people-pleasing little heart.

Welp.

What’s one more thing on my to-do list? This shouldn’t backfire on me at all.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

ETHAN

My Saturday mornings are usually slow, and that’s how I like it. It’s the one part of my life that holds a semblance of a routine. I’m a spur-of-the-moment guy in general, always ready to fly off to different locations or down for an adventure at the first suggestion. But Saturday is the only day of the week when I allow myself to act like a boring, old bachelor, spending my morning with a good book while I sip coffee in the rocking chair on my front porch.

I don’t make any commitments for the first half of the day. The second half is reserved for running errands and working on my own home renovations.

And this house has been my favorite fixer-upper so far. It’s the closest I’ve come to customizing everything to fit my tastes instead of what’s easiest to sell and the closest I’ve come to calling a housemine, despite never seeing myself being able to settle down in one place. I’ve always been afraid of watching my sense of adventure mockingly wave goodbye as soon as I claim a piece of land as my own. But for some reason, I’ve been feeling oddly satisfied with my work onthis reno. I keep waiting for that familiar sense of restlessness to kick in, but so far, it’s been replaced by a fondness for things like front-porch coffee sipping and my weekend routine.

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