Page 5 of Writing On The Wall

“Cool.” I nod. “Should we take a photo now so you can have it ready to send the next time she bugs you?”

“Yeah, but it can’t look like we’re at school. She doesn’t need a reason to think I’m making all this up.”

Toby pulls out his phone, and we giggle through the awkwardness of pretending to be an item. And through it all, I find myself wishing I had someone to do this with for real. I want there to be one part of my life I don’t have to pretend or fake. I want a genuine relationship with someone I could confide in. But that would mean relying on another person and making myself vulnerable, and facing all the scary parts of giving my heart away.

Instead, I’ll be leaving school alone to go to sleep in my car.

It’s still way less risky than trusting someone with my heart.

CHAPTER THREE

ETHAN

“Hey Marco, grab the demarcation poles and tape. I’m gonna head inside and chat with the principal.” I spin my hat around backward before wiping my hands on my thighs. They’re not dirty, but I feel like it prepares me mentally for walking into the school I attended as a child.

“Hey, Mrs. Crawley,” I say to my old principal with a smile, the woman whose office chair I warmed more times than I can count as a kid. It still feels strange to interact with her as an adult.

“Mr. King,” she croons, extending a hand to me. Even after all these years, she’s still as classy as ever.

“Ma’am,” I answer her with a tip of my head.

“We’re so grateful you’re doing this for us. With summer approaching, the kids will be glad not to get third degree burns on the playground.”

I chuckle, recalling the memory of sweaty recesses and roasted elbows. “I bet they will.”

“I’m assuming you’ll need to rope off the playground for a fewdays?”

“Nah, we’ll mark off the poles while the concrete dries. The kids can still use the play structure as long as they stay clear of the taped-off area. It should be ready by the end of next week.”

“Oh, that’s perfect! Is there anything you needed from me?”

“No, ma’am, just letting you know we’re getting started.”

“Well, it’s a good thing you’re starting after school. Some of our younger teachers might have gotten a bit too distracted during school hours. Especially with your face bein’ on TV, and you gettin’ all famous on us now.” She winks.

I chuckle, unfazed by the so-called fame I’ve encountered since my appearance on a morning show for my brother’s business over Christmas. Apparently, my face went a bit viral—or so I’m told. I don’t pay much attention to social media, aside from following a few extreme sports personalities. Still, it did bring some exposure to my home renovation business and even sparked an opportunity for me to earn a role on one of those house-flipping reality shows.

“I wouldn’t wanna cause a stir.” I smile.

“I think that’s exactly what you’ve always liked doing, Ethan,” she laughs back. “I’ll be here if you need anything.”

My head tips in another nod, and I make my way through the hallway back toward the playground. My steps slow as I pass one of my old classrooms, the corners of my mouth curling up nostalgically.

The sound of laughter from a nearby classroom draws me closer. But I freeze when another loud cackle erupts, because I immediately recognize that voice. It belongs to a tiny but lethal package—One I’d rather not interact with any more than necessary.

I peek carefully around the doorway, and my stomach does a quick flip—a phantom reaction, like the urge to hurl whenyou catch a whiff of something that once made you sick. And the few altercations I’ve had with the woman now cozying up for a selfie with another man have certainly left me feeling queasy. Anyone with a mouth as sharp as hers and a gaze as antagonistic as the one that habitually pierces mine would provoke this kind of reaction.

Her companion curls an arm around her and presses his cheek to hers for another photo. That siren-call laugh bubbles out of her again, eliciting another stomach swirl. My hand goes to my middle as I take a step back, planning to execute a casual walk-by, but my movement alerts the tiny blonde.

“You.”

That one word is coated in so much disdain I have to fight a shiver.

I know we got off on the wrong foot the first time we met. By that, I mean I saw a woman in my brother’s fiancé’s office doing something reckless and may have unintentionally insulted her while simultaneously saving her from a small accident. But it came from a place of wanting to protect a stranger from harm.

Who stands on a rickety bench in heels andtwirls, anyway? Talk about lack of common sense.

Yeah, okay, the delivery of my concern could have been better. But I still caught the woman and saved her from injury, and I stand by my act of chivalry, even if shedid notinterpret the interaction in the same way.

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