Page 117 of Yes No Maybe

I read it in the early morning quiet of my classroom, sipping coffee between gasps over his beautiful words. What he’s vying for is nothing new—higher wages and more support. But like everything he writes, there’s magic in it.

He starts with a narrative about his nerves and expectations before his classroom visit.“I didn’t want to be back there, surrounded by kids I didn’t know and aching for the brother I lost.”He explains his warm reception, and how the students’ excitement in showing him their literary mural jolted his preconceived notions—this wasn’t a typical classroom.

Jack provides insightful quotes from my students and discusses our reading adventures.Schools are not institutionalized entities that exist in our communities—theyareour communities. I am a childless romance writer—if I can get involved, so can you.

The paper drops to my desk as tears pinprick my eyes. His article feels like a love letter, and the nod to Elizabeth Bennett assures me that’s exactly what it is.

Dr. Evelyn Tate appears in my doorway when my second-period class ends. She carries a small pink clipboard and a smug, glowing expression. Her pleated purple skirt squishes pleasantly as she sashays to me. She smells like lavender and rich people.

She motions to the newspaper on my desk. “We need to talk.”

“Um, okay.”

“I would’ve liked an opportunity to weigh in on that article,” she says, not hiding her annoyance.

“I had nothing to do with it.”

Her eyes narrow like she doesn’t believe me. Then, she looks at her clipboard. “I’ve been tasked with letting you know that… let’s see… a local builder is footing the bill for your field trip buses for your community readings, anywhere you want to go. A book club wants to take over stocking your student pantry—they want a list. The school board has requested a luncheon. I’ll go with you, of course, to help you explain your project… The public library has invited your students to do story times, and they want to send some local authors your way for visits. The TV station where Ashley’s father works has invited you for an interview. I’ll help with that, too. The paper wants to talk about your students writing contemporary book reviews for a weekly column. And the school has received over eight thousand in donations since the article posted last night. So, if you have any wish list items…”

She glances around my eclectic classroom with its thrift store rugs and second-hand furniture. “New decor, perhaps?”

“Um, wow. I-I don’t know what to say. That’s amazing.”

“Well, Jack is full of surprises, but creative types can be very unpredictable. You never know what he might do from one moment to the next.”

Is that jealousy?“Oh, I don’t know. Jack’s lived in the same house all his life. He takes care of his neighbors like family. He’s helping me and my students. That’s not unpredictable. That’s Jack being Jack. But, of course, you don’t know him like I do.”

She winces.

A spark of pride flashes in me. “I’ll get you a list for my pantry. I don’t want the TV interview, but I’ll meet with the school board. I’ll contact the library and the newspaper and have the classes write thank-you’s for the rest if you have their information.”

She unclips the papers and hands them over.

“Thanks, and we like our classroom. The money should go to stocking more contemporary bestsellers in the library. I’ll have my students create a list of suggestions. Oh, and maybe they can write quick notes to put inside, explaining why they loved the book. It’ll create connections between the students.”

I can’t wait to get started on this new extension of our Inspiration Project. But ironically, Dr. Evelyn looks unimpressed as she nods and saunters to the door.

After dropping Sara off that afternoon, I detour to the ABC store and buy the best whiskey my budget allows. At home, I trade my work clothes for a soft sundress and flip-flops. I love Edgar as he meows about his day, chirping at birdies and keeping an eye on things. Then, I carry the artsy whiskey bottle to Jack’s.

Stepping to his front porch, music blares from inside. Metallica. And I wonder what mood he’s creating for his writing—angry, perhaps? I hesitate to push the doorbell.

But, of course, it’s too late.

The door swings open. I jerk, surprised at the movement, and “Nothing Else Matters” loudly hitting my ears. He looks pleased but distracted, like I’ve cut him off mid-sentence. With a hint of surprise and a light perk on his lips, he says, “Rowan… hey.”

“Jack, you’re writing. I wasn’t sure I should bother you.”

“Writing is just what I do until you show up.” He smiles coyly, pressing a remote to turn down the music. “Get your ass in here and tell me about your day.”

Laughing, I obey and wait for the door to shut behind us before pinning him against the wall. My enthusiastic greeting makes us chuckle through kisses. He tastes like coffee and cinnamon, comforting and sweet. His fingers knead my back as they slip lower, stopping only because I pull away, desperate to free my hand from the whiskey bottle.

“My day was amazing, thanks to you.” A little breathless, I thrust the bottle to him. “Thanks for the article.”

Confusion twinges his face briefly. “Oh, did that come out today? Wait, what day is it?”

“Friday.”

He breathes a heavy sigh. “Right. I used to work there. The editor’s been begging me to guest post for years, but I never felt I had much to say. People should know about the good work you do. Not that anyone reads the paper anymore.”

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