Page 98 of Yes No Maybe

“Anyone can buy flowers.” I plop beside her, grab my unfinished glass of wine, and whimper, “More zombies. More Darryl.”

Sara obliges, but she scoots over and puts an arm around me. “It’ll be okay.”

It’s late when I finally crawl into bed, but I bring Jack’s manuscript anyway.

Barebegins with two injured teenagers in neighboring beds in a hospital emergency room. They connect instantly, like old friends. Jack’s teenagers are waiting for the same on-call doctor, a specialist in serious burns. Caleb has burned his hands in a botched arson—Kate thinks he’s joking. Kate says she fell in the kitchen, hitting her cheek against a hot coil burner. Only one story is true.

Jack pulls me in and wraps me in his story like a warm blanket. Caleb conspired to burn his house down to end the abuse inflicted by his tyrannical father—without walls, he couldn’t lock Caleb in for days or beat his mother in secret. Kate didn’t fall in the kitchen—her stepfather pressed her face to the burner when she wouldn’t do what he wanted. These horrific scenes play out in segmented flashbacks as they talk to each other—nothing is said except for what they tell everyone else, their version of mac-n-cheese stories. But it’s like they know. By the night’s end, they scoot their beds together and make a risky promise—to do whatever it takes to make it back to each other again.

When I stop reading, it’s nearly three, and I’m crying over the story and my memories as they link together. Jack’s done it again.

I put the book away—I have to—and go to sleep thinking about love and risks.

The next day, Dean peeks into my classroom after the final bell, like a new student, unsure if he’s in the right place. I manage a weak smile to usher him inside. He carries two to-go coffees and a bag slung over his shoulder.

“Truce?” he asks timidly. “I can’t stand that you’re mad at me.”

A sigh flutters out. “I can’t stand it, either. And I’m not mad. Just… sad and disappointed.”

He nods, moving closer to my desk. “Me, too—in myself. We had it so good, and I wrecked it. I’ll never forgive myself for how badly I’ve treated you.”

Thoughneverfeels like a strong word, I accept his apology with a shrug.

He hands me a coffee. “Thought you might want your usual pick-me-up.”

“Thanks.” It’s like old times, and I realize how much I miss him.

He releases the tote bag, setting it on my desk. It’s one of mine—a reusable sack for library books or groceries. “I gathered what I could find from my place. It’s not much, but I thought…”

Peering inside, I find laundered and folded clothes, a toothbrush in a plastic baggie, hair ties, and my black cat mug because Dean’s stark white mugs felt too boring for me. “Thanks. I forgot about these things.”

He leans against the nearest desk, sipping his coffee. “Um, I’m going to turn down the part.”

“Dean! Why?”

He glances at his brown Oxfords, looking sheepish. “I’m an idiot, Rowan. I was so excited about the part that I ignored why I shouldn’t take it. Jack Graham played me like a puppet. It feels wrong, taking it.”

“This is your chance. Who cares how it happened? Take it and be the best damn inspiring guidance counselor the world has ever seen, and make Jack regret allowing you to steal the limelight.”

He chuckles. “You really think I should?”

“Absolutely. Don’t feel bad about it, either. Jack isn’t why we aren’t together.”

His eyes droop to his shoes again. “I know that, too. I’m sorry. How are you holding up?”

A laugh erupts, though nothing is funny. “Well, Mom, Sara, and Mira are treating me like I’m terminally ill, my neighbors keep showing up with reasons why I should stay—I’m selling the house, by the way—and my students suspect we’ve broken up, given their sympathetic looks and veiled condolences. Ironically, my Inspiration Project is the only good thing happening right now.”

“I’ve heard great things. The kids love it. Giving students educational free will is a dangerous precedent, though.”

I laugh. “You’d think it’d invite chaos, but it’s been amazing.”

“Tell me about it,” he prompts, sipping his coffee.

This is why I love Dean—we were always good at being friends. I share my classroom successes like he would his acting highlights. I’m practically giddy, telling him about it.

“What about you, Dean? How are you holding up?”

His genial smile dips into a frown. “Um, been better. School’s fine… I’m just…Thank you for not outing me to the students about Ryan.”

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