Page 3 of One Night Flame

I looked down at my coffee.

It wasn’t about the mom. It wasn’t about the kid. It was about me.

I didn’t come from a stable home. I came from slammed doors, long silences, and rules that changed depending on how much someone had to drink.

And the truth was—I didn’t trust myself not to turn into that. Didn’t matter how good my intentions were. That’s not what kids remember.

They remember who showed up. And who didn’t.

And the last thing I ever wanted was to be someone a kid had to recover from.

So no, I didn’t do single moms. Because I wouldn’t risk doing damage I couldn’t take back.

“You know who is showing up this year?” Meatball continued. “Lola Taggert.”

Twitch groaned. “Says the auction’s her favorite event of the year. Right after Pie Hard trivia night and the mayor’s chili cook-off disaster.”

“Didn’t she bid on the new guy last year just to ask if he likedDie Hardor was dead inside?” Donkey asked.

“Pretty sure that was her screening question,” Peach said. “You answer wrong, you don’t get pie.”

I grinned because it was expected. “Bet she’s got her eye on someone already.”

“Better hope it’s not you,” Peach shot back. “She likes ’em clean-shaven and cocky.”

I raised my mug. “I aim to please.”

We all fell into that comfortable lull that came after good food, solid teasing, and one too many cups of burnt coffee.

I drained the last sip and tossed my towel onto the counter as I headed for the locker room.. “Don’t worry, kids. I’ll smile pretty, sell high, and make y’all proud.”

Laughter followed me out, but I kept my expression neutral.

They didn’t need to know the difference between who I was and who I let them see. That was the point. The smile kept things easy. Shallow. Safe.

Behind me, I heard Chief’s voice, low but not quiet. “One of these days, that grin’s gonna crack.”

I didn’t look back.

TWO

LUCY

If pouring coffee one-handed while spreading peanut butter on bread with the other was an Olympic event, I’d be headed for gold.

“Where’s your shoe?” I called, trying not to let the coffee slosh as I overfilled the travel mug. Again.

A small blur zipped past me in the form of my six-year-old, Liam, one socked foot slapping tile, the other bare. “The couch ate it!”

It was barely seven. The sun was still half-asleep and so was I, but the school day didn’t care. We had maybe twenty minutes before go-time, and we were already behind.

I set the mug down with more force than necessary and grabbed the sandwich I’d just finished slapping together. It wasn’t art, but it was lunch. Somewhere between Monday’s staff meeting, Tuesday’s spelling packets, and last night’s attempt to fix the leaky faucet, I’d lost the will to make things cute. This wasn’t Pinterest. This was survival.

I tossed the sandwich into his lunchbox along with a juice box and a granola bar, then spun in a full circle, trying to remember what I’d just done with his homework folder. Mybrain was already trying to run the math on how late I’d stayed up grading spelling worksheets, how much time I had before the bell, and whether I’d remembered to put on deodorant.

Lesson plans: not finished.

Field trip permission slips: not copied.

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