Page 50 of That Time We Kissed Under the Mistletoe
“I used to think I wanted a big family,” I say softly. “But college was so demanding. Then I had a couple years of internships. Then law school. Studying for the bar. There wasn’t any time for serious relationships.”
“You’re not in school anymore.”
“No.” I shrug, hoping to convince myself I’ve grown indifferent to all this. “But Iamexpecting Hathaway Cooke to offer me an associate position any day now.” I take a beat and my stomach twinges. “At that point, I’ll be putting in eighty-plus hours a week. So, I don’t see myself having time for a family going forward either. At least not for a while.”
Three lets out a low whistle. “Eighty-hour work weeks?”
“Eightyplus. And yes, it’s a lot, but it’s what I’ve always worked for. Being an attorney at Hathaway Cooke has been my goal for as long as I can remember.”
“Yeah, I remember that too.” Three turns to face me again. “But is that what you want?”
I open and shut my mouth wordlessly. I’m not sure anyone’s ever asked me this question before.
“Sorry if that’s too personal,” he adds. “These are just the kinds of things I talk about with my students. We spend a lot of time working out what they see for their future. What will makethem happy, not just what theythinkthey should do. So.” He dips his head. “Will being an associate at Hathaway Cooke make you happy?”
“Of course it will,” I blurt. Any other reality would be too hard to accept.
“Good.” Three turns off the burner, slides the toasted sandwiches onto plates, and cuts them in half on the diagonal. Then he plucks a couple of apples from the bowl by the sink.
“So.” I clear my throat. “Is that whatyouwant?”
He glances down at the fruit in his hand. “Apples? Yeah. They have tons of fiber.”
“No.” I swallow hard. “I meant … do you want kids?”
“Ah. That.” He brings our food over to the island. “I absolutely want kids. That’s why I’ve got a hundred of them.”
I blink. Once. Twice. “What?”
“My students. Well, technically I have a hundred and one. Like the Dalmatians.” He pulls two stools out from under the counter. “You know, I went into teaching assuming the kids would learn from me, but they’ve taught me some of the most important lessons of my life.” He takes a seat, hunching over his plate. “Sorry if that sounds corny. Or just some big cliche.”
“No.” I shake my head. “I think it’s really sweet.”
“Believe me, the kids aren’talwayssweet.” A small laugh puffs out of him. “But now I know how to stop talking, so I can listen. How to hear what they’re really trying to say.” He takes a beat. “How to put their needs ahead of my own.”
“Wow.” I slide onto the stool beside him. “I’ll bet you’re good at that.”
“I want to be,” he says. “But let’s just call me a work in progress.”
“Well your students are lucky.”
“I don’t know about that.” He ducks his head. “I just try to be myself. And listen to my heart. Then I hopethey’ll do the same.”
My throat goes tight. “You must care about them a lot.”
“Yeah.” He averts his gaze. “I really do.”
We both fall quiet, and I dig into my food like I haven’t eaten in weeks. Something I thought I’d stitched up long ago is unraveling inside me. And instead of the numbness that took up space there, a hollowness spreads, waiting to be filled.
Hey, Sara. The cheese you’re stuffing in your face isn’t temporary putty for the gap, you know.
I take another giant bite of sandwich anyway, just as my phone buzzes in my pocket.
Good. Perfect timing for a text. I could really use the distraction.
Bristol
Greetings, Sara! Consider this your daily inoculation against any coronary weakness you might be feeling. That’s right. I’m here so you don’t forget how badly Three Fuller hurt you. The man made you trust him, and you handed over your whole heart, which he promptly rejected, then stomped on. So do NOT go soft on me, friend. Just remember he’s totally off-limits. (No matter how cute he looks.)
