Page 14 of Don't Call Me Sweetheart

“Two reasons,” she said. “One, we have an audience.” She gestured to the portraits. “They would hate a dirty joke in their sanctuary. And even if they never know about it, I would know. It would make me happy.”

I wondered if all those people who had called Kate a sweetheart knew she was just a little bit petty. If someone had asked me for a list of my favorite traits in a woman, pettiness wouldn’t be on it. But somehow when it came to Kate, I found it utterly charming.

“That’s fair,” I said. “What’s the second reason?”

She frowned. Her gaze was on the cards, but I could tell she was distracted because she let me slap a pair of kings. “I suppose because I’m embarrassed. You saw me cry. I never thought I would see you again, and now here you are. You’re the principal of my daughter’s school. I have years of feeling that embarrassment to look forward to. I guess something mean in me wants to punish you for it, even though, in all honesty, it would have happened with anyone. You were just an innocent bystander.”

“Oh,” I said. “That.”

She laughed, although I suspected she didn’t find it particularly funny. “Yes. That.”

I shouldn’t pry. Prying led to conversation, conversation led to connection, and connection led to…something messy. I didn’t like mess. It was different when students, parents, or teachers brought me their problems to fix. I had distance, like a judge presiding over a trial. With Kate, there was no distance. I was involved.

Intimately.

I didn’t know what to do with that.

“I hope you don’t feel bad about that,” she said. “You know, that I cried.”

I took note of that, that she was concerned about my feelings in the midst of her own trauma, whatever it was. It was a nice thing. A kind thing. And, in my experience, a self-defeating thing. Something I would never do myself. I couldn’t afford to.

“Well,” I said, “I don’t feel great about it.”

“It wasn’t your fault. It would have happened with anyone,” she said again, and the words scraped at me.

I didn’t like the idea of that moment happening with just anyone. Because it had been me, with her, in that moment, and it had been me, with her, playing cards after, and it had been me, thinking about her ever since. I couldn’t say why that mattered, only that it did.

“I haven’t been with anyone since George died,” she said. Her tone was matter-of-fact, but I could tell the words cost her something because her focus on the cards became laser-sharp. “Until you. You were the first.”

The first? She hadn’t slept with anyone since her husband, and he had died—what had she said?—holy hell, ten years ago? She took advantage of my brain fart and slapped on a pair of sevens.

I was still processing that when she threw out another bomb.

“And George was my first, and until you, my only. So, really, you were the first since him and the second one ever.”

It hit me anew then, how young she had been the first time her life had changed forever. How young she had been the second time her life had changed forever. I pushed my glasses up the bridge of my nose and studied her, feeling like I was seeing her, truly seeing her, for the first time. She was still young, despite having a teenage daughter, despite having suffered the death of her husband, despite being a single parent for the last decade. Younger than I was by a few years, I figured.

I couldn’t quite wrap my mind around the idea that she had so much life experience—and yet so little experience with men. Only two, and one of them barely counted. Not as anything good anyway.

That burned in my gut.

I wanted to count. As something not just good, but fucking great.

A decade without sex. It wasn’t completely unfathomable, not to me. I had gone without for stretches at a time, the longest dry spell lasting two years. The first time back had been…fine. A little awkward, maybe, but overall, it was always fine.

“Next time will be better,” I said. “Trust me.”

Her hand came down just a second too late to claim the double tens and landed on mine with a reprimanding slap. “Next time?” she squeaked.

“Yeah, next time—I mean, no.” My own voice rose in panic as my brain caught up with the conversation. “Not with me. I meant next time, in general. With…whomever.”

I didn’t want to think about it. I knew, logically, that she would have a next time, and I would have a next time, but it wouldn’t be together. It shouldn’t bother me.

And that clenched feeling in my stomach didn’t necessarily mean that I was bothered by it. Maybe I was just hungry.

“I don’t think there’s going to be a next time, with anyone,” she said.

I laughed, because—doing the math quickly in my head—she couldn’t be older than thirty-two, which was a little on the young side to declare celibacy for life.

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