Page 44 of A Royal Menace

“Knock, knock.”

I look up to see Peter, one of the fifth grade teachers, standing in my doorway. I shift my weight in my chair and clear my throat.

“Hey, man. What’s up?”

“Some of us are going to O’Malley’s for happy hour at five-thirty. Want to join?”

My mouth curls up at the corners. Peter and some of the other teachers hit up the Irish pub every Friday night to unwind. I go with them sometimes, and it’s always a good time. And tonight, I could use a drink.

“Sure. I’m in,” I say, grabbing my bag as I push out of my chair.

“Sweet,” he says, grinning as I follow him out into the hall.

My steps stutter when Callie pops out of her room at the same time. She pauses when she sees us, then dons a bright smile as Peter stops in front of her.

“Hey, Callie. O’Malley’s tonight? Royal’s coming.”

He always invites her. She never says yes.

Her eyes dart toward mine, then her tongue peeks out to moisten her lips. My eyes drop to track the motion, and my chest hollows out. When I raise my gaze back to her eyes, she’s looking at Peter again.

“Sounds fun. What time?”

My stomach rolls, but I think I manage to remain perfectly still and not react to the feeling. She’s coming to O’Malley’s. She knows I’ll be there.

I know our relationship has shifted dramatically over the last couple of weeks, but it’s hard to get used to her not overtly avoiding me at all costs. Her eyes drift my way again, and I smile to let her know I’m happy she’s joining us. She starts to smile back at me, but then her gaze shifts back to Peter when he speaks.

“Five-thirty. I’ll see you guys there,” he says, then gives us a small wave as he walks away.

Callie waves back, then looks my way again. There’s an almost-awkward, tense moment where we just stare at each other silently, then Callie clears her throat and breaks the eye contact by blinking twice.

“You headed home first?” she asks, then turns around and starts walking like she expects me to fall into step beside her.

I do.

“Yeah,” I say, shifting the weight of my messenger bag so the strap sits more comfortably on my shoulder. “You?”

“Yeah. I need to clean up after making slime all afternoon,” she says, grinning at me.

That was one of my ideas––a fun project for Friday afternoon that’ll send the kids home for the weekend with smiles on their faces. I’m glad she took my advice, and if her smile is any indication, I’d say it was a success.

We chat about it as we head out to the parking lot, then give each other a wave as we split apart and head for our cars. My left knee bobs as I drive home, excitement over hanging out with Callie outside of work again rippling through me.

I know it’s dangerous. I know I shouldn’t be feeling these things. Not for her.

But this is the first time I’ve feltanythingfor a woman since Hope passed, and I refuse to ignore it. And if I’m interpreting the signals Callie’s sending correctly, she likes me, too. I’m tired of trying to deny it for propriety’s sake. It’s not like it’s against the school district’s rules to date another teacher. It’s frowned upon, sure, but not forbidden.

If something happens between us, we’ll figure out how to manage it at work.

At home, I shave and take a quick shower before dressing in a pair of dark jeans and a fitted, knit shirt. A half-smile tugs at my lips as I push the sleeves up to just below my elbows. I didn’t miss Callie checking out my forearms when I arrived at her house last weekend. I wonder if she’ll stare at them again. I can’t wait to find out.

At O’Malley’s, it only takes a quick glance around to realize I’m the first to arrive. I head to the bar first and order a pitcher of beer. I ask for four glasses in case any of the others want to share. Picking up the stacked, frozen glasses in one hand, I grab the full pitcher in the other and hold it firmly as I search for an empty table. Spotting two in the back, I head that way.

Setting my order down on one table, I move the chairs out of the way and push the second table against it before arranging the chairs around them. I’m not sure how many people are coming,but hopefully eight seats will be enough. Sliding into a chair that affords me a clear view of the front door, I pour myself a glass of beer and take a sip.

Other teachers trickle in over the next several minutes, five in total, and Peter mentions to the group that we’re only waiting on Callie. My gaze moves to the door every time it swings open, and I feel my disappointment growing every time it’s not her.

I would text her to find out if she’s still coming, but I don’t have her number. We’ve never really had an occasion to exchange numbers before, all of our correspondence going through email. I’m about to ask the others if anyone has her number when the door swings open, and there she is.

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