Page 7 of My Secret Valentine

“I like what I'm doing.” The words come out sharper than I intend. “Maddie's making real progress with her reading. AndSteve is great to work for.” I stop, but I didn’t catch myself soon enough.

Mom's eyes narrow. “Steve? Not Mr. Jacks?”

“Things aren’t formal like that anymore,” I say quickly. “Nobody uses last names at work these days.”

But the damage is done. I can see it in the way she exchanges glances with Dad, in the slight purse of her lips. I force myself to eat another bite of pot roast, though it tastes like cardboard now.

“I'm just saying,” she continues, softer now, “temporary jobs have a way of becoming permanent if you're not careful. And living under the same roof with a single man, that’s just not a good idea.”

“Mom!”

“Well, people are talking.”

Of course they are. It's Hope Peak. Small town America where nobody’s personal life was private. Where everyone talks about everything.

“I need some air.” I stand, my chair scraping against the floor. “Thanks for dinner.”

The evening air is crisp with approaching winter as I walk, no real destination in mind. My feet carry me toward Perfect Brews out of habit, though it's long closed for the night. The streets are quiet, most houses already dark except for porch lights.

A text buzzes in my pocket:You okay?It’s from Dad.

Fine. Just taking a walk. Don't wait up.

I end up at the park, sitting on a swing that's definitely meant for someone much smaller. The chains creak as I push off slightly, scuffing my boots in the dirt.

My phone buzzes again. Steve's name lights up the screen:Everything alright? You usually text when you're going to miss bedtime stories.

Guilt floods through me. In my rush to escape Mom's implications, I forgot about my promise to read the next chapter of Charlotte's Web with Maddie.

Sorry. At my parents'. Lost track of time.

No problem. But if you need to talk I’m here.

The invitation hangs there, tempting. Before I can overthink it, I type:Still up for a while?

Office light's on whenever you're ready.

The walk back to the house takes fifteen minutes. My key slides into the lock silently. Inside, warm light spills from his office doorway upstairs.

I find him at his desk, laptop open but dark. He's changed from his usual work clothes into a soft-looking sweater that makes me think of the storm night.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “Rough dinner?”

“That obvious?” I sink into one of the leather chairs, tucking my feet under me.

“You missed Charlotte saving Wilbur. Maddie was concerned.”

“I'll make it up to her tomorrow.” I stare at my hands. “My mom thinks I'm wasting my potential.”

“And what do you think?”

The question catches me off guard. I look up to find him watching me with that intense focus he usually reserves for difficult problems.

“I think...” I pause, trying to find the right words. “I think everyone has this idea of who I should be. The straight-A student who was going to write great novels or teach at universities. But maybe that's not me anymore. Maybe it never was.”

He's quiet for a moment, considering. “You know what I see?”

“What?”

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