Page 4 of Shuttered Hearts

“Well, we’ll be here to help in any way we can.” Principal Carter guides me around the final corner to the hall where the photography and art classrooms are. “I gave you the keys when we met last week, but the room should already be unlocked,” he says, coming to a stop outside the room.

“Thank you, Principal Carter. Not just for getting me to my room, but for taking a chance on me.”

“Ms. Marks, you were a gifted student when you were here, and your talent has only grown over the years. We are fortunate to have you here teaching these students. I do wish it were under better circumstances, though.” That look of pity returns, along with a comforting squeeze to my shoulder. “I’ll let you get to it, but I’m here if you need anything.”

“Thanks.” We shake hands one more time before Principal Carter returns the way we came.

Turning back toward the classroom, my eye catches on a few display cases of student work. I remember taking great pride when my work got selected for those cases. As I step closer, I see three cases in the hall between the classrooms. One is dedicated to the photography students, one is for the art students, and the one in the center is a mix of the two.

I take a moment to look even closer at the work, allowing me to see what the students have been up to. Even if this work is from last year, I’ll have a better idea of what they’ve already learned. Curriculum is great for determining what we are required to teach students, but all art forms, while having technical aspects, are still completely open to interpretation. Being an artist often means being vulnerable and sharing parts of yourself with the viewer. I want to know what the students have been exploring in their own work.

I pause as I get to the second case, the one with a mix of art and photography. The photograph in the upper right corner catches my eye. It’s a photo of a girl standing in an empty room, her back to the viewer, but her face turned so you can see her profile. She is looking out the window to her left, and out the window you can see a car towing a moving trailer driving down the road. A collage of pictures depicting a happy family is on the wall in front of her. The colors are muted, and while the room is dark, it’s light enough to see everything clearly.

“That one always catches my eye too,” a deep voice says from behind me.

“How do you know which one I’m looking at?” I ask, continuing to stare at the photo.

“Don’t get me wrong, all the work in this case is impressive, but that one stands out among the rest. For starters, it’s darker, both in color and in subject. It’s also on the larger side compared to the other work displayed,” the stranger says as he steps up next to me.

I hum in acknowledgment, having a difficult time looking away from it. “It’s old.”

“I’m sorry?” I can see the man turn toward me in my periphery, but I continue staring at the picture.

“The photo, it’s not from this year, or last year. Same with some others here,” I say, finally turning to him.

I’m instantly struck by how gorgeous he is. He’s tall, well over six feet, for sure. Probably close to six-foot-six, if I had to guess. His hair is dark and a little long but well-kept. His eyes draw me in, and I struggle to look away. Behind a pair of dark square-rimmed glasses, I can see they’re hazel with this almost golden ring around them. His nose is a little large but, honestly, perfect for his face. He’s got stubble lining his jaw, giving him a rugged look. And he’s fit, carrying himself with a grace I’m not used to seeing in a man.

“You’re not wrong,” he says, pulling me from my thoughts as he turns back to the case in question. “A few years ago, Mrs. Cushner and I decided we wanted to showcase the work of both our current students’ and students who have graduated.” He pauses, glancing over at me, catching me still staring at him. “We wanted kids walking through these halls to see what they might be capable of if given the chance.”

“That’s smart,” I say, forcing myself to turn away from him.

“How’d you know these were older pieces?”

“Some of them looked familiar to me.” I pause, my eyes moving back to the photo in the upper right corner. “And that one’s mine,” I say, pointing to the photo in question.

“It’s yours?” he asks, turning back toward me.

“It is. I graduated about ten years ago.” I say, turning to look at him. I pause for a second. I’ve met gorgeous men before, but something about this one catches me off guard. But now isn’t the time for me to figure it out. “I’m Quinn Marks, the new photography teacher.”

“Declan Day, the art teacher,” he says, putting his hand out for a handshake.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Day.” I place my hand in his, returning the handshake. I release a slight gasp at the spark I feel from the simple touch.

I’ve found plenty of men attractive before, but I’ve never felt this spark. Not when first meeting someone and not after knowing them for a while. This is brand new, and I’m not sure what to make of it.

I don’t believe in love at first sight, nor do I think that’s what this is. I think it’s more curiosity than anything else, and even that concerns me. I don’t have time to be curious about anyone, least of all a man I’m going to be working closely with.

He smiles. “Please, it’s Declan. I hate hearing the students call me ‘Mr. Day’. I can’t add more people to that list.” He was gorgeous before, but with him smiling at me now, he’s devastating.

I look down at the ground, trying to gather my racing thoughts, before looking back at him. “All right, but only if you call me Quinn.”

two

DECLAN

Quinn Marks,my best friend’s younger sister, whom I somehow have never met or seen a recent picture of. While her family may have photos of her around the house, they’re all from when she was much younger. As if Quinn stopped being in pictures herself once she learned how to use a camera.

Staring at her now, I realize it’s kind of amazing I’ve gone five years without even catching a glimpse of her in person. The amount of time I spend with her family—well, it might be a little sad if one thinks about it too long.

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