Page 31 of After the Rain

We sounded like strangers making elevator conversation. Like two people who'd never shared a meal, never laughed together over Cooper's architectural ambitions, never kissed by a river while ducks paddled in the background.

When Cooper ran ahead into the school building, Wade and I were left alone for a moment. He opened his mouth as if to say something important, then closed it again, clearly struggling with what to communicate.

I waited, hoping for acknowledgment of what happened between us, some sign that the kiss had mattered to him even ifit scared him. But Wade just mumbled "Have a good day" and hurried away like I was contagious.

Watching him retreat to his truck, I felt anger rising alongside the hurt. This was exactly what I'd been afraid of—being treated like a mistake he regretted making.

During morning work time, I found myself observing Cooper for signs that family stress might be affecting him. Children often picked up on adult emotional turmoil even when they didn't understand it. But Cooper seemed his usual happy, engaged self, focused on his art project and chatting normally with classmates.

"Ezra." Brook appeared in my doorway with coffee and a concerned expression. "Okay, what happened? You don’t seem like yourself today.”

I deflected with general comments about having a complicated evening, but Brook's knowing look suggested she suspected romantic drama.

"Let me guess," she said, settling into the chair beside my desk. "Wade Harrison happened."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Uh-huh. The same Wade Harrison who couldn't take his eyes off you during the parent-teacher conference? The one who invited you over for all-day domestic bliss last weekend? The one who's been looking at you like you hung the moon and he's trying to figure out how to ask for the blueprint?"

"Brook..."

"Did something happen? Because you look like you're grieving something, and he looked like he hadn't slept when he dropped Cooper off."

I couldn't tell her about the kiss. Not yet. "It's complicated."

"Honey, complicated means he's worth the risk. Easy means he's boring." Brook leaned forward, studying my face. "Whatkind of complicated are we talking about? The good kind or the 'I need to hide his body' kind?"

Despite everything, I almost smiled. "The kind where I'm probably setting myself up for heartbreak."

"Ah. The best kind." Brook's expression softened. "Ezra, I've watched you build walls around yourself for three years. If someone's making you consider tearing them down, maybe that's worth exploring."

"Even if it destroys my career?"

"Even if. Because what's the point of protecting a career if you're miserable in every other part of your life?"

Cooper approached my desk during independent work time with questions about his reading log, and I found myself studying his face for resemblance to Wade. The same hazel eyes, the same stubborn cowlick, the same easy smile that had made me fall for his father.

"Mr. Mitchell, are you okay?" Cooper asked with the perceptiveness that sometimes caught adults off guard. "You look kind of sad."

"I'm fine, sweetie. Just thinking about lesson plans. What did you want to ask about your reading log?"

But as Cooper chattered about the chapter book he was working through, I realized how much I'd already invested in both father and son. How much it would hurt to lose not just Wade's tentative affection, but Cooper's easy trust and friendship.

During lunch duty, I overheard Cooper telling another child that his dad "seemed really tired this morning, like when he stayed up too late doing work." The innocent observation confirmed that Wade was struggling with something, though Cooper obviously didn't understand what.

Was Wade having a full identity crisis, or just regretting our kiss? Either way, the silence from him felt worse than rejection.

By afternoon prep time, I'd composed and deleted three different text messages to Wade. Each one sounded either too casual or too intense, too demanding or too understanding. The cursor blinked at me mockingly as I tried to find words that would bridge the gap between what had happened and what came next.

Finally, I typed:

I hope you're okay. No pressure to talk, but I'm here if you need someone to listen.

I stared at the message for ten minutes before deleting it unsent.

Dr. Williams appeared in my classroom doorway at four PM with a concerned expression that made my stomach drop.

"Ezra, do you have a minute?"

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