Page 37 of After the Rain

"Oh, we certainly will," Mrs. Garrett said with satisfaction. "We just wanted to give you the courtesy of speaking with you first. Professional courtesy, you understand."

The courtesy of a warning shot. The opportunity to modify my behavior before they escalated their campaign.

By the time students started arriving, I'd managed to compose myself enough to smile and greet them normally. But the morning's encounter had left me feeling exposed andvulnerable, like everyone could see the target painted on my back.

Cooper arrived with Wade at our usual time, bouncing with his typical Monday morning energy. But Wade looked worse than ever—dark circles under his eyes, clothes that suggested he'd grabbed them off the floor, the general appearance of a man falling apart.

"Mr. Mitchell!" Cooper launched himself toward me with uncomplicated joy. "Guess what? I found three new library books about architecture, and one of them has pictures of buildings that look like the ones Daddy draws!"

"That sounds fascinating. We'll have to discuss them during our reading conference."

Wade approached more slowly, his eyes scanning the other parents dropping off their children. When he looked at me, I saw confusion mixed with something that made my chest tighten—not quite longing, but a searching quality that suggested he was trying to understand what had changed between us.

"Good morning, Mr. Mitchell," he said with careful formality. "Thank you for encouraging Cooper's reading interests."

"It's my job, Mr. Harrison."

The professional distance felt like swallowing broken glass, but I could feel Mrs. Garrett's eyes on us from across the parking lot. Every word, every gesture would be analyzed for evidence of impropriety.

When Cooper ran ahead to hang up his backpack, Wade stepped closer, lowering his voice.

"Ezra, I need to talk to you. About what happened, about?—"

"This isn't the appropriate time or place for personal conversations," I said quickly, hating myself for the words but knowing they were necessary. "If you have concerns about Cooper's education, please schedule a conference through the office."

Something flickered across Wade's face—hurt, confusion, maybe anger. The urge to reach out, to explain, to apologize hit me like a physical blow. Here was this man who'd been vulnerable with me, who'd trusted me enough to share that moment by the river, and I was treating him like a stranger.

But he just nodded and followed Cooper into the building, leaving me standing alone with the weight of my own cowardice.

The rest of the morning passed in a haze of forced normalcy. During lunch, I sat alone in my classroom, picking at a sandwich I couldn't taste while staring at the stack of papers that needed grading.

Three years I'd been doing this job. Three years of early mornings and late nights, of celebrating small victories and working through educational challenges with patience and creativity. I'd helped kids learn to read, overcome anxiety about math, find confidence in their abilities. I'd made a difference.

But sitting there in the fluorescent-lit silence, I realized that none of it might matter. All those late-night phone calls with concerned parents, all the extra time spent creating individualized learning plans, all the professional development workshops and continuing education courses—they could all be erased by whispered accusations from people who saw my sexuality as inherently threatening.

I looked around my classroom—the reading corner with its comfortable pillows and carefully curated book collection, the science station where kids conducted experiments with wide-eyed wonder, the art supplies organized in colorful bins that invited creativity. This space was mine. I'd built it with intention and love, designed every corner to inspire learning and growth.

Mrs. Garrett wanted to take it away from me because I'd dared to care about the wrong family. Because somewhere along the way, my professional interest in Cooper's education hadbecome tangled with personal feelings for his father that I was only beginning to understand myself.

The injustice of it burned in my chest, but underneath the anger was something more complicated: shame. Not shame about being gay—I'd worked through that years ago with therapy and Uncle John's unwavering support. But shame about the choices I was making now. The way I'd pulled back from Wade without explanation. The professional distance I was imposing on Cooper, who didn't understand why his favorite teacher had suddenly become cold and formal.

I was protecting myself by hurting people I cared about. That realization sat in my stomach like a stone.

I droveto the Cedar Falls Community Center instead of going straight home. I needed space to think, somewhere that didn't carry memories of Wade or echoes of Mrs. Garrett's accusations.

The community center gym was nearly empty—a few teenagers shooting baskets, an elderly man walking laps around the track. I found a corner and sat on the bleachers, staring at nothing and trying to process the day's events.

My phone buzzed with a text from Uncle John:

Uncle John

How's your Monday treating you?

I stared at the message for a long time before typing back:

Ezra

Like a root canal performed by someone who hates me personally.

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