Page 55 of After the Rain

"Pressure above my level. The superintendent's office is getting calls, letters, emails. Someone's organized a campaign, and you're the target."

The weight of constant scrutiny settled over me like a lead blanket. Every lesson plan, every interaction with students, every conversation with parents would be examined for evidence of my supposed unfitness for teaching.

"They're building a case," Dr. Williams continued quietly. "Looking for any excuse to question your suitability. You need to be absolutely perfect in every decision, every word. One small mistake will be magnified into proof of whatever they want to believe about you."

I nodded, though the unfairness burned in my chest. They were attacking me for being gay while using my friendship with Wade as ammunition. The personal and professional had become inseparable, and both were under assault.

The day dragged on with the weight of being watched, evaluated, documented. Every smile at a student, every encouraging word, every natural interaction felt scrutinized. By the time the final bell rang, I was exhausted from the effort of being perfect.

Brook insisted on coffee, bringing backup in the form of Delilah Martinez and several other colleagues who'd heard about my situation.

"We're not letting you face this alone," Brook declared as we settled into a corner booth at Moonbeam Diner. "If they want to target one of us, they're targeting all of us."

The solidarity helped ease some of the isolation I'd been feeling. For twenty minutes, I almost felt normal again, surrounded by people who knew my worth as a teacher and didn't give a damn about my sexuality.

Then Mrs. Garrett walked in.

She wasn't alone—two other parents flanked her, and the way they scanned the diner before approaching our area made it clear this wasn't a coincidence. They'd come here knowing I'd be here, ready to make a scene.

"Some people think their lifestyle choices should be forced on innocent children," Mrs. Garrett announced, her voice pitched to carry across the restaurant. "Thank goodness concerned parents are finally taking action to protect what's right."

The performance was calculated for maximum public impact, designed to embarrass me and reinforce her narrative about dangerous gay teachers corrupting pure children.

What happened next surprised everyone.

"Mr. Mitchell is the best teacher my grandson ever had," called out Mrs. Bradley from across the diner. "Anyone causing trouble for him is causing trouble for our children's education."

Other voices joined in, a spontaneous chorus of support that left Mrs. Garrett looking flustered and off-balance. She clearly hadn't expected organized pushback to her campaign.

Brook seized the moment. "If you have concerns about educational curriculum, there are appropriate channels for addressing them. Public harassment of teachers isn't one of them."

Mrs. Garrett retreated with her allies, but not before shooting me a look that promised this wasn't over. As they left, severalcommunity members approached our table to offer personal support and share positive stories about my teaching.

The unexpected allies reminded me that Mrs. Garrett represented a vocal minority, not the entire community. But I also knew that motivated minorities could cause significant damage, especially when they had organization and resources behind them.

Tuesday evening broughta text from Wade that made my heart race: "Can we meet? Something important I need to tell you. I'll pick you up at seven."

When his truck pulled up outside my apartment, Wade looked different. More resolved, somehow. Less of the frantic energy that had characterized our recent interactions, more of a settled determination that both intrigued and worried me.

"Where are we going?" I asked as I climbed into the passenger seat.

"Somewhere special. Somewhere that might become important to us."

The cryptic answer didn't help my nerves, but the drive through Cedar Falls was peaceful in the early evening light. Wade seemed to know exactly where he was going, taking turns onto roads I recognized but hadn't traveled in years.

We ended up at the old Johnson place, a Victorian house on the outskirts of town that had been sitting empty for as long as I lived here. But as Wade pulled into the driveway, I realized it wasn't empty anymore. The yard was cleared, the porch had been repaired, and there were signs of ongoing renovation work.

"Wade, what is this place?"

He turned off the engine and looked at me with an expression I couldn't read. "I bought it three years ago. I've been fixing it up in my spare time, mostly on weekends when Cooper's with Sarah."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I wasn't sure what I was doing it for. I told myself it was an investment, a project to keep my hands busy during the divorce. But really..." He trailed off, staring at the house. "Really, I think I was building something I didn't know how to name yet."

We got out of the truck and Wade led me up the front steps. The porch was solid under our feet, the boards clearly new even if they were stained to match the original wood. The front door opened easily, revealing a space that took my breath away.

The interior was gorgeous—hardwood floors refinished to a warm honey color, walls painted in soft, welcoming colors, crown molding restored to its original Victorian elegance. But it was clearly unfinished, with ladders and paint cans in corners, plastic sheeting protecting furniture in what looked like a living room.

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