Page 66 of My Only

THEN – LATE SUMMER 2022… TWO MONTHS LATER

Ayla

As soon as I stepped into the faculty lounge, I inhaled a deep breath and fixed a smile onto my lips.

It was our annual work mixer at Park Avenue Prep, a tradition we held shortly after the school year began. A time to catch up, unwind, and bring our spouses—though that part was unwritten. It was the only event where we could truly mix and mingle.

For years, Hassani and I had arrived together, our little tradition locked in place. I’d stay late after school, change into my outfit in my classroom, then meet him for dinner before the party. We’d walk in at the same time, our bellies full, ready to be social.

This year was different.

This summer was different.

He’d started working on the Greene Gardens Project late last December, and by July of this year, I’d met his team. Because he was deep into the project, we hadn’t taken our usual summer trip. Instead, we settled for a weekend staycation in Manhattan and called it a day.

And now, for the first time ever, he was late to my event.

I waited in my classroom as long as I could, checking my phone every few minutes for an update. But nothing.

So, I finally decided to go to the party without him.

“Ayla!”

I looked up from my phone and lifted a hand when I saw who was calling me. Aisha Townsend, one of the teachers whose classroom was right next to mine.

I took another deep breath as I closed the space between myself and the group of teachers I spent most of my time with at Park Avenue Prep.

None of them had spouses—happily single and always attending the event solo—so I decided to join them until Hassani arrived.

“Hey, y’all.” I injected as much energy into my voice as I could muster. “What are we getting drunk off tonight?”

They all snickered, instantly catching the inside joke.

Park Avenue Prep kept things dry. The idea of teachers enjoying even a sip of alcohol under this roof—even at a work mixer—was practically a cardinal sin.

“Oh, you know,” Aisha started. “Grape juice and apple juice. Getting high off this central air too.”

I giggled.

“As always, the hair is poppin’, Mrs. Franklin,” another teacher, Celeste Ramirez, commented. “I love.”

“Aww, well, you know.” I patted my coils and curls and smiled. “Thank you, as always.”

“Speaking of Mrs. Franklin...” Aisha turned to me with a teasing grin. “Where’s the mister?”

“He’s working late,” I said, exaggerating a pout. “He should be here in the next hour, though.”

At least, I hoped so.

“Hmph.”

The sound came from Janae, quiet but sharp enough to catch.

She hadn’t been the same since late last summer, when her ex-husband’s mistress showed up at school to tell her about the affair. I wasn’t there when it happened, but the recap alone was enough for me to picture it.

Ever since that day, Janae had changed. She smiled less, spoke in sharp, biting remarks that we often let slide, knowing she was still processing everything. She moved into a smaller home with her kids, left her husband, and filed for divorce. She was going through it, and we all did our best to be supportive.

But she kept us at arm’s length.

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