Page 27 of Interpreter

Arguing with Tim… that little tip of his mouth showed me he was enjoying fucking with me. We weren’t really arguing anyway. Now that I’m not looking at his plump lips while they struggle not to smile, it’s kind of funny. The bastard knew I couldn’t reach that high, and I deserved it by giving him busy work. He took one look at my well-organized cabinet and thought,I’ll teach her. Consider me taught.

I let Tim’s intent gaze fluster me. He made me feel exposed when I was fully clothed. And when his eyes tracked my lips, watching, reading every movement…. Gretchen just thinks men with babies make the best porn. They don’t. Men who lip-read, who rely on reading your body to communicate, nowthat’sporn. And when you need a minute to hide, just for a moment, you ruin it all.

“Milah? Are you okay?”

Fucking Cal. I saw him staring out his door like there was a UFC fight going on.

I wave him off, needing to get back to Oliver. “Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks.”

Cal moves closer, and I ponder all the places Tim could have gone. “Some of the teachers are having drinks later. Do you want to come?”

Pat me on the back and call me awesome because I did not frown and immediately say, “Uh, no.” Nope. This girl fought through all the stress and reached back into her deep vat of awesome, pulled out a smile, and said, “Not today. I need to do some job hunting. Maybe next time.” Like never. The last thing I want to do is have that awkward conversation about where things went wrong and if we should give it another go. If there was ever a reason for not trying to get back with Cal—other than he just doesn’t do it for me—leaving the United Sates would be sufficient.

“Right,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck like he forgot. I bet he did. Okay, that’s bitchy. Cal is a decent guy, just notmyguy.

Tim has me horn—flustered. Where the fuck did he go anyway? Most of the classrooms are full of kids right now, and I doubt he would go to the cafeteria or somewhere public.

“I have to get back to Oliver.” I offer Cal a smile that says,yeah, we’re not doing this again, and take a few steps back toward my room. “See you later.”

He nods and shuts the door without another word. For a second, I feel bad, but then remember that Cal slept with Moochy Martha the weekend after we broke up, so I feel decent about turning down drinks tonight. And I do need to look for another job. Dammit.

Leaning against the door to the classroom, I take a deep breath and focus on what’s important. Not Martha. Not Cal. Not my impending joblessness. Instead, I focus on what Tim is feeling at this moment. Is he angry? Does he feel alone?

“Ms. Iglesias? Are you okay?”

And Oliver. I think about the confused little boy in front of me and offer him a smile. “I’m okay, sweetie.”

It’s a lie, but I don’t like stressing out first graders who already have enough shit to deal with on a daily basis.

“Is it because of Mr. Tim?”

Mr. Tim. I almost laugh at him calling him by his first name.

“Is he mad at you?”

Probably.

Sighing, I look at the ceiling, gather my thoughts, and grab the little boy’s hand in front of me. “No, I don’t think he’s mad at me.” Gah, where am I going with this? “Sometimes adults need a break.” I shrug, feeling like this conversation might come back to bite me in the ass. “Kind of like when you need a nap, you know, to get through the day.”

“So Mr. Tim needed a nap?”

I almost agree, but I learned earlier that Oliver will tell on my ass, so I come clean. “No, he just needed a break.”

“Where?”

That is the question. Probably in his car—oh, right, he doesn’t drive. “I’m not sure, buddy,” I say, heading toward my desk and hoping Oliver lets it go. I take a seat and pat the stool beside me. “Come on, let’s eat our lunch.”

Those innocent eyes glance at our bagged lunches on my desk, and then he blinks one super slow blink. “Won’t Mr. Tim be hungry without his lunch?”

Why, God? Why are all the men in my life killing my soul today?

I eye the extra lunch on my desk. Unlike mine and Oliver’s, someone took great care in packing it. The corners are folded down perfectly and tied with red, white, and blue ribbon. The front of the paper bag has been scribbled on by crayons, which looks like a whole bunch of swirls. I wonder if it’s the same kid Gretchen saw him with the previous day?

A knot forms in my stomach just thinking about Tim not eating. He won’t be able to tell whoever made this for him how good it was. He’ll have to lie. He’ll be a hungry liar, and that just won’t do.

“You’re right,” I tell the worried little boy at my side. “Let’s go find Mr. Tim and give him his lunch.”

As if I mentioned we were going out for ice cream instead, Oliver’s face lights up and he hops off the stool, snagging his and Tim’s lunches. I guess I see where his loyalty lies. Traitor.

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