I shrug, but take a bite anyway. Across the table, Dad is grilling Carson about what her parents are up to and how her brother’s doing. I clear my throat and glance over at Wyatt.
“So—Carson said she talked to you at the hospital about the whole tutoring thing,” I say quietly.
In an instant, Wyatt’s eyes sort of shutter themselves closed. He shrugs and takes a sip of his water.
“She did. It—uh—isn’t going to work out.”
I frown at him. “I don’t get it—you were so gung ho before.”
He swallows hard. “I know her brother.”
“Huh?”
He glances across the table at Carson, who is laughing at something Rocky is saying, then back at me.
“Her brother, Lennon. I know him.”
“Uh . . . so?”
Wyatt scrubs a hand over his face.
“So . . . I sort of punched his fucking lights out the last time I saw him. It was before the accident, but there’s some bad blood between us. I’d seen Carson with him before, but they don’t look anything alike and I thought she was his girlfriend or something. I had no clue she was his sister.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Lennon’s a pretty big dude—what’d you punch him for?”
He looks down at his tray and fiddles with his fork.
“For sleeping with my wife.”
My mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again. Wyatt looks up at me and gives me a rueful smile.
“Wow.” I don’t know what else to say. “You’re married?”
“She’s my ex-wife now.” Now it’s his turn to raise his eyebrows. “Why can’t you believe I was married? Am I repulsive or something?”
“No, of course not!” I punch his arm lightly. “I just never pictured you in a serious relationship like that. You always hear that musicians aren’t exactly big on monogamy.”
He shrugs. “Not all musicians.”
“Hmm. Clearly.”
Wyatt takes a bite of his salad, then glances back across at Carson. She’s watching us now and I give her a little thumbs-up that’s hidden from Wyatt’s view.
“You really just need to give her a chance. She’ll help you out. You don’t even need to say anything about her brother.”
He sniffs. “Maybe.”
“Good.” I take another bite of my apple and swallow, even though it still pretty much tastes like nothing. “I think you’re making the right choice.”
“I guess we’ll see,” he sighs, then looks at me with a sad expression. “I think I’m just used to people hiding their shit—I didn’t want to become that kind of person.”
I huff out a little laugh.
“If I’ve learned anything in the last month, it’s that everyone hides their shit. You can think you know someone and then find out they’re someone completely different.”
***
I don’t really intend to follow the trial. I just do.
It’s big in the Baltimore news. Eight men—one of whom is J. D.—are charged with drug trafficking and transporting narcotics over seven different state lines and on school property. The news touches on the fact that J. D. was a senior at the Franklin School and that police were able to establish contact with him through his time there. It’s a pretty vague way of saying they had someone on the inside, but I guess the semantics matter with something like a drug trial.
Most of the time, I make it through the day without watching the updates—it’s when Carson’s out tutoring and Rainey’s still at the YMCA in the late afternoons that I find myself glued to channel 13, waiting for even a glimpse of Smith in the courtroom and cursing myself for it the whole time.
It’s been almost a month since the accident.
It’s been over a month since I saw him in person.
I have so many things I want to ask him. But instead, I just watch the television and hope to get a glimpse of him, even for the briefest of moments.
It’s a Wednesday, the day the defense delivers their opening statement, that I finally see Smith. It’s just not on television. It’s at Franklin High.
While I was at the hospital, I’d written thank-you notes to Caroline and Mr. Weathersby, which I decide I should deliver to the school myself rather than send them. Despite having to end my student teaching two weeks early, they both gave me glowing recommendations to my thesis advisor, so I feel like a card and an in-person visit are the least I can do.
I have to say, of all the things I missed, I think driving was at the top of the list. Being able to get behind the wheel and leave when I want to is a luxury I’ll never take for granted again. I don’t think my roommates will, either, considering that they’ve had to cart my ass around for six weeks.
But when I pull up to Franklin High School, I sort of wish I hadn’t come here alone. This place reminds me of things that happened the past few months in a way that’s both haunting and painful.
The main office is quiet when I slip inside, save a few voices coming from the conference room and the ever-present whirring of the copy machine. I walk to the wall of cubby-style mailboxes and find Caroline’s mailbox, then slide the card inside. I look for Mr. Weathersby’s name and find his mailbox stuffed to the gills with papers and folders. I can’t even fit the corner of the envelope into the space. Sighing, I glance back at his office. I could just slide past the conference room and slip it under his door. Assuming that I won’t be seen as I walk by the open conference room door.
Which, of course, I am.
“Miss Hendricks?”
I freeze, then pivot slowly toward the voice. Mr. Weathersby is standing at the far end of the room, next to a whiteboard, and holding a dry-erase marker in one hand. Officer Rains is sitting at the head of the table with two other uniformed officers and a man in an expensive-looking suit.
And at the other end of the table is Smith.
His back is to me, but I know it’s him. His posture is ramrod straight—unnaturally straight. Like he’s trying to hold himself together.
“What a nice surprise,” Mr. Weathersby is saying, smiling at me. “To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?”
Stepping into the room feels like breaching a battleground. I’m out here floundering, and hoping I can just give him the card and scurry back out before I get emotionally pummeled.
“I have this for you, sir,” I say, handing him the envelope. I try to ignore the fact that my voice is wobbly. “I wanted to say thank you for all you’ve done for me this semester.”
Mr. Weathersby gives a wave of his hand
“Of course, my dear—as I said to your advisor, I believe you’ll make a fantastic teacher.”
I smile nervously. “Thank you, sir.”
The room falls silent and Mr. Weathersby clears his throat.
“I never really got the chance to speak with you after the accident—of course, you’ll understand why we had to be discreet about Officer Asher’s presence here.”
I let my eyes flicker over to Smith.
Holy shit.
He’s wearing a fucking uniform.
Every fantasy I never realized I had about a police officer comes barreling through my brain all at once. His eyes meet mine and I force myself to school my expression. He looks so mature and sophisticated, and I want to smack myself for not realizing he wasn’t actually a student.
“Of course,” I say to Mr. Weathersby, but my words sound sort of hollow and far away. I need to get out of here.
“Well, anyway,” I say, backing out toward the door, “have a wonderful summer. I wish you the best.”
I’m pretty sure no one says anything to me after that, but I can’t be 100 percent positive because I literally dash out of the conference room, through the office, and back down the hallway. I bypass my old classroom, the library, the cafeteria. I just keep moving, pretending that I don’t see Smith’s face everywhere I turn. If I can just get out of here without bursting into tears, I promise myself that I will never have to see him again.
I didn’t realize having him face-to-face would feel like being set on fire from the inside out.
I’m ten feet from the door, ten feet from making my escape, when I hear him call my name.