Lance

My bag hits the chair with a thud.

“Brandon, you sit over there,” I say, pointing to a little table in the corner of the Family and Consumer Sciences Room. “I don’t want to hear a peep out of you unless it starts with, ‘Excuse me, Mr. Gibson’ and is followed by a question pertinent to the subject matter you should be studying as defined by the State of Illinois. Got it?”

“This is gonna blow,” he groans.

“It’s detention. It’s supposed to blow. That’s the point.”

He tosses his books on the desk and collapses in the seat like he’s been sentenced to the electric chair. I toy with the idea of pointing out he’s being a baby and cause and effect and all that jazz, but choose to pick my battles with this kid instead. This isn’t the one to fight.

I left the door to the room open on purpose. With each squeak or tap of soles down the hall, my eyes flicker to the opening to see if it’s Mariah.

It’s funny how routines become your norm. Then when change comes to your habits, even simple little differences, you feel thrown off in every aspect of your life. Tugging at my tie, I keep my gaze on the empty the hall and hope she walks by. She does not.

I haven’t had a drink since the night with the tequila and Peck, yet I feel drunk. Or hungover. Just a cloudy-headed haze that I can’t clear out. Decision making skills are one of my finer assets. I pick a direction and go. But I’m so unsure about what I should do with Mariah right now that I question my sanity.

As my tires hit the asphalt parking lot this morning, I was adamant I was backing off. Not being a dick, just giving this thing between us some time to cool down. Then as my ears picked up the lunch bell this afternoon, I found myself standing outside of the library warring about whether I should go in or not.

I did, but by the time I made that decision, half of the lunch period was over. It was just enough time to wet my whistle. I left her office needing to see her again but knowing more than ever I really, really shouldn’t.

“Ollie,” I say, spinning around. “You ready?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t sound so excited.” Patting his shoulder as I walk by, I enter one of the little kitchenettes lining the back wall. Each kitchen station is separated by a counter top. “Did Ms. Holden give you a recipe or something to go off of?”

“It’s right here.” He points at an index card on the counter.

“You mean the instructions to bake a cake fit on that thing? She did give you instructions, right?”

Ollie grins. “That’s all I’m allowed to use. No online resources, no video tutorials.”

“She’s hardcore,” I say. I slip my phone, that I’d pulled out to look up a cake baking how-to, back in my pocket.

“My ma cooks,” Brandon calls out from the corner. “You have to get out all your ingredients first.”

“That did not start with ‘Mr. Gibson,’ Brandon.”

“I’m trying to be helpful,” he contends.

“Doing the history assignment I gave you today would be helpful.”

He rolls his eyes, but goes back to the paper in front of him.

Ollie fumbles his way around the little island, checking the index card and pulling various items from the drawers and mini-fridge. Next, he goes to the cabinets and pulls out measuring cups and spoons.

I hop up on the counter, pretty certain this sort of thing is against the health department codes, and watch him try to figure out what to do.

“First step,” he says, running a finger down the card, “is creaming.”

“That’s what she said!” Brandon shouts from across the room.

I look at Brandon with a sigh. “Really?”

“Mr. Gibson, that was funny as hell,” Brandon laughs. “He walked right into that one.”

“Just do your work,” I tell him. “Focus.”

Ollie goes back to work, digging around under the sink until he finds the stand-up mixer. He lugs it to the counter. He then searches in the drawers for the paddles.

Silverware clamor together as he makes the simple task sound like a bull in a china shop. Brandon starts to comment on it, but wisely refrains and goes back to what is most likely drawing inappropriate images on his notepad.

Ollie pounds around for a while longer until the paddles are snapped into the mixer. He drops the butter into the bowl and plugs it in. Nothing happens. “Mr. Gibson? Do you know how to turn this thing on?”

Hopping off the counter, I head his way. “I’m not supposed to help you, but that thing should’ve come with an owner’s manual.”

“It probably did,” he shrugs. “And we were probably taught how to use it in class.”

This straddles my teacher conscience. Thinking it over quickly, I turn to him. “Ollie, do you have any plans to go into baking?”

“No.”

“Cooking? Chef school—culinary school?”

“Um, no.”

That’s enough for me. I search the thing all over and can’t find the switch. Next thing I know, Brandon is at my side looking too.

“How can it be this complicated?” I mutter. “Didn’t either of you pay attention in class?”

“No,” the say in unison.

“This is ridiculous,” I sigh. “Look, people made cakes long before they had mixers. Read the instructions. Does it explicitly say you have to use the mixer? Or can we get out of this on a technicality?”

“Beat in the mixer on medium-to-medium high for three to four minutes,” Ollie reads.

“Naturally,” I groan.

Brandon lifts the cord and the red light on the front of the machine turns on. “It was right here,” he says proudly.

“I wondered how many of you it would take to get that thing on.” Mariah’s voice rings from the doorway.

My head snaps in that direction to see her leaning against the door jamb, a coy little smile on her lips. Her bag is hanging at her side, her hair falling around her shoulders. I wonder if this is how she looks coming home after working all day. That thought gets shoved right out of my mind for all of our sake.

“This is unnecessary,” I say, knocking the top of the machine with the back of my hand. “Just another overpriced gadget.”

“Like the stereo system in your car?” She shoves away from the door and struts into the room.

“No, not like my stereo system,” I say, looking at the boys like she’s crazy. They laugh. “What are you doing here anyway?”

“It looks like Ollie needs help.” She drops her bag at the station next to us. “What are you working on?”

“Hey. He’s supposed to do that on his own.” I shake my head at her.

“I’m not doing it for him, but I think I’ll supervise. You know, since it took three of you to turn on the mixer.”

She tosses me a wink before turning back to the students. “Chocolate cake?”

“I haven’t had chocolate cake in forever,” Ollie sighs. “This is a butter cake recipe. Can we make it chocolate?”

They all look at me.

“Talk to the supervisor.” I throw my hands up before hopping back up on the counter.

Mariah moves effortlessly around the kitchen, giving Ollie tips and chatting with the boys while she takes inventory on what’s already out and what’s yet to be done. They laugh at her jokes and lend her a hand when she tries to reach the vanilla from the top of the cabinet above the sink.

There is a bundle of papers I need to sort in my briefcase—a stack I planned on going through while Ollie made his cake. If it were just him making the cake, maybe I would. But there’s no way I can take my eyes off her.

“Add your sugar and get it creaming,” Mariah says, pushing her sleeves up.

I watch them for a minute, Brandon specifically. He’s paying less attention to the baking than he is the curve of Mariah’s hips.

“Brandon,” I call out. “Head back to your desk.”

“But I really want to help,” he grins. It melts off his face quickly as he sees my reaction. It takes just a few steps for him to make it to his seat and slink back in.

I remind myself he’s a teenager. Mariah’s not interested in him. Still, he has testosterone and my natural reaction is to get him away from her.

I’m so fucked.

Mariah helps Ollie measure the sugar. I’m pretty sure he could’ve done it himself, but he seems more than delighted in a very innocent way at having her help him.

“Does your mom bake with you?” she asks, handing him a spatula.

“I’m a foster kid, Ms. Malarkey.”

“Oh.” There’s a squeal in her voice before she composes herself. “Does your foster mother bake with you?”

“I’ve been in six foster homes in the last ten years. I can only remember one doing that kind of thing with me,” he shrugs.

There’s a sense of defeat in his tone, a finality that shows he accepts this is the way things are. This is the way they’re meant to be. I glance over at Brandon and he’s watching too.

“That must be rough,” Mariah says. “I’m sorry you’ve had to go through that.”

“Better than staying with my sister. The last time I remember seeing her she had a needle sticking out of her arm.”

I have to turn my head so they don’t see me cringe. Rubbing at my forehead like I have a headache, I try to wrap my head around his situation.

“Well, I can kill two birds with one stone.” The baritone voice rumbles through the room. The football coach stands a few feet into the room, a collared shirt with the team logo on the chest. “How long is detention, Brandon?”

“Another hour,” he replies.

“Okay. Get to the War Room as soon as you’re done. You’re getting behind with these detentions.”

“I know, Sir. I’ll be there.” Brandon lifts his pencil and does a great job at pretending he’s working on his paper.

Coach Collins’ gaze then roams across the room and settles on Mariah. “Mariah, can I talk to you for a minute?”

“Sure.”

She’s all too chipper as she prances to the doorway to talk to the new coach who’s fresh out of college. I’ve seen him around outside of school and, much to my chagrin, he comes across as a pretty decent guy.

I want to snatch her up, wrap my arm around her waist and pull her back to me. Whatever he’s saying to her isn’t library-related. There’s nothing about the library that would make her head fall back in laughter like that.

Mother fucker.

My blood threatens to pop the confinements of my veins. My temples throb as I try to appear impassive despite being on the edge of exploding.

Ollie flips on the mixer. The roar of the machine grates through the room, flipping butter and sugar together in a bowl that squeaks every time the paddles turn inside. Gone is the sound of Mariah’s laugh. I can no longer hear broken pieces of their conversation and it’s all I can do not to march over there and insert myself in the middle of whatever they’re talking about.

My phone buzzes beside me. A message bar is positioned across the screen, reminding me to update my dating app.

Pursing my lips together, I look back at Mariah. I wonder if this is how she felt when I was in her office talking to other women? She couldn’t have, not really. I wasn’t seeing her. Not like we have been now. Still, I would’ve felt a variation of this even before I knew she was Nerdy Nurse.

What the hell does that mean?

Coach leans towards her his hand pressing on the wall just above her head. She doesn’t seem to mind as she looks up at him and laughs. It’s too close, too intimate. My hand shakes at my side, twisting into a tight ball, as I watch this asshole think he’s making a move on her right in front of me.

He touches her hand as he talks and I think I’m going to come out of my skin.

“Ollie!” I call out over the roar of the mixer. “That’s good.”

He flips the switch. “But it needs another two minutes.”

“Call it two minutes. Move along.”

The coach reaches out and places his hand gently on her shoulder. I slide off the counter and head to the window before I do something stupid.

The courtyard outside is bright and peaceful. A few birds play in the grass. A heaviness sits in my chest as I realize this isn’t going to get any easier. My reaction to her isn’t going to ease up and other men aren’t going to stay away from her because I’ve somehow invisibly marked her as mine.

“Mr. Gibson?” Ollie says from behind me. I hold up a finger without turning around.

Sucking in a deep, ragged breath, I turn around. Brandon is standing next to Ollie, holding a spoon.

“What are you doing Brandon?” I ask, annoyed.

“He needed help and you ignored him.”

Taking off my glasses, I head across the room just as Mariah finishes with the coach. She’s all smiles as she joins us.

“What are you doing?” she laughs.

“Sifting dry ingredients,” Ollie shrugs.

“You’re wearing more of them than anything.” She pulls him to the side and dusts him off, white flour puffing off his shirt. “Why are we doing this today again?”

“I missed it the first time and it’s a requirement,” Ollie explains.

“Why’d you miss it?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Overslept.”

“Get one of those new alarm clocks that flash color,” Brandon says. “That thing scares the shit out of me every morning.”

“I could sleep through a war. By the time I finish at the farm after school and then put in a couple of hours cleaning carpets with Red Henry, I’m beat.”

Mariah takes a step back. “You work two jobs?”

“Yeah.”

“Isn’t there a law about that?”

“Probably,” he says simply. “I’ll be eighteen in six months. I don’t have a choice, really.”

“I’ll be eighteen next month and I’m not working two jobs,” Brandon chips in.

A ripple flows through my stomach as I take in what Ollie’s saying. Mariah chews on her bottom lip, her eyes meeting mine.

“You won’t be homeless on your birthday either.” Ollie’s statement is harsh, but said with enough kindness that it doesn’t feel as sharp as it is. “As a foster kid, I get some basic government services for a certain time. But I can leave if I want and, well, my foster family is pretty shitty.” He lowers his head. “That makes me sound ungrateful, doesn’t it? I’m not. I swear. I just don’t want things held over my head anymore.”

I think Mariah is going to hug him. She leans forward like she does before she reaches for me, but her arms don’t extend. It’s like she’s not sure what to do. I can’t blame her because I don’t know what to do either.

My mind starts racing, trying to figure out how to fix this.

“So you just … what?” Brandon asks, walking back to the kitchenette. “You live in a box?”

“I won’t because I have some money saved.” Ollie sprays a pan. “But if I didn’t, maybe.”

“That’s a bunch of shit.” Brandon looks at me. “How’s this true, Mr. Gibson?”

I can’t find the words for a minute, nor can I find the gumption to get on him for his language. “I don’t know,” I admit. “Ollie, if you need a place to stay, tell me.”

“I’ll figure it out.”

Mariah walks to the counter where I was sitting, her back to us. I want to go to her and hug her. Make her laugh like she did with Coach Collins. Instead, I take in the two boys from very different backgrounds looking at me for answers.

“This isn’t fair,” Brandon insists. “This is so far from fair it’s fucked up and I know you’re going to tell me to watch my mouth but that’s the only way to describe this.” He looks at me, at Mariah, at Ollie, and back to me.

I think back to my life growing up, a semi-charmed one in comparison. How we took vacations and had pets and didn’t have all the things we wanted, maybe, but we always had enough. I think of the accident and the way it tore our lives apart. How Britt left and then my parents died and how I worked for years to protect myself from any sort of pain or from causing pain to someone else. And how now I’m in love with the woman I’m more or less sure was created with me in mind. It must’ve been a version of me who didn’t go on that gravel road back in the summer over a decade ago though. Because now the life we could’ve had, the one I know we would’ve had, should’ve had, is impossible.

“Life isn’t fair, guys.” I hold the bowl while Ollie scrapes the rest of the batter into the pan. “You’re born with a hand of cards.”

“Like in poker?” Brandon asks.

“Kind of. And each year you go through life, your cards change. Let’s say Ollie was dealt a shittier hand than you, Brandon. That doesn’t mean he can’t play his cards smarter than you and in ten years be sitting on a royal flush while you have eights and nines.”

Ollie likes this, smiling as he puts the cake in the oven.

“Or maybe Ollie makes a bad call and wipes himself out and has to rebuild at twenty. That can happen too,” I add. “The key to life is to play your cards smart. Don’t take anyone else’s and don’t trick them into playing theirs by lying or cheating the system.”

My mouth is dry as I look over my shoulder at Mariah. She’s looking at the spot where my phone lays.

What cards do I play now?

“Okay,” I tell the boys. “Get those dishes washed up and let’s make the icing.”