Not So Nice Guy(63)

“No.” I know how much he hated working there after college. “We’ll figure it out. If I have to paste on a fake smile, I will. I can do it.”

I tell him that, but really, I’m not so sure. I have a lot of pride and I’m not very good at apologizing when I don’t feel like I’ve done anything wrong. So what if Ian and I canoodled? We did it on our own time and away from school premises—well…mostly. There was that Valentine’s Day dance chaperoning incident, and that time we nearly made out in the field house…but let’s not get bogged down in the details here.

Ian and I stroll into school side by side but not touching. He walks me to my classroom and I can tell he wants to kiss me, but we save it. Instead, I say, “Let me see it.”

He wipes away his grin and holds out his hand. His thick gold wedding band sends a shiver of pleasure down my spine.

“I love it.”

“And yours? Do you love it too?”

“Are you kidding?”

My ring could do some major damage if I ever decided to partake in a street fight. I glance down and the diamond twinkles up at us.

My students immediately notice it, one in particular: Nicholas.

“Good morning, Ms. Abra—OH MY GOD WHAT IS THAT ON YOUR HAND?!”

“Nicholas, deep breaths.”

He fans his face like he’s going to pass out.

“It’s a wedding ring,” I admit calmly.

“Go Ms. Abrams!” another student hoots from the back of the class.

Nicholas sends them a death stare then flings his glare back to me. “How could you do this to me? I was going to wait for you!”

I ease him down to his seat, just in case he’s about to lose consciousness on me. “Well, Nicholas, Mr. Fletcher and I—”

“Mr. Fletcher?! So he’s the homewrecker!”

For the rest of class, he refuses to meet my eyes. When we go around the room, discussing this week’s newspaper assignments, he declares he’s going to write an opinion piece on marriage failure rates in America.

“Last I heard, nearly half of all marriages end in divorce,” he warns, gaze slicing through me.

“Sounds like an interesting feature. Dig into it.”

I don’t have the energy to nurse his wounded teenage heart. I need to keep my focus on the PTA meeting coming at the end of the day. I practice apologizing to myself in front of the bathroom mirror in between periods.

“Yes, Mrs. O’Doyle, you may go sit on a pineapple.”

Hmm…not quite right.

I stretch my mouth and practice a few jaw exercises before I try again. “Mrs. O’Doyle and members of the Oak Hill PTA, I’m here today to tell you all that I am so…so ready for you all to…move on to the next piece of mindless drama. Also, did y’all know there’s a sale on choppy bobs down at the hair salon?”

All right, scratch that. Maybe I’ll let Ian do the apologizing and I’ll try to look deeply contrite in the background.

By the time lunch arrives, word about our elopement has spread to the entire school. Ian and I knew it would, and we didn’t go to any lengths to keep it a secret. There’s no point. Being married should help us out of the hot water in which we’ve found ourselves, and, incidentally, we’re both pretty excited about it. I really wasn’t sure how the rest of the school would take it, but when I arrive for lunch, Ian is recounting the museum story to the entire lounge. Everyone turns to me as I walk in and explodes into a round of clapping and whistles. Someone’s even taken the time to decorate the room with balloons and streamers, and yes, there’s a can of whipped cream with a bow on it waiting for me at my chair. I hold it up and laugh.

“Ha ha. Very funny.”

Really, it is. I’m going to lick whipped cream off Ian’s naked chest later.

Life is grand.

There’s even a cake that says, Happy birthday, Mary! I don’t understand the joke, but hey, cake is cake.

After we cut into it and dole out all the slices, a soft voice chimes in near the back of the crowd, “Aww man, is that my birthday cake?”

The Freshman Four stand scowling in a corner. When I glance over, Gretchen slices a finger across her neck menacingly and Bianca elbows her in the ribs. “Jesus, we aren’t going to cut her throat, Gretchen!”

“Oh, that’s what that means? I never knew! Sorry Sam!”

We open a card that was very obviously hastily passed around for people to sign just before lunchtime. Half of the signatures wish Mary a happy birthday. There’s clearly a lot of confusion about what we’re actually celebrating at the moment. Poor Mary. We really stole her thunder.

Just before we head back to our classrooms, one of the teachers demands a kiss, and Ian and I look at each other and laugh. We shouldn’t, really. We’re on probation. We’re supposed to have our tails between our legs, but one kiss won’t hurt, right?

So we kiss, just once, and everyone applauds—right up until Principal Pruitt walks in and announces that the party’s over. Mary rushes forward and uses her fingers to scrape off the last bit of icing from her re-appropriated birthday cake.

Pruitt asks to see us out in the hallway and we trail after him. The cake settles heavy in my stomach.

“You two really aren’t masters of discretion, are you?” he asks, pointing to the balloons filtering out into the hallway.