Every Wrong Reason(26)

I gingerly picked at a breakfast of Alka-Seltzer and Tylenol and washed it down with a huge glass of water, which did nothing to settle my upset stomach.

By the time I had dressed in my usual black pencil skirt and blouse, I only felt just this side of death. I glanced at the shoes in my closet and promptly stripped out of everything I had put on.

It was a flats and pants kind of day. I would not survive heels or skirts or anything but the most comfortable outfit I could manage. And since yoga pants were usually frowned upon by the administration, my tailored, wide-leg pants and a light pink sweater were going to have to cut it.

Thankfully, in the middle of October, the weather had cooled significantly.

Chicago falls could range from muggy heat that never wanted to leave to early winters that layered the ground with snow and ice. This autumn, thankfully, fell right in the middle. The breeze was crisp enough for light jackets and sweaters, the grass in my small front yard had begun to frost over in the mornings and the lone tree in front of my house had turned a brilliant rainbow of golds and reds.

It felt like football and Halloween and I loved every second of it.

By the time I parked my old Ford Focus in the teachers’ lot, I felt like a living, breathing human being again. Granted, a living, breathing human being with a nasty hangover headache and the kind of nausea that turned my skin green, but still. It was an improvement.

I met Mrs. Chan at the mailboxes and noticed the equally sickly hue to her complexion. She stared at her box with the kind of abject vacancy I could appreciate this morning.

“It’s going to be a long day,” I grumbled.

She jumped, startled to find me standing next to her. Eventually, her expression settled back into miserable. “Ugh,” she agreed.

I offered her a grim smile. “Starla’s is a bad idea during the week.”

She shook her head and said, “If any of those little bastards pull the fire alarm today, I will murder them.”

My eyebrows shot to my hairline and I had to press my lips together to keep from gaping at her. Mrs. Chan was somewhere around fifty years old with a graying bob and a sweet smile. I had never heard her talk like that before.

Ever.

“Can I get you a cup of coffee?” I offered tranquilly.

She held up her travel mug and wiggled it gently. “My homeroom better hope this works.”

“I think we’re all hoping it works,” I mumbled to myself as she trudged away.

I was shuffling through the various papers that had been stuffed in my box when Eli sidled up next to me. Our mailboxes were close together on the same column. Only Kara’s and Mrs. Chan’s separated us alphabetically.

When Nick and I married, my last name changed from Simmons to Carter. I got to upgrade from the end of the mailbox line next to Kara. It had been a great day for both of us. But especially for me. Every once in a while she showed up with Starbucks and a muffin. It was obvious why we were so inseparable.

The best kind of friendships were born and bonded over Starbucks. It happened every day.

“Morning, Ms. Carter,” he said slyly.

I loved the deepness of his voice, the leftover scratchiness of the early morning and the rumble that seemed to hit me in the gut every time he spoke.

“Morning, Mr. Cohen.”

I felt his sideways glance as he took in my appearance. “You lied to me last night.”

His comment caught me so off guard I dropped some of my papers. I swooped down to scoop them up and he followed, squatting just a foot away from me.

“When?” I asked. Fear hit first. What had I said in my drunken stupor? Then disbelief. I didn’t remember lying. I would remember if I lied to him, even if I was drunk.

Right?

“You told me you weren’t going to be pretty this morning.” He handed me some papers he picked up. “That was clearly a lie.”

A blush crept up my neck at the same time my unhappy stomach turned unpleasantly. I didn’t know whether to be flattered or call him out for being cheesy. I settled for wrinkling my nose at him.

His eyes twinkled with humor and he read my mind. “That was lame, huh?”

“It was sweet,” I assured him. “Especially since I don’t feel pretty.”

We stood up and Eli looked around the quiet office. There were teachers near the coffee pot and slumped over in chairs, waiting for the morning to begin, but nobody was really interacting with anybody else. “At least you’re not alone,” he grinned.

“Whose idea was that anyway?”

Eli leaned in conspiratorially, “Tim.”

“Mr. Bunch?” I laughed.

“He suggested it during the fire drill.”

Well, I didn’t blame him there. Fire drills were always a nightmare to survive. Keeping a tab on all of our kids was nearly impossible. Hamilton was built right on a busy street in a hub of business activity. Our protocol was to line up on the sidewalk as far from the building as we could, which usually turned into a giant exodus of students as they abandoned the day altogether. And there weren’t enough of us teachers to keep everyone in line.

Shouting, “Make good choices!” while they walked away with their middle fingers waving proudly, never seemed to make much of an impact.

“I can see why there was such a great turnout then.” I hugged my papers to my chest and looked around the room. “Do you think today will be any easier?”