Those Three Words: A Single Dad, Billionaire Boss Romance
Alexis Winter
1
MARGOT
“I’m fired?”
The words feel so foreign rolling off my tongue. I’ve never been fired. I’m only twenty-six, but it still feels like a kick to the stomach.
“Not technically fired. It’s not because of your performance, if that makes it any better. It’s simply a matter of budget cuts.” Mr. Diaz says the words with a sympathetic look on his face as if that will soften the blow of the situation.
It does not.
“I just don’t understand. The music education program has grown so much in the last three years with me managing it. The ki—” My words hitch in my throat that is thick with emotion. “The kids. What about the kids? They love my class.”
“Like I said, Miss Silver, regrettably, we just don’t have the funding anymore to keep the program going. I’m sure you understand how all this bureaucratic red tape messes things up. Unfortunately, it’s out of my hands.”
I stare at the ground, my vision blurring through my tears.
“We can offer you two weeks’ pay.” He holds out an envelope to me, but I don’t take it. “I’m sorry, Miss Silver. Truly, I am.” Mr. Diaz places the envelope on the small table next to me before standing up and exiting the room.
Two weeks? That’s it? I bounce my legs nervously, trying to divert my anxiousness into movement instead of having a full emotional breakdown in the teacher’s lounge.
I’ve loved every second of being a music teacher. It was my dream job, what I went to school for. Both my parents were musicians. My mom taught me to read music and my dad taught me to feel it.
I pick up the envelope. Between this paycheck and my small savings, I’d say I have about enough money to live in my current Chicago studio for another month and a half before I’m evicted.
I let out a breath and gather my bag, then head back to my classroom. It’s the end of the semester so it won’t look strange that I’m carrying a box of items to my car. Most teachers clean out their classrooms for the summer.
“Bye, Miss Silver. See you next year!” Two of my students, Bryant and Adam, wave to me as I step into my classroom.
“Have a good summer, boys,” I say as they both dart past me down the hallway and out the door.
I shut the door behind me and lean against it briefly. Already the pain of realizing I won’t see Bryant and Adam next school year is threatening to break through. I push the thoughts aside, still probably a little numb from being fired.
I’ll miss the smell of my classroom. That probably sounds weird but every classroom still has that same smell of pencil shavings and Lysol wipes from our childhood. Even though I’m pretty sure none of these kids have ever seen or used a number two pencil in their life.
I smile to myself, thinking about my favorite elementary teacher, Miss Nyguard. She was always so kind and sweet. Her wardrobe of pastel cardigans and floral skirts looked as though she’d borrowed them from someone twice her age. I wish I could tell her the impact she had on me. It was because of her that I wanted to be an educator.
Memories of her calm me as I pack up my final item, a small succulent that my students bought me at the beginning of the year. I gather the box in my arms and walk to the door, not stopping to look around for a final time.
“Hey, Margot, I was looking for you.”
I turn to see Hank Byers, the PE teacher, jogging toward me as he waves.
“Some of us are going to that karaoke bar over off Wabash tonight. Nothing crazy, just celebrating the end of another school year. You should come by.”
I smile. Hank has been friendly to everyone here from day one. He’s a big guy, tall and burly with a big mop of blond curls and cherubic cheeks with perfect dimples. He’s the local man candy that all the single teachers have taken a shot at, but as far as I know, none have been successful.
“I dunno,” I say, chewing on my bottom lip. I wasn’t planning on telling anyone that my position was eliminated, and if I go out to a bar, odds are I’ll wallow, have a few too many, and probably cry desperately to anyone who will listen to me.
“Come on. Just come out for one drink. I’ll buy.” He smiles and holds out his hands.
“Okay, one drink.”
“Nice!” He claps his hands together. “I gotta get back in there.” He points both thumbs over one shoulder. “Need to do some inventory on the sports equipment and see what I need to buy for next year.”
“Sounds good and thanks for the invite.”
“See you tonight,” he says, turning to jog back toward the gymnasium. “And don’t even think about bailing!” he shouts through cupped hands before disappearing inside.
I toss the box of items into my back seat and look around the mostly empty parking lot one last time before driving home.
“So what do you plan to do with your summer?”
Ah, the dreaded teacher question we all ask each other.
“I’ll probably do private music lessons like I do every summer.”
I swallow down my beer, my stomach uneasy at the thought that I should have reached out to parents weeks ago. Between end-of-year stuff and counting on the fact I’d still have a job next school year, I’d let it slip. I usually have about six or seven private students each summer, but that’s nowhere near enough to cover even half my rent.