complimentary.”
“Carly! It’s not complimentary. Put it back.”
“But, Liiib, it has detailed squirting techniques and a homemade facial recipe.”
My eyes widen. “Please tell me they’re two separate articles.”
“Ha!” She shoves the magazine into my handbag. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
No, no, I wouldn’t.
Chapter Thirteen
Numerous times during the week that follows, Will asks me for a second date. But each time he “pencils me in”, I have to decline, as I’m busy with ultrasound appointments.
Come Friday, I suspect he’s sulking or shitty with me, because after texting him back the night before with a Sorry, no can do for the third time, he hasn’t spoken to me since.
It’s not like I’m deliberately evading him, because I’m not. I just can’t tell him why I’m not available. Not yet. And, anyway, it’s none of his business.
“Okay, kids,” I say to the class fifteen minutes before home time. “Let’s finish the week with some quiet reading.”
A handful of them moan while others happily grab their books and find a place in the room to get comfortable.
“Ms Hanson, Jet won’t get out of the beanbag, and it’s my turn.”
I squint towards the whiteboard, finding Dylan’s name on the reading corner list. “Yes, you’re right. Jet, please hop out of the beanbag and find somewhere else to sit and read.”
The door to the classroom opens, and Will enters, a looming giant over the kids sporadically spread out around the room.
I smile at him. “Everything okay?”
He tips his chin. “Yeah, just checking the taps.”
“Sure. Be my guest.”
“Jet, stop!” Dylan yells.
Frustrated, because it’s three o’clock on a Friday afternoon and my teacher-tolerance is super slim, I step around Will to see Jet punching Dylan, Dylan blocking each punch with his balled fists held on either side of his head.
“Jet! That’s enough.” I quickly place myself between the boys and hold Jet’s flailing arms, coping a whack to my ribs in the process. “We do not use our fists. We use our words instead.” Turning my back to him, I rub my side and give Dylan my attention. “Are you okay?”
He nods. “Yes. Master Will taught me to block.” Dylan points to my ribs. “He should teach you too.”
I glance up at Will, who’s now next to Jet. He winks at Dylan.
“Master Will is a very good teacher,” I say.
Dylan nods so fast I’m scared his head will fall off.
“Okay, take a seat in the beanbag and start reading.” I turn back to Jet. “As for you, you can spend the last ten minutes writing Dylan, and me, a sorry note.”
“But I’m not sorry.”
“Jet,” I warn.
He crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m not.”
Will squats down so that he’s eye-level with Jet. “Any dude that deliberately punches someone should be sorry. That’s not cool, buddy. We learn to punch to defend ourselves. Like Dylan did.”
Jet’s head dips.
Will continues. “Cool dudes say sorry. It’s the only way.”
Tears pool in Jet’s eyes, but he blinks them back and murmurs, “Sorry”, then trudges to his seat and gets out a piece of paper and a pencil.
I draw in a deep breath then let it out slowly. “Thanks for that.”
“No sweat.” He lays his palm on my side. “You okay?”
“Yeah.”
Oliver enters the room, his eyes narrowing as he looks between Will and me. “Everything all right?”
“Everything is fine.” I step back, and Will pushes up from the ground. “Will’s just checking the taps one last time.”
Oliver lays his clipboard on his desk then perches his reading glasses on the bridge of his nose. “Does that mean you’re all done?”
“With this building?” Will clarifies. “Yes.” He picks up his toolbox and makes his way toward the sink.
Oliver murmurs, “’Bout time.”
I glare at him, and he mouths, “what?” so I turn my back and begin to wipe down the whiteboard, ready for Monday’s lesson plan.
Warmth climbs my spine when I sense Will’s eyes on me, so I glance over my shoulder, spying him doing the same, an endearing grin on his face. I can’t help it and blush. I even giggle, which is just outright stupid.
Oliver clears his throat, steps up beside me, and picks up a whiteboard wiper. “So what’s your plans for the weekend?”
I pause, shocked that he’s helping me. Oliver never helps me, let alone wipes down the board.
“Uh… not much—”
Will drops his toolbox at my feet, and I startle. “She’s getting a boxing lesson from me.”
Oliver grimaces then laughs. “Lib’s getting a boxing lesson… from you?”
Offended, I straighten my shoulders. “Yes, I am.”
“Why would you need a boxing lesson?”
I go to