hands, and a few tomatoes escaped down the drain. “What do you mean?” She dug in the drain for the lost tomatoes.
“I guess Coach Bailey is going on maternity leave and no other teachers have applied for the job. It wouldn’t be full-time, just after school and on weekends during meets and stuff. And just for next season, unless Coach Bailey decides not to come back after having her baby.”
Wetness covered Angela’s hands. She looked down to see she’d crushed a few tomatoes and the slimy insides had oozed out. “But I don’t have a degree. I’m not a teacher.”
“I told her that, but she said something about a temporary certificate that was easy enough to get.” Kylee shrugged. “I dunno. Sounds like the perfect fit for you, honestly.”
Angela didn’t emulate her daughter’s confidence, although she really liked the idea of inspiring kids in the same way her coach had encouraged her once upon a time. Flicking on the faucet, she washed the tomato yuck away. “You think so?”
“Duh, Mom. You love running. And you love teaching. Win-win. And like, if you enjoy it, you could go back to school and get a teaching degree and become a permanent coach somewhere.”
How had she really never considered that option before? Like tea, the idea steeped, becoming fuller and more delightfully tasty the more she thought about it. She’d been praying for direction—could this be her answer?
“You don’t have to decide right now. Just give Coach a call. One step at a time, right?”
Angela stared at Kylee, amazed. “How did I manage to raise such a wise daughter?”
Kylee hip-bumped her. “It was a fluke, Mom. A total fluke.”
42
It should have felt different.
Eva stared at her bedroom ceiling. The smooth eggshell color started to morph into a subtle gray, the moving sun outside the window changing the boring hue ever so slightly.
Rolling over, she pulled the comforter tighter across her shoulders. Nearly two months after she’d returned home from New Zealand, and she was right back where she’d started. She’d traveled halfway around the world to find herself here once more, drowning in a bed built for two.
Her phone buzzed, but she ignored it. Probably Kimberly again. Her friend had left her a message a few days ago. Apparently the florist for the Carlton wedding had gone bankrupt and Kimberly was desperate for a replacement. And since she’d wanted Eva in the first place, couldn’t her bestie fill in?
Eva hadn’t even been able to return the call and say a polite no. Because she couldn’t admit the truth to Kim—that Eva was broken. That all her efforts to make life colorful again, to find happiness, had been useless.
An hour later, someone knocked on the door. Eva sat up, rubbing her ankle. The race had taken a toll on it, but now it only ached occasionally.
Whoever was at the door could come back later. Or not. It didn’t matter.
Her phone rang again. “Argh.” She grabbed it off the side table, glancing at the caller ID. Angela. “Hello?”
“Are you home?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m here. Can you answer the door? Or do I need to break it down?”
Eva held in a groan. “I’ll be right there.” She hung up and climbed from bed. After a quick glance in the mirror, she shrugged. Angela could deal with her pajamas, greasy hair, and lack of makeup. Making her way to the door, she swung it open to find Angela holding a large white paper bag.
Her sister-in-law breezed past her. “I brought dinner.”
“How did you know I didn’t have plans?”
Angela looked her up and down and quirked an eyebrow before turning on her heel and heading toward the kitchen.
Sighing, Eva closed the door and followed her. Her sister-in-law removed several white containers from the bag. The aroma of mandarin chicken and sweet and sour sauce met Eva’s nose.
The last time she’d had Chinese was in the tent with Marc. Before she’d ruined everything.
“Thanks.” Eva opened one and found tiny broccoli trees mixed with juicy beef. She pulled a few plates from her cabinet and two forks from the drawer.
Angela scooped some rice and chicken onto one of the plates, and Eva did the same. Once Eva snagged a few water bottles from the fridge, they sat at the table across from each other.
Angela stabbed some chicken with her fork. “So. How are things?”
“Fabulous.” She hated the sarcastic tone she spewed. But this was why she’d avoided much contact with others. She wasn’t pleasant to be around anymore, and she was tired of