with the shark jaw and A Shark’s Story in his hand. I notice the bookmark’s well over halfway into the book.
“Hey, Sherm,” I say. “How are you liking the book?”
His eyes lift to mine and he opens his mouth, but then shoots a glance at Rob and closes it again.
I give him a smile. “Why don’t you head to the classroom. I’ll be right behind you, okay?”
He nods.
“Maybe you can read some of that book to me later,” I add. I’ve got to finish his reading assessment today.
He trots off toward the classroom as Rob steps out of the car.
“So, I have a favor to ask,” I say, my eyes trailing over his chest, wondering if I can stand to see him in a swimsuit. “First, there’s a field trip I just found out about next Wednesday. The kids are going to swim with the manatees. It’s optional. If there are children who don’t want to go, arrangements will be made for them to stay here with a substitute. But if it’s okay for Sherm to go, I need you to sign this,” I say, handing him a permission slip.
He scans the form, then lifts his head and looks at me. “You have a pen?”
I hand him one and he signs. “You said you had a favor to ask,” he says, lifting his eyes from the paper, “but ‘first’ implies there’s a second.”
I catch my cringe before it fully forms. “Second, I’m looking for a chaperone who doesn’t mind getting wet. Would you be available and interested?”
He looks at me for a long moment before he nods. “Okay.”
“Okay?” I repeat.
He combs a hand through those incredible, messy waves and just looks at me a long moment. I feel a shudder race over my skin as I imagine my hands in that hair. He has a wife . . . or at least a girlfriend, I remind myself.
“Okay,” he says again, “You’ve got yourself a chaperone.”
“Great. That’s great. Thanks.” So far so good. Now for the rest . . . “And third, I—”
“Third?” he says with an amused raise of his eyebrow. “Two wasn’t enough?”
I clear my throat. “This isn’t another favor, but more an order of business.”
The amusement instantly vanishes off his face and his gaze grows wary. “Okay. Shoot.”
“I’ve finished Sherm’s writing assessment. The essay prompt was a favorite memory. Do you want to read it?”
He looks at me with that same assessing eye he gives almost everything. “Yes. Please.”
I turn for the classroom and Rob follows. When we step inside, Sherm is at the cabinet of curiosities, poking at the bright green crystals inside Mrs. Martin’s geode. I move to the filing cabinet and pull out Sherm’s folder, then sit at my desk. I open it and take the essay from the top, handing it to Rob.
He settles onto the corner of my desk, setting the paper on his thigh as he reads. I watch his honey eyes swirl into deep pools of emotion as they flick back and forth over the page, the corners creasing at a few points. When he’s done, he lifts his head and looks at me, as if trying to gauge whether I’ve reported him to child protective services.
“How old was he when your mother died?” I ask.
“Four. I had no idea he even remembered her.” He looks over the paper, thumbing the gold band on his pinky. There’s a glisten in his eyes that causes the lump that formed in my throat the first time I read the essay to form again.
“His love for her comes through in every line. The way he describes every detail, from the joy he felt because it was her birthday, to the warmth of sitting in her lap, to the taste of the cake and his description of the way her face lit up when she opened the box and saw the necklace is influenced by her presence.” My voice is a little thick as I say it, and I hate to admit that part of the sadness that’s making it that way is born of jealousy.
Sherm obviously still feels his mother. My heart aches for him, but, selfishly, also for me. I want to know his secret—how he’s kept her so alive in his heart. But I have to remind myself this isn’t about me. It’s about Sherm and what’s hurt him. It’s about finding ways to help him past it.
“This was the day she died,” Rob says, handing the essay back.