Beg, Borrow, or Steal (When in Rome, #3)(3)

Jack truly was great to everyone. Everyone besides me. I’m the only one who’s seen Jack’s true colors—who knows that under his cozy cardigans, he’s a conniving jerk.

Like any good hostile relationship, our animosity wasn’t built on one single moment but rather a collection of many, many little ones that have snowballed into something greater. And now, after a decade of interacting, we have collected so many we could open a museum full of hatred memorabilia.

Hannah cuts her eyes to me, and I realize I’m not breathing. It must have something to do with the fact that despite how much I hate, hate, triple-hate him . . . I’ve sort of missed him too. I know, it makes zero sense, and I don’t even like to consider it.

“Do you know anything about what happened, Emily?” asks Hannah. “He teaches in the same grade as you, right?”

He did teach in the same grade as me, but he had his last day at Rome Elementary just before winter break, after which he moved to Nebraska with his fiancée. A substitute teacher took over for him the rest of the school year. The day he left, he made his rounds and said goodbye to everyone in the school. Except for me. A thought that still needles me for unknown reasons. Of course he didn’t say goodbye, why would he? We weren’t friends. We were enemies. Enemies don’t pal around with a heartfelt goodbye.

All eyes are on me now, and listen, I truly do hate Jack with all my heart, but . . . for whatever reason, I also don’t want to talk shit about him when he’s not present. Not because I’m protecting him, but because I’d rather do it to his face where he can react. It’s more fun that way.

I shrug and carry a tone of someone who’s convinced there’s nothing to see here. “This is the first I’m hearing about it. But then again, I try to avoid interacting with Jack as much as possible.”

Virginia laughs. “You and only you, hon. I’ve only seen him a handful of times, but that man is fiiiine, and if I shared a classroom wall with him, I’d be the first one lining up to get a shot with that bachelor.”

“You’re welcome to him as far as I’m concerned,” I say, standing up from the salon chair even though Virginia hasn’t dried or styled my hair yet. “But you’ll have a long drive ahead of you. He lives in Nebraska now.” Even if he were still here, though, I doubt he would have gone out with her. The teachers tried plenty of times to get Jack to socialize outside of school, but he always had a perfectly constructed excuse at his fingertips for why he couldn’t make it. For a guy who was so kind and friendly, he didn’t seem to actually want friends.

It’s good he’s gone. I’ll never have to arrive early to school to beat him to the best parking space again. Or debate over which beans to use in the break room coffeepot. No one will fight me over dress-up days and say that attending school as your favorite literary author is “a buzzkill” and push for Wacky Tacky Day instead. (Yes, parents, we hear that dress-up day is a nightmare, but the kids love it, so they win. Take it up with Principal Bart.)

Honestly, the only thing I regret about the day Jack left is that I went outside thinking I’d . . . I don’t know . . . say one last cutting remark to him or something; instead, I had to watch Jack drive off in his stupidly nice SUV, not receiving so much as a glance in my direction. Not even a salute or the bird out his window. But really, it’s better he didn’t stop to acknowledge me. What do you even say to someone who you’ve feuded with since college? It’s been nice hating you?

Thanks to this conversation, an uncomfortable feeling is crawling all over me. I need to get moving.

“Where are you going?” Virginia asks in dismay when I hand her my cape. “You can’t leave yet. You look like a wet goat with your bangs sticking to your forehead like that.”

“Flattering—thank you,” I say with a forced laugh as I smooth the front of my cream knit tank top and tug down the legs of my Levi’s jeans so they are no longer creating the wedgie of the century. I eye my damp hair in the mirror and sigh when I see that she’s really not wrong. I have the kind of hair that’s not truly curly or straight. It hovers in some strange, lazy middle, and when it’s wet, it looks wild. Left to air-dry, it’s borderline feral. I usually straighten it or put a few wanded curls throughout, but today, I just want out of here.

“I’m short on time thanks to y’all’s juicy gossip,” I say with an indulgent smile. “I’m gonna grab some coffee and then get going with my day.”

“Busy one?” Virginia asks.

Shirley laughs. “Emily’s never not busy.”

She isn’t wrong, but most important (or less depending on how you look at it), I just want to get moving so I can stop thinking about Jack Bennett and wondering if he’s okay after his failed engagement—even though I’ll never see him again. Even though I often would have chosen to pluck my eyelashes out one by one instead of interacting with him. Even though he didn’t say goodbye to me.





Chapter Two


Emily


And by grab coffee, I actually mean sit in the coffee shop at my favorite little corner table and work on my romance manuscript, trying to block out all thoughts of Jack and his canceled wedding that has no bearing on my life. Absolutely none.

It’s my Saturday tradition to go write for a few hours at the coffee shop, and today will be no different. (Fun fact: The coffee shop has recently been renovated and rebranded in hopes of bringing in more customers, and they have uncomfortably as well as ignorantly renamed it: the Hot Bean. And for those who do not enjoy coffee, they’ve started selling organic juice. It’s been a trial unlike any other to hold a straight face while listening to the older citizens of our town go on and on about how they can’t go a single day without that new Hot Bean juice.)