Beg, Borrow, or Steal (When in Rome, #3)(73)

“Because of all the sex?”

His smile is delicious. “I definitely enjoyed those parts. But . . . it was more than that too. There was an emotional connection in them that I didn’t see a lot of in other genres. Found family. Strong friendships.” He shrugs easily like his words are no big deal. “I’ve always struggled with connection. So it was nice to get it in books if not anywhere else.”

There’s so much I want to ask him. He’s talked about his upbringing in little bits and pieces, but I want to know it all. Every small detail. “Have you ever thought about writing?”

His face is unreadable now. Frozen and blank and whispering secrets all at the same time. “Yes,” he says slowly as if he has to choose that word very carefully. “My dad wouldn’t like it, though.”

“I’m sorry he’s like that. Having your child share your passion should be a joy.”

His smile turns bitter. “I think it’s supposed to work that way. But when your parent is a narcissist, nothing goes as planned.”

I’ve met a few dads in my time as a teacher who showed narcissistic tendencies, and each and every one of their kids comes into class carrying the weight of everyone else’s moods on their shoulders. The only time they get in trouble is when they’re caught helping their friends cheat on a spelling test because they don’t want to see them fail. Most of them have straight As on all their report cards and bottle up every feeling they’ve ever had. These are the kids that I catch staring at my All feelings are important poster with longing in their eyes. In their homes, their feelings are never important. Instead, they’re used against them.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks quietly, reading me like always.

I give him part of the truth. “The kids at school with parents like your dad.”

He nods. “The kids I became a teacher for.”

I should have considered that Jack’s heart is full of empathy. I find that teachers are often the most compassionate people on the planet. Yes, we may enjoy leading or organizing or imparting knowledge, but at the heart of it, many teachers get into the career because of our own brokenness. We become the kind of teachers we needed.

“Who have you been teaching for?” he asks, and pushes a strand of hair back from my temple.

I reach back into my own memories. “I’m there for the kids who have their worlds ripped out from under them. Who are hurting so bad they feel like they might not survive another day, but still walk their younger siblings to class to make sure they get there safely.” Emotions clog my throat, so I snatch a roll of toilet paper and carry it with me into the women’s bathroom, remembering that the last stall was empty earlier. Jack follows me in but stays behind at the sink while I go into the stall.

His voice carries to me. “I should have known from the start that we were both traumatized. It checks out.”

I can’t help it—a laugh jumps out of me. It was such a wonderfully unexpected thing to say. To cut pain with humor is my bread and butter. Jack would love my “dead parents” quip.

Before I get the chance to respond, there’s a sudden clap of thunder, so loud it shakes the bar. One second later, the lights go out. I freeze, my hand on the toilet paper roll I just finished placing into the dispenser, and blink into the dark.

No, no, no.

I don’t like this. I don’t like storms—none of us Walkers do—and I definitely don’t like being in a pitch-black bathroom stall all by myself during one.

“Jack?” I say, trying to keep my panic from my tone.

“I’m here.” His voice is getting closer, and I hear his footsteps. “Lightning must have hit a power line. Which stall are you in?”

“This one. Do you have your phone on you for a flashlight?”

“No, it’s out on the bar. You?”

“On the bar too.” I run my hand against the plastic wall until I find the opening. And then I extend my hand out in front of me and come in contact with Jack’s abs.

“Whoa, Ms. Walker. Buy me dinner first,” he says, torso flexing against my hand.

I pull my hand back immediately. “Sorry! I can’t see anything.”

“I’m kidding,” he says with the tremor of amusement in his voice. “Touch me anytime you want.”

Oh.

There’s a beat of nothing until suddenly I feel his hand on the outside of my shoulder and his fingers slide down my arm to my fingers, folding ours together like it’s the most natural thing in the world. But it doesn’t feel at all natural. It feels electric. New and thrilling. Like something I don’t have the vocabulary for—and it’s just his damn hand.

“Why . . . are we holding hands?” I ask him, and I could swear I hear his smile curl his lips.

“Buddy system. If we’re holding hands while we walk through this dark creepy bar, the bogeyman can’t get us.”

“This feels like an excuse to make a pass at me.”

We’re on the move now. He’s leading us cautiously through the bathroom. The door squeaks and he shifts to hold it open with his back while I walk through, hands still linked together like we are two people who need each other.

“Emily, you should know by now that if I was making a pass at you, you wouldn’t have to ask to confirm that’s what I’m doing.”