I take a slow, calming breath. Shane is nothing if not determined. “And maybe you can.”
He smiles, and I get caught in those deep dimples, thinking of where we just left things off and where they might—hopefully—head later. Just dinner, my ass.
Penelope clears her throat sharply, breaking our private moment. Her glossy lips pucker with annoyance as her attention shifts to the whiteboard. “I’m sure you’ve figured out by now how intelligent my son is.”
My son.
Dear God, help me.
I catch Shane’s eye roll as I force a polite smile. “I was just saying to Shane before you got here that Cody is one of my brightest students.”
“Is that what you two were talking about?” She throws a cutting look his way, but then continues. “What are you going to do to challenge him this year?”
I can already see what Becca means about Penelope being that kind of parent. She’s going to be a giant, prickly pain in my ass. “I’ll be going through the sixth grade curriculum when the session starts. I’m sure you’ll find it to be robust.” I’m not about to give her a private walk-through. She can wait.
She sniffs. “We weren’t thrilled with last year’s teacher.”
Last year, Becca was Cody’s teacher.
“I was fine with her.” Shane studies his fingernails as if bored with the conversation.
“You would be,” Penelope snipes back.
What is the dynamic between them now? Is this what Shane means by “civil”? This doesn’t seem civil. It’s certainly a far cry from the brief exchange I witnessed between them on his front porch.
A couple pokes their heads in then, rescuing me. “If you’ll excuse me …” I head over to greet the parents—of Jenny Byrd, I find out through quick introductions. Another star in my class. I really do need to use the restroom before the presentation begins, though, so I take this opportunity to duck out, pausing just long enough to steal a glance over my shoulder.
Penelope has abandoned Travis, and she and Shane are now in the far corner of my classroom. Her lips are moving fast, her tone hushed, her face tight.
Clearly, she has a problem with something.
Or someone.
It’s nightfall by the time I walk the two blocks home, my arms huddled around my body for warmth. I wish I’d thought to bring a jacket. The heat wave is long gone, replaced by an evening chill that crawls over my skin. I was held back at school for almost an hour after my session by parents eager to speak about their children. Most of those conversations should have waited for parent-teacher conferences next month, but I humored them, not wanting to come off as dismissive.
Overall, I think the night went well, with only a few off-topic questions and complaints that I quickly tabled to deal with privately. None of them came from Penelope, who spent the session brushing away Travis’s hand and wearing a sour expression when she wasn’t grilling Mr. Heffernan on the science program and Mrs. Marx about geography.
Shane was quiet through the session and, despite his claim that he wanted a seat at the front, parked himself in the back corner, on the opposite side to Penelope. If I didn’t know better, I’d guess that was an intentional move. Whatever was exchanged between them in heated whispers before the meeting must not have been pleasant, because Shane ducked out as soon as the presentation concluded, without so much as a glance her way.
I’ve been anxious to get home to find out if my suspicions are right and Penelope’s issues have something to do with me.
From the sidewalk, I spot Shane fastening something under the hood of his car, his broad back to me. My heart pounds at the sight of him, as it always does. On impulse, I turn into his driveway, treading softly in the white sneakers I swapped for the walk home. “Do you know what you’re doing under there?” I call out from just behind him.
He jumps, startled, and whacks the back of his head on the open hood.
I wince as he reaches for the sore spot. “Sorry. I didn’t think you were so skittish.”
“I’m not normally. You snuck up on me.” Shane grabs the rag that dangles over the side of his car and then drops the hood. It makes a loud, hollow sound as it closes. “And yeah, I do know what I’m doing under there.”
“Really? Because I remember you flagging down a tow-truck driver to help us change a tire once.” We were on our way home from shopping in Philly one Sunday afternoon.
He grins. “You remember that?”
I remember everything. Oddly enough, I’m remembering the good over the bad more often lately.
Shane chuckles as he rubs the streaks of black grime from his fingers with the rag. “I’ve had my hands on every square inch of this beast. I know her well.”