Page 12 of The Write Place

He laughs, sitting back at his desk and sliding his laptop to him, wiggling his finger on the touchpad to turn it back on. “Maybe we can experience it together sometime.”

I grimace, shaking my head. “No thanks. I have, in fact, experienced them twice—once on the way down and once on the way back up.”

He winces, his attention fully on his computer screen. “In that case, you can add another trophy to Tony’s case: worst food on the planet. At least my high school never gave me food poisoning.”

I smirk and debate responding, but he is now clearly engrossed in his note-taking, so I just make my way back to the stack of papers waiting for me at my desk.

That night, I’m poking at a sad microwave lasagna thinking that this might actually be the worst food on the planet when my phone dings.

Do teachers ever eat the cafeteria food?

Daniel?

Yeah. Sorry to bother you, but I’m trying to work something out.

No problem. I won’t ever eat it, but some swear it’s great.

He sends back a green-faced sick emoji, and I laugh. I put my phone down and turn back to my dinner, poking at the questionable meat sauce, but my phone dings again a second later.

Do teachers ever eat lunch together?

Sometimes, if they have lunch at the same time, I send back.

His response is instant: I haven’t seen you eat with anyone.

I prefer not to.

Why?

I frown at the message for a minute. Eating lunch with other teachers has been hard for me since Ellie died. Ellie, Jenny and I used to eat lunch together with two of the other English teachers—Kylie and Ava—a few days a week. They were in their first year, so we took them under our wing. When I came back to work after the funeral, Jenny dragged me to lunch, saying it would feel good to do something normal, but they were so young. They didn’t know what to say, and they spent most of the period staring at me when they thought I wouldn’t notice. It didn’t take me long to stop going down to the faculty lounge for lunch.

I chew on my bottom lip. He said he wouldn’t write about me, so I can’t see how this could possibly be research. Unless he lied, which isn’t out of the question considering our history. Though maybe he’s writing about a sad, lonely teacher who eats sad, lonely meals by herself and does nothing but work and read. I wouldn’t love being the inspiration for that character.

I tell myself to stop dwelling on this, and quickly respond. I just do.

He responds by attaching a question mark to his previous message and I grumble, tossing my fork on the table and leaning my cheek on my palm. How do I keep a clear boundary between personal and professional with him while also explaining how hard it is to eat in a space that reminds me so much of her? That it is easier to avoid everyone all day and work in my classroom alone?

I stare at the message for so long that my phone goes dark, and I put it down. As far as I’m concerned, I answered his questions. I don’t owe him any more information.

I finish my dinner and throw away the packaging. I wash my fork in the sink and pour myself a glass of water, curling up on the couch with my book. Just as I sink in to start reading, my phone dings again.

Sorry if I overstepped.

I stare at this message, too, not really sure what to say. If I say it’s okay, he’ll know he struck a nerve. If I tell him he didn’t, I’ll be lying, and he might push again. Much to my relief, another message comes in before I have to respond: Unless you’re too busy for this. You can tell me to shove off.

Just reading, I respond, grateful for the change in subject.

Anything good? I’m looking for something new.

Probably nothing you’d like.

Romance?

I glance at the book that Jenny loaned me after our night at Tony’s, which is laying on the couch next to me. Sure, it could be considered romance, though it’s probably spicy enough to be considered erotica. Before I can think better of it, I send back a few hot pepper emojis.

His response comes quickly: Miss Mac, how scandalous.

Please don’t call me Miss Mac.