Page 55 of The Write Place

“Well, it’s not all you’re good for.“ I tap my chin, pretending to consider what else I like about him.

“I hate to think you’re only using me for coffee and my body.” He gives me a wry look.

“And the books. Don’t forget the books,” I remind him. He chuckles as the door opens and Ken walks in.

“Hello to you both. Do you have a minute?”

“Sure, Ken,” I say. “What’s up?”

“We are so sad to see you go, Mr. Evans, but we want to celebrate your time here with a small reception on Friday after school, if you’re both available.” Ken looks between the two of us. I raise my eyebrows at Daniel. He had already planned to take me to another fancy dinner on Friday night before his flight on Saturday afternoon, but I can tell from Ken’s expression that this is important.

“We can make that work, right Daniel?” I ask.

He smiles lightly. “Sure. I can move some things around.”

Ken claps his hands. “Wonderful! We want to do a small presentation in the auditorium where the school district officials and a representative from your publisher can have a photo op and sing everyone’s praises and all of that.” He shifts his attention to me, conspiratorially. “You know how it goes.”

Daniel’s face falls at the mention of a representative from his publisher, but he recovers quickly.

“That all sounds fine,” he says. “Would it be appropriate for me to do a short reading from the new novel?”

I smile, grateful that he would offer to do this on top of everything else he’s already negotiated as part of the deal with the school in exchange for his time here. Ken’s beard twitches in excitement.

“That would be absolutely wonderful, Mr. Evans. Thank you for offering. Mackenzie, I’m sure the district would love it if you mentioned this to your students as well.”

“Will do,” I promise.

Ken nods once, then turns to go. Once he is outside of the room, I ask, “Are you going to be okay with someone from your team being here?”

Daniel shrugs, scribbling something in his notebook and not making eye contact with me. “I’m going to have to be,” he says. “It sounds like this is a done deal. But I will tell you one thing: as soon as this little ceremony is over, I want you all to myself for the rest of the night.”

My week is filled to the brim with teaching and Daniel. We spend about as much time apart as it takes to pack some clothes or answer private phone calls. Some, I assume, are from Brandon based on the grin I catch him sporting from the other room. Some are clearly from his editor based on his clipped words and sharp tone. He falls so perfectly into my life that it feels like he’s always been there—like putting on an old, favorite sweater on the first cold day of fall.

On Thursday, my seniors ask if they can throw Daniel a going away party. I smirk, knowing from experience that students will do anything they can to either throw a party or not do schoolwork. Daniel frowns and says he doesn’t need a party, but I had been expecting this, so I agree. I don’t tell them I hadn’t planned anything for Friday anyway, figuring this is what would happen.

The next day, they stop by before school and between classes to drop off trays of cookies, bags of chips, and other snacks. As I organize the pile of food behind my desk on my off hour, Daniel raises an eyebrow.

“Why are they doing this?” he asks.

“The ways of seniors are mysterious,” I joke, lining up bags of chips so they don’t fall over. When his frown deepens, I shrug. “They’re kids. As far as they’re concerned, a party for you means food for them, and they know me well enough to know I’m not bringing party food, so they’d better bring it themselves.”

“I’ve only been here for six weeks.” He sounds incredulous. “All I did was sit back here and watch. Why do they care that I’m leaving?”

I stop my organizing and look at him, tilting my head to the side. “Is that really all you think you’ve done here?” He doesn’t respond. “You’ve helped them, too, Daniel. They have talked to you. Some of them say hello to you every day. You’ve become a part of their routine, which means a lot to them. They were able to ask you questions about writing. You shared a piece of your work with them and asked them to feel something.”

“You did that,” he interrupts, but I brush it off.

“You allowed for it. You being who you are assured me it would be okay to teach that story while you were sitting here. Not to mention that Isabel is flourishing because you gave her the time of day. I heard Aimee’s mom sold your signed books at a hefty profit.”

“Okay. I get it,” he stops me again.

“They wanted to do something for you, and this is what they know how to do. You mean something to them, Daniel. To all of us. Enjoy it.”

He smiles softly, shaking his head slightly in disbelief. I just return the gesture, mimicking him, and he laughs.

When the bell rings to start the last period, my seniors are already passing out cookies and cupcakes. Daniel’s desk looks like a dessert warehouse exploded on top of it. I select a few treats for myself and then play some quiet music from my computer.

“So, did you finish your book, Mr. Evans?” Christian asks.