Chapter 72 You made us worry
“I’ll take it easy,” I say.
His shoulders relax a fraction, “Good. I might text and call a few times, just to check in. You’ll respond, right?”
“How many times is a few?” I tease.
“Enough to keep you honest.”
Then he guides me closer, and I don’t resist when he leans in and kisses me. The world contracts around that single motion. When we pull back, we stay close.
“I’ll be okay,” I murmur.
“You’d better be,” he replies, his voice soft but edged with certainty.
I eventually exit the car and walk through the gates. The staffroom smells like burnt coffee and dry-erase markers. I step inside, briefcase still clutched in my hand like proof of something. A couple of teachers glance up.
“Hey.”
“Hi.”
I echo it back. Smile casually. There’s a small, treacherous part of me that waits. Expects someone to ask where I’ve been. To say it’s been quiet without me. To notice.
No one does.
They drift back into their conversations about lesson plans and deadlines and weekend errands. Maybe they’re busy. Maybe they don’t care.
I let the thought pass, because someone does care. My phone buzzes in my palm.
“There’s a snack in your briefcase. Have it.”
I sit down and open the case, and there it is...one of those health bars we’ve somehow adopted as ours. It started as him trying to keep my spirits up and my blood sugar stable. Now it’s ritual.
We have rituals.
Not grand gestures, not sweeping declarations. Just small, deliberate constants. A pattern forming between us like breath syncing in the dark. I turn the bar over in my hand and smile. I unwrap it, take a small bite. My hand shakes slightly. Not enough to drop it, just enough to notice. Now that I’m seated, I really don’t want to stand again. The nausea today is sitting low and stubborn.
But it’s just one lesson.
I check my watch, grab the book we’re reading, push myself to my feet, ignoring the brief wave of dizziness. Before I leave, I send a quick text.
“Have fun at work.”
The reply comes almost instantly.
“Highly unlikely.”
I chuckle, then I square my shoulders and head out. A couple of minutes later, I'm wondering if the hallway has always been that long. A couple of students pass me.
“Hi, sir!”
“Hey, Mr. Ashbrook!”
I reply while smiling and keep going. The classroom door is closed. I can hear them before I even reach it. Loud and chaotic. I pause outside for half a second, steadying myself.
Then I step in.
Noise, movement, laughter. I clear my throat. “Alright, settle down...”
One student near the front freezes mid-sentence, staring at me. And then, bright and loud, “Mr. Ashbrook! You’re back!”
The room shifts instantly. Heads turn. Conversations stop. And then they all start talking at once.
“Where were you?”
“You just disappeared!”
“Are you okay?”
“We had a sub for, like, forever!”
“We thought you quit!”
“We missed you!”
The words pile on top of each other. I can hardly keep up. It’s overwhelming. I stand there, blinking at them, trying to process the sudden flood of concern.
They noticed.
They cared.
I lift a hand, trying to quiet them, but I’m smiling now. Fully and ucontrolled.
“Okay, okay,” I manage. “One at a time.”
Their concern hits deeper than I expect. It settles somewhere behind my ribs, warm and startling and almost painful in its sincerity. I have to clear my throat again, glance down at the book in my hand, then briefly toward the window, anywhere but directly at them, just to steady myself.
Happiness, I realize, can be just as destabilizing as fear.
“Thank you,” I say finally, voice softer than usual. “I appreciate the concern. I wasn’t feeling great for a bit. But I’m better now.”
The lie slides out smoother than it should.
Part of me hates it instantly. Another part wonders, dangerously, what would happen if they knew. If the word cancer echoed in this room. Would their bright concern harden into something heavier? Would they look at me differently? Carefully? Like glass?
I don’t want that. They’re kids, they don’t need to carry this with me. So I smile instead.
“Well,” I say lightly, perching on the edge of the desk at the front, “did the substitute at least manage to uphold my exceptionally high standards, or should I be preparing an apology letter to your future universities?”
A ripple of laughter. My eyes move over them instinctively, and then stop.
Chloe Sanders, all the way in the back. She’s sitting straighter than usual. There are shadows under her eyes, darker than I remember, like sleep hasn’t been generous to her lately. She looks tired. Worn in a way that feels familiar.
Our eyes lock and she smiles. It’s subtle, small and almost cautious. She’s never smiled at me like that before. But there’s unmistakable relief in it. I give her a slight nod, just enough to acknowledge it, before I look back at the rest of the class.
“So,” I say, clapping my hands together once, “how far did you get?”
Ethan, seated near the front, grins. “We finished the book.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “You finished the book,” I repeat slowly. “Without me?”
He shrugs, poorly hiding a smirk.
I sigh dramatically. “That’s unfortunate. Because if that’s true, I’m legally obligated to give you an unannounced, comprehensive quiz on themes, motifs, and authorial intent. Essay format. Closed book.”
A chorus of protests erupts.
“No, no, we didn’t!”
“He’s lying!”
“We barely got through two chapters!”
“The substitute was so confusing!”
“Yeah, he kept overexplaining everything!”
“We should just continue where we left off with you.”
“And you can’t just disappear like that again,” someone mutters, not accusatory, just honest. “You made us worry.”
There’s something under it, a genuine form of attachment.
I take that in quietly.
“You survived,” I say, softer now. “That’s impressive in itself.”
More laughter. But gentler. I open the book, letting the familiar weight of it anchor me.
“Alright,” I say. “Let’s pick up where we left off. No surprise quiz for now, unless morale drops.”
They settle, still buzzing faintly, but focused now. Relieved groans ripple through the room as they reach for their books, and I open mine, pretending not to feel how much the concern means to me.