Chapter 6

6

ROAN

I sat in my office, engrossed in the latest financial report, when an email notification popped up on my screen. It was from Alaina Callaway, Rafe's teacher. I paused, curious to see what she had to say. I had been trying to think of a reason to talk to her. I thought about going to pick him up from school as an excuse to see her. But that was not my style. I preferred to play it cool.

The subject line read: "Shoes for Rafe."

I opened the email and quickly read through it. Alaina was polite but direct, informing me that Rafe needed different shoes for school—something he could wear outside for recess. I scowled at the email. What was wrong with the shoes I had been dressing him in? They were practical and suitable for a boy his age. I quickly typed out a reply, trying to keep my irritation in check.

To: Alaina Callaway

Subject: Re: Shoes for Rafe

What's wrong with the shoes he normally wears?

Roan

I didn't believe in a bunch of words. I preferred to keep things short and sweet. If a word didn't have a purpose, it was a waste of my time. I hit send and switched back to the other screen to get back to my report. Before I could even read a line on the spreadsheet, there was another notification.

Alaina replied almost immediately.

From: Alaina Callaway

Subject: Re: Shoes for Rafe

Hi Roan,

Armani leather loafers aren't the best when climbing on a jungle gym. Here's a link to some shoes that would be more suitable. They light up, too.

Best, Ms. Callaway

I sighed, feeling a mix of frustration and amusement. She certainly wasn't afraid to speak her mind. I didn't want my kid wearing some goofy Spiderman shoes. He wasn't five. Then I remembered who I was talking to. The grown woman who dressed like she was in a Disney show. I started typing another reply, this time more curtly.

To: Alaina Callaway

Subject: Re: Shoes for Rafe

Do you have any more requests?

Roan

I hesitated before hitting send, wondering if I should be more diplomatic. I didn't want her to get angry with my son. But I sent it anyway.

Once again, I went back to my financial report. But dammit if I could concentrate. I found myself smiling, imagining Alaina reading my curt message. She was probably pissed. Those full lips of hers would be pursed together, her blue eyes squinting as she stared at the screen.

I heard the email notification and let out a small laugh. Sure enough, it was her once again.

From: Alaina Callaway

Subject: Re: Shoes for Rafe

Yes, actually. Rafe's attire in general is a bit formal for our school. This isn't like his old school, Roan. Rafe can just be a kid here.

Alaina

The first thing I noticed was she used her name. We were officially on a first-name basis. But then I reread her words carefully, feeling a pang of guilt. She was right. I had been dressing Rafe in khakis and button-down shirts, mirroring my own style. Perhaps I had been trying to impose my expectations on him too much. I dressed him like he was going to a business meeting—not the third grade. I thought he liked the way he dressed. He never complained.

"Fuck," I groaned.

Was I making things worse for him by sending him to school looking like a young lawyer? No wonder the kids were making fun of him.

I started to type out another email, but then I hesitated. Maybe it was time to have a conversation rather than exchanging emails. I glanced at the phone number in Alaina's email signature. After a moment's hesitation, I picked up the phone and dialed. I assumed she was either at lunch or away from her classroom.

The phone rang a few times before she picked up.

"Hello?" Her voice was calm and composed.

"Alaina, Ms. Callaway, it's Roan Lockhart," I said.

"Oh, I was just going to email you," she said.

"I'm sure you were," I said with frustration. "Why are you able to answer the phone when you're supposed to be teaching my son?"

"Mr. Lockhart, my class is out for lunch and recess right now. This is my office hour, hence my ability to send you emails and take phone calls."

I grunted in acknowledgment. "Fine. Look, I appreciate your concern for Rafe, but why do his clothes matter so much?"

There was a brief pause before she answered. "Rafe wants to fit in, Mr. Lockhart. He's worried about getting his clothes dirty and wants to be able to chase his friends around without worrying about scuffing his shoes. He's a child, not a CEO. We encourage the kids to be active outside. They are bound to get dirty. I would hate for him to miss out on playing because he's wearing clothing more suited for church than school."

Her words struck a chord with me. Rafe had been through a lot, and maybe I had been too strict with him. I sighed, rubbing my temples. "I'll see what I can do."

"Thank you," she said politely.

I was about to hang up when she spoke again, surprising me. "Mr. Lockhart, would you like to sit in on my class sometime? It might make you feel better, watching me teach. I think you'll find that I'm more than capable of educating your son. I get the impression you don't trust my abilities."

I hesitated, taken aback by her offer. It was unexpected, to say the least. "Fine. I'll be there tomorrow."

"Great," she replied cheerfully. "I look forward to it."

I hung up without another word. Who did she think she was, inviting me to sit in on her class? I had a busy schedule. Did she have any idea who I was or what I did for a living? Did she actually expect me to just drop everything to watch her?

Then again, I had said yes. And a small part of me was intrigued. What was she like as a teacher? And how was she with Rafe?

I shook my head, attempting to shake off the frustration. I had a report to finish, things to get done. But instead, I was dwelling on Ms. Callaway and her ugly sweaters, picturing Rafe in Spiderman shoes lighting up as he merrily skipped through the playground.

I found myself pacing in my office, my gaze occasionally drifting toward the photo of Rafe on my desk. The picture was taken at his previous school— him standing next to me in front of the large gothic building. His hair was slicked back, wearing a miniature version of my work suit, tie and all. He had managed a small smile for the photo, but there was a certain stiffness in his posture.

Now that I thought about it, Rafe did mention how he wanted to play soccer with his friends at recess but didn't want to mess up his clothes. I dismissed it then, thinking he was being too hesitant, not understanding the importance of maintaining appearances.

But maybe that was where I had it all wrong. Maybe this was less about appearances and more about him being comfortable and fitting in with his peers. It wasn't about me projecting my own image onto him. It was about him being able to be and feel like a child, without the rigid structure of formality I had built around him.

"God, I'm such an idiot," I muttered to myself, my fist thudding gently against the mahogany desk. I knew business, strategies, mergers, and acquisitions. But when it came to parenting, I often felt at sea.

"I agree," Jake said.

I spun around to find him in the doorway. "What?

"You said you're an idiot." He grinned. "I was just agreeing with you."

"Speaking of idiots, don't you ever work? Why are you bugging me again? I don't want to lunch-fuck a waitress."

His eyes widened in surprise and then narrowed in concern. "Hey, are you alright? Did the Davis deal fall through?"

"No." I walked to my mini fridge and grabbed a sparkling water. I tossed one at him before sitting down. "Am I fucking up my kid by dressing him in khakis?"

He ripped the can open and looked at me like I was crazy. "My heart says no? But I'm not sure I understand the question."

I rolled my eyes. "No, seriously. I think his clothes may be a problem. I think I'm dressing him wrong."

Jake sipped his water and shook his head. "He's not wearing his underwear on his head or his shirt on his ass. Seems fine to me."

"His teacher says his clothes are too formal." I ran a hand through my hair in frustration. "That he can't play with the other kids because he's afraid he'll ruin them."

Jake nodded. "The logic is sound. But it's not the same thing as dressing him wrong."

I let out a sigh, leaning back in my chair and staring up at the ceiling. The fluorescent office lights bored into my eyes as I mulled it over. "I don't know. Maybe she has a point."

"Never thought I'd hear you say that." Jake smirked, took another swig, and let out a long burp. "So, what are you going to do about it?"

I wrinkled my nose at him and shook my head. "Maybe I should start by letting Rafe pick out his own clothes for school. You know, let him have some freedom for a change."

Jake smiled, leaning forward and placing his can on my desk. "And buy the kid some jeans for fuck's sake, Lockhart."

"Shut up," I said, throwing a crumbled-up piece of paper at him. Jake chuckled and dodged it easily. "She wants me to go to school tomorrow."

" You're going to school?" he asked. "Like you have to go to the principal's office?"

"No, she wants me to sit in and watch her class. She thinks maybe it'll help me loosen up."

He nodded thoughtfully. "You know, I thought that stick up your ass had gotten bigger since you transferred over to this office. I'm glad I'm not the only one who sees it."

"I seriously don't know why I talk to you," I said.

"Because I'm honest, unlike all these other ass-kissers around here," he said. "And I have your back."

"Breaking my balls isn't the same as being honest."

Jake shrugged. "It's the only way to get you to listen, you big baby."

I rolled my eyes at him, leaning back in my chair and staring at the ceiling again. "Go do something. Earn that fat paycheck I sign."

Jake got up and headed for the door. "Good luck with Operation Hot For Teacher, Lockhart. And remember, no ties or cufflinks, okay? No ascots or spats or cummerbunds for your child."

"Get out!" I replied, grinning.

Jake gave another laugh before exiting the office and closing the door behind him, leaving me alone with my thoughts. He was about the last person I wanted advice from when it came to raising my son or relationships. But he was a straight shooter.

It seemed I had some thinking to do before class the next day.