Chapter 29

Lucy

The rain is a constant companion in Vancouver, a persistent reminder of the city's moody temperament. I shepherd my grade-five class outside, the droplets forming rhythmic patterns on our hoods and boots. We are a parade of colorful rain gear—slick yellow jackets and polka-dotted galoshes—the kids' laughter piercing through the gray drizzle.

"Kids, stay in line! Watch your step," I call, my voice barely cutting through their excited chatter.

Tiffany, teaching the adjacent class, falls into step beside me. "How's it going?" she asks.

"Every day's a little better," I reply, squeezing water from the hem of my coat. "But it's hard, you know?"

She gives me a side hug. "You're strong. This is a lot, but I know you're going to come out on top of all of this."

I manage a smile, grateful for her steadfast optimism. It buoys me, even when my heart feels like it's dragging along the ocean floor. "Thanks, Tiff. That means a lot."

We reach the covered playground, and the kids burst forth like corks from champagne bottles, scurrying across the wet concrete, swinging from bars, and chasing each other around the play structures.

"Be careful!" Tiffany and I chorus.

After half an hour, we have to believe their energy is back at a manageable level, so we traipse back inside to make another run at the day's lessons.

When we reach the classroom, the kids shed their rain-soaked layers with all the grace of molting birds. Puddles form under chairs, and the air fills with the earthy scent of wet soil-tracked indoors.

"All right, everyone, let's calm down," I tell them.

"Can we play games?" someone shouts, and a chorus of agreement rises.

"Games it is," I concede, pulling the boxes from the cupboard. There's checkers, Monopoly, Jenga, Ticket to Ride... "Remember to share and take turns," I remind them as they divide into groups, some making a beeline for the tablets on the charging cart.

"Spelling and math games are available too," I add.

I watch them find joy in simple pleasures and settle at my desk, occasionally glancing up to monitor their progress, ready to mediate any disputes or answer questions about rules. For now, though, they are content, and so am I.

A little while later, though, the checkerboard becomes a battlefield under Ivan and Ziar's intense stares as they each strategize their next move. I hover nearby, sensing tension. Their fingers twitch over the smooth disks, the air thick with silent accusations.

"Hey, guys?" I intervene just as a black checker is about to make a contentious leap over a red one. "Remember, it's just a game."

Behind me, Artem seems to be amassing an empire in Monopoly with all the focus of a seasoned mogul. It brings a smile to my face, seeing them so engaged, their earlier energy redirected into tabletop challenges.

I've just returned to my desk when a knock on the door sharpens my senses.

"Miss Sheridan," our principal says as she enters, her eyes twinkling above a large basket cradled in her arms. "This came for you."

"For me?" My brow furrows as I take the unexpected offering, the colorful array of apples peeking out like jewels in a treasure chest. Curiosity blooms inside me as I return to my desk and fish for the card nestled among the fruit. The familiar scrawl greets me, and my heart stutters before I steady my breathing.

Lucy,

It's been far too long since I last saw your lovely smile and held you in my arms. I've missed you every day. I'm sorry I hurt you, and I'd very much like to explain, to talk things through with you. Céline has returned to Montreal, and we both understand that our time together is finished for good. Thank you for encouraging me to handle that situation. Your support and patience means everything, and I am looking forward to all the future holds—for both of us.

They say an apple a day keeps the doctor away, but giving an apple to a teacher dates back to when apples were a form of payment, symbolizing knowledge and appreciation. I owe you so much more than apples, and I appreciate and miss you. Would you please have dinner with me?

Yours,

Chance

I tuck the card into my pocket and look up at the room full of expectant eyes.

Forcing a smile, I take a knife and a stack of paper towels from my drawer and slice through the shiny skin of a crimson apple. The kids cluster around my desk as they watch me quarter the fruit.

"Who sent all the apples, Miss Sheridan?" Artem asks, abandoning his Monopoly empire for the moment.

"Dr. Chance," I reply, keeping my tone light.

"Is Dr. Chance your boyfriend?" Mina pipes up. "My dad gives my mom flowers when he's sorry."

I place an apple slice on a napkin for her. "Sometimes, people give gifts because they care," I say.

"Then why is he sorry?" Bibi asks.

Mina nods sagely beside her. "Mommy says you don't have to accept an apology if you don't want to."

"That's very true," I concede, handing Bibi her share of the fruit. "How about you clean up the games while I cut apples to share with the rest of you?"

When the room has been restored to order, I pass out apples to each student just as the final bell rings. The kids dart from their desks, leaving a few scattered game pieces and damp jackets. With my hands braced against the cool surface of my desk, I watch them pile out of the classroom, their energy as relentless as the rain that taps against the windows.

"Quite the day, huh?" Tiffany's voice pulls me back to the present as soon as the door swings shut behind the last child.

"Always is," I reply.

"Heard you had some apples?" Her brow quirks up .

"What's up with the whole building talking about my apples?"

She leans against the doorframe. "Word travels fast around here. And apples are not just apples when they come with an apology note from Dr. Chance." She gives me a knowing look.

"Ah, so he's the talk of the staff room now?" I smile, but inside, I'm a quivering mess. I told him to manage the situation with Céline. And now, he has, or so he thinks. It feels foolish to believe we can just pick up where we left off. So I don't know quite where that leaves us.

"This was a heartfelt gesture," she points out, wrapping an arm around my shoulder in a sisterly side hug. "He's done what you asked, so at least hear him out, right?"

"I suppose," I concede. "I'm just feeling a little gun shy."

"Ah, you're braver than you think," Tiffany assures me. "Anyway, I've got piles of grading and a date with a software developer tonight. Wish me luck," she adds with a wink.

"Good luck," I call after her. "You deserve some fun."

Alone again, I turn to the task of tidying up the room. I stack chairs, collect stray markers, and corral the board games back onto their shelves. The rain continues its steady beat outside, a soundtrack to my methodical movements. My phone sits on the corner of my desk, silent and accusatory. I should probably text Chance back, but instead, I give it a wide berth, choosing to focus on the stack of spelling and math tests that demand my attention.

"Grading first," I mutter, sliding into my chair and flipping open the first test.

The red pen in my hand moves steadily, marking checks and crosses, tallying scores. The monotony of it is calming. By the time I reach the bottom of the pile, the sky has darkened.

"Okay. Time to face the music," I whisper, steeling myself as I reach for my phone. My thumb hovers over the screen before tapping out a message to Chance.

Me: Thank you for the apples.

It's polite, noncommittal, safe. I hit send before I can second-guess myself, and the familiar woosh sound feels like the closing of a chapter and the tentative turning of a new page, all at once.

Before I can even exhale the breath I'm holding, my phone erupts into a jingle, vibrating against the hard surface of the desk. Chance's name flashes across the screen, and my heart does an involuntary skip. I hesitate for a split second before answering.

"Lucy, hey. I'm glad the apples made it to you." Chance's voice is warm, familiar, tinged with something that sounds like hope.

"Hi. Yes, they did," I reply. "The kids enjoyed them too. We had quite the discussion about Dr. Chance and his apple delivery."

"Really?" He chuckles softly, and I can almost picture his smile. "I hope I'm still in their good graces."

"Of course. You're very much loved by your young fans," I assure him.

There's a pause on the line, and when he speaks again, his tone shifts. "Lucy, I can't thank you enough for your patience while I handled things with Céline. I remain very sorry that she showed up here, but I've realized so much, and I feel ready to move forward in a way I wasn't before. Everything is so much clearer, and I'd love the chance to explain."

My fingers tighten around the phone. "Okay," I whisper, feeling a tug at the corner of my heart, the one that still beats a little faster for him.

"I miss you. Could we go out for dinner?"

His words stir a longing inside me, a desire to dive back into the comfort we once had. I want to tell him everything, about the recent revelations concerning my father, about how every day has been a mix of confusion and clarity. But the memory of Céline's unexpected return stands like a warning sign on the path to reconciliation.

"Chance, I'm not sure that's the best idea," I start, my voice faltering. "You know, when we started this… I knew what it was. I was always the rebound, wasn't I? Just part of your process?"

"Lucy, it's not—"

"No, please, let me finish." I take a deep breath, gripping the phone tighter. "I need to protect myself too. I need to think about what's best for me."

He's silent on the other end, and I press my hand to my forehead, trying to quell the headache that's beginning to form. The classroom feels too big, too empty, echoing with the ghost of our conversation.

"Lucy, hear me out," he finally breaks the silence, his voice laced with a rebellious edge that isn't lost on me. "I have so much to tell you. Please. Let's not go to one of our usual spots. Let's do something different this time."

Oh, he's playing that card—the unexpected, the grand gesture. It's so like him to shake things up when the path becomes too familiar.

"I'm thinking St. Lawrence," he continues. "It's got a Michelin star. Quebecois cuisine at its finest. I can get us reservations. Maybe Saturday?"

My breath catches. St. Lawrence . The place is legendary, whispered about with reverence by food enthusiasts and critics alike. "Chance, I…" My throat tightens around the words. I want to say yes. I want to leap at the opportunity, to dress up and forget everything except the flavors set before us. But my heart, still tender from the week I've spent worrying about so many things, holds me back.

"Lucy?" His voice is softer now, tinged with concern.

I picture the restaurant again, the flicker of candlelight against fine china, the clinking of glasses, the murmur of conversation.

"Think about it," he says gently. "No pressure. I just… I can't just let this go—let you go. You are im portant to me. I've realized just how much. Let's just talk it through."

"Maybe," I whisper. I can think about it, yes. Weigh the pros and cons, imagine every possible outcome until my mind spirals into indecision. Or I could take the leap, let myself be swept into a night of indulgence and possibly mend what's been broken. "Okay. I'll think about it."

"Thank you. That's all I ask." He sounds relieved, hopeful even, as if my consideration is a victory in itself.