10. Kent

TEN

"This isn't for you."

Corrine gives Sweetums her best attempt at a teacher's glare. We used to play this game of trying to stare each other down. As a human resources manager for a small local shipping company, she doesn't have much practice, but we always laughed about who could give our daughter the sternest stare-down.

"He just likes to watch." I pet Sweetums' long, thick orange coat before settling in on a stool and rubbing the fluff at the end of his pointy ears.

"Just watch, my ass." Corrine tips her chin. She's never bought my bullshit.

Sweetums, unswayed by my attempts to soothe him, swats at the waving ends of the scallions as Corrine chops. Now, I'm the proud recipient of her glare. I lug Sweetums off the counter and move to the sofa, turning so I'm still facing the kitchen island where Corrine does her magic.

Since our divorce and her subsequent marriage to Charlie, we still chat regularly. We don't see each other often, but after the last few weeks with Vincent, I needed a night with my best friend.

"Still no citrus," she asks, a bowl and whisk in her hand. Her new diamond, bigger than the one I bought back in college, shines against her fair skin.

"Nope," I answer. My cholesterol medication warns against grapefruit specifically, but being an overcautious Jew, I avoid all citrus.

She spoons more sugar into the bowl and begins whisking.

"The implementation is going well?" she asks. Corrine has always been my biggest champion. Even after our divorce, she still plays the role of my loudest cheerleader.

"I think so. We have weeks before we go live."

"Right before spring break?" She pours the dressing onto the salad and tosses it with large wooden tongs.

"It's a blessing. We'll finish before the school board meeting. I can report out and then relax over break."

"Why they have these board meetings right before vacations is beyond me."

"It's their way of making me earn the break," I say, knowing the stress will probably have me snuggling with Sweetums most of the time off.

"And so far, everything's going smoothly?" She places the salad on the table and joins me on the couch.

"Shreya is handling the technology parts I don't understand," I say. Sweetums has flopped into my lap, chin up, and purrs like a motorboat while I scratch his chin.

"So, all of it?"

Now it's my turn to give Corrine my patented teacher look. She catches my gaze, and we engage in a short stare-off until we both erupt in laughter.

"I know technology," I say through the last few chuckles.

"Excuse me? I had to explain to you how to like something on Facebook. And why liking your own posts is redundant. You do not ‘know technology,' friend."

"This is why I keep young people around."

"Three years qualifies me as a young person?"

"Younger than me."

"And how old is Vincent?" The familiar lilt in her voice cues me to her prodding.

Corrine knew I was bisexual midway through our first date. We sat across from each other, knees knocking under the table, poking our ramen bowls with chopsticks, me wondering how to eat the giant bowl of salty yumminess without making a fool of myself. When a gorgeous specimen of a man sauntered by to grab his takeout, we both stared. She asked. I explained. If anything would become of us, and it certainly did, I knew I had to be honest from the start.

"Forty."

Sweetums buries his face in my lap and lies belly up. At his massive size, I don't argue when he demands attention.

"So much younger. Does that make you his …"

"Don't say it. The whole ‘daddy' thing makes me cringe."

"You didn't mind when Gillian called you that."

"No, because I'm her father. And she doesn't call me ‘daddy' anymore. And clearly, it's not the same thing," I say.

"Well, you are a total?—"

"Corrine."

I tilt my head, giving the most severe glare I can summon.

"Handsome older man. A catch. That's all I was going to say." Her signature half-smile envelops her face as she brings the salad to the table.

"I don't know how I feel about the … gap."

Standing to join her, I gently prod Sweetums, who jumps to the floor and heads to his chair at the table.

"Age is just a state of mind. You're both adults."

"Or trying to be." Sweetums jumps up to his chair.

"When I bought you a kitten, I didn't expect him to assert himself as king of the castle."

"You were simply trying to distract me from your proposal news. Sweetums' impending reign over my monarchy wasn't even on your radar."

With his size, Sweetums' enormous head reaches a few inches above the table—darting his gaze between Corrine and me, waiting to be served.

"I don't feed him at the table."

"Kent, he looks hungry. And demanding."

"He's always hungry. Just ignore him."

Corrine pulls her plate a few inches away from my adorable fluffy feline.

I open the pizza box, and the steam escapes, filling the room with the delicious smell of extra cheese and a crispy crust. As I serve Corrine, Sweetums' paw darts out, making a game out of it, and she shouts, "No!" My heart leaps in my chest, and I drop a piece right on her lap. Splat!

"Oh my gosh. Cori, I'm sorry," I blather, heading for the roll of paper towels.

"I wouldn't consider it a successful visit if I didn't leave your house with something on my clothes."

She sits calmly, waiting, and I'm reminded just how patient and understanding she has always been with me. We fell into a comfortable rhythm that included her understanding my propensity for clumsiness.

"Charlie's playing tonight?" I ask, handing her a wad of paper towels for her pants as I wipe up the table.

"It's almost February. He plays almost every night," she says, wiping the sauce and cheese off her jeans like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Corrine's marriage, only a year after our divorce, surprised me. Our split was beyond amicable, but we both decided we needed space to figure out our next steps. Three months later, she met Charlie. Two months after that, they moved in together, and they were engaged soon after. Charlie's a wonderful guy. I know my girls are in good hands.

"Well, I'm happy he's busy enough with hockey that we occasionally get to have pizza," I say, my mouth watering at the sight of the piping hot slices before me.

With pizza lodged in her mouth, Corrine gives me her sweet, crinkly-eyed smile. The one that caught my attention freshman year at USM and has kept me on my toes for years. Her smile lets me know she accepts me. Loves me. Even when I drop hot pizza in her lap.

"And then I put the scores in this notebook where I try to gather the remnants of student observations and work and attempt to formulate them into information for conferences and report cards."

Sheldon Soleskin, first-grade teacher and a shining star since his transfer to Lear right after Thanksgiving, stands almost a half-foot shorter than Vincent as he walks him through his current data collection process. I give them space, attempting to survey the class and ensure I'm available to intervene while Sheldon gives Vincent his attention.

"And this is how most of the teachers do it?" Vincent asks.

"Oh, no. Everyone has their own method. Becky uses sticky notes—a different color for each child. Jolene uses index cards. Also, a different color. But for each subject, not the child. Becky uses a board, and Jolene uses rings to organize them."

Vincent scratches his head. How often does he shave to keep it so smooth?

"And that's just first grade."

Vincent's fingers fly across his laptop, and he nods slowly while biting his lower lip. My eyes focus on his upper teeth hanging over the bottom of his mouth. A small dot of saliva forms, and what might it be like, slurping it up? After we both brush our teeth, of course. I didn't mind the oral hygiene at his house, and Vincent was all for kissing in my office before the break sans brushing. That mouth. Those eyelashes. That bald head.

"Mr. Lester, I'm done!"

Kylie stands at my feet, waving her math paper like a flag. As her assignment rattles, I'm unable to see it clearly, and I'm not sure what to do with it. I'm here to watch the class so Vincent and Sheldon can chat, but before I can reply, Sheldon calls over from his desk.

"Kylie, remember, our finished papers go in the ‘done' bin, and then you can …"

"Make a math choice," Kylie shouts.

I smile at her and walk around the classroom, seeing if anyone needs me. They don't. Sheldon's class runs like a well-oiled machine.

"I think I have what I need," Vincent says, walking toward me. With his open laptop balancing on his forearm, he types with his free hand.

"Are you sure?" I ask. "I'm happy to stay and watch the class longer."

"Nope. All good. I need to aggregate the requirements."

"Go ahead, I'll be along shortly," I say. Vincent thanks Sheldon with a nod and heads back to my office. He's set up shop on my table while Geoff and Shreya spread out in the conference room. Occasionally, he joins them, but mostly, he opts to work alone. He vacates the space when I need my office, and it hasn't been an issue. I've grown accustomed to having him around.

"Mr. Manda seems lovely." Sheldon sidles up to me as I return to roaming the room.

"He's a nice man. Yes. We're friends."

Sheldon's eyebrows, so light they're barely visible against his porcelain skin, race to the top of his forehead. Clearly, Theo's been talking about us.

"That's all," I say.

Sheldon's eyes go wide, and he gives a cheeky half smile. "Sure thing, Mr. Lester."

"Have a good afternoon, Mr. Soleskin." I tilt my head, offer a grin, and head for the door.

"Is it bad?"

Hunched over his laptop, Vincent's furrowed brow makes his handsome face appear even more snack-worthy. After I left Sheldon's, I stopped in a few other classrooms on my way back. Checking in on teachers, ensuring nobody needed a bathroom break. I remember what it was like being trapped for hours, needing to pee. It also might be wise to give Vincent some space … For both of us.

"No, nothing bad, just me."

"You?"

"Geoff wants this data streamlined and formatted. I have to go through each line and remove commas, add spaces, that sort of thing. It's just … tedious."

Vincent's lips form a circle, and he lets out a massive sigh.

"Can I do anything to help? I can re-do the extract."

I sit opposite him, ready to assist.

"Nope, I just need to finish."

His eyes dart up, another deep inhale, and then, "But thank you."

Glancing at my watch, I see it's almost time for dismissal.

"Okay. I'll be back in twenty minutes."

He doesn't move his eyes from his screen but gently nods.

As I walk into the equipment closet off the cafégymatorium, Ruth relaxes, feet up, fiddling on her phone, waiting to head out.

"Can you do my car duty today?"

"Of course, boss." Ruth relinquishes her phone to the desk. "Everything okay?"

Vincent's glazed eyes and frequent sighs tread water in my head.

"It's Vincent. Something's up."

Ruth grabs the jacket of her tracksuit and walks toward the exit.

"I got you. You take care of your man."

He's not my man. But I don't correct her.

When I return, Vincent's precisely as I left him—hunched over, gazing diligently at his screen, while his fingers tap, attempting to keep up with his brain.

"Vincent, I'm just going to sit here and reply to some emails. If you need anything … well, I'm here."

Nothing. A swirl of worry churns in my stomach as I see the tight pinch on his face. There's something he's not telling me. With students, I often have to ask questions and wait. Let them calm down. Settle in. And then the talking comes. But Vincent doesn't want to talk. With a set jaw, he's glued his gaze on his screen.

When my emails have been read, replied to, sorted, and filed, he's still at it. It's been almost two hours, and I'm expected at Gillian's for dinner tonight. I have dinner at her house on the first Friday of the month. "Poppy time" with my granddaughter is a highlight for me.

"Vincent, it's after five. Are you almost ready to stop?"

A terse shake of his head.

I stand, peering over his shoulder to assess what he's doing. A spreadsheet is open, rows and rows of numbers. It looks to be in the thousands. Vincent's fingers scroll as he taps, deletes, taps, deletes. It suddenly dawns on me he hasn't moved since he returned from Sheldon's class. That was hours ago.

"Vincent, are you hungry? Don't you need the bathroom?"

Again, he shakes his head.

I take the seat across from him and watch. Still trying to figure out what to do.

"I'm supposed to have dinner at my daughter's tonight."

Vincent's fingers tap, tap, tap, and small beads of sweat form on his brow. I stare at one as it infiltrates his eyelashes. My fingers fumble in my pocket until I find my phone and dial Gillian's number.

"Where are you? Louis smoked brisket, and Lia has a play for you."

"Really?"

My mouth waters, thinking about the salty, smoky meat melting in my mouth.

"I'm not sure I'm going to make it."

"Why not? It's almost six. On a Friday. You're allowed to leave school, Dad."

"Something's come up." Vincent uses his sleeve to wipe his brow.

"You're coming. Lia can stay up until eight. Eight-thirty. It's Friday. Come when you can."

"Okay. I'll see you soon." Vincent's eyes haven't wavered, and I'm unsure if he's even heard my conversation. "Hopefully."

Something has taken over, and Vincent's determination to finish the task won't untangle its clutch from his psyche. I'm not leaving him in my office alone on a Friday night. I grab my computer and begin working on the school newsletter. That will be one less thing for me to do next week. Helen will be thrilled.

We sit across from each other, typing. I place a bottle of water next to his laptop, but he doesn't touch it. By six thirty, we're the only people left in the building.

"Vincent, you must be starving," I say, my stomach growling. "My daughter is expecting me. Do you like brisket?"

His fingers strike the keyboard in a crescendo of sound.

"I need to lock the school. Set the alarm. We have to stop soon."

"Four more minutes."

It's the first time I've heard his voice since we returned from Sheldon's class, and the tension in my shoulders releases at his familiar timbre.

"Okay."

I pack up for the weekend. Typically, things begin to slow down in February. I'm not intending to do much this weekend after the work I just banked. My laptop and planner make it into the messenger bag Corrine bought me for my fiftieth birthday. It's navy-blue, with white trim and nothing I would ever buy for myself. There's a good chance nothing will leave my bag.

"Done."

The perspiration on Vincent's brow now drips, and he's sweat through his shirt. He's completely soaked.

"Vincent, you're, you're …" The hair on the nape of my neck lifts, thinking about telling him about his current state.

"I'm sorry," he mutters. His voice is soft and apprehensive.

"Don't apologize." I place my hand on his back, alarmed by the dampness. "What happened? Are you okay?"

"I had to finish."

"Is Geoff waiting on it? He left hours ago."

"You don't understand. I had to finish. Now."

I rub my chin, my fingers getting lost in the whiskers, as a fluttering flies in my stomach.

"I got … stuck." Vincent's eyes lower and I take a seat. "It's this constant mental rumination. Checking. My brain can't think of anything else besides the task."

"You were focused."

"You could say that." Vincent braces himself on the table and sweat flecks his shirt. He can't be comfortable. "I feel like a fool. And I need to pee. And eat. I'm starving."

"Go pee. You're coming with me to Gillian's. She has food. A feast."

"But …" Vincent's chin drops to his chest.

"You're in luck. I happen to keep backups." I open a drawer and reveal clean, folded shirts. I hand him an olive Henley and say, "Go to the bathroom. Freshen up. I'll text my daughter."

"Thank you."

He takes the shirt. Our fingers brush and my heart skips a beat. I close my eyes as he heads for the bathroom. As I contemplate his circumstances, a wave of empathy tightens my chest, igniting a strong desire to offer support. Right now, my son-in-law's brisket is all I've got, and it's been known to be magical.