Chapter 12

LIAM

Dominic Dymond wasn't wrong about this old school building. From the outside, it looks strong and sturdy, but a closer look at the plans compared with what his crew have already discovered tells a different story. He repeats what he last told me in his kitchen. "House of cards, right?"

"Potentially."

He also introduces me to the headmaster. "Luke, this is the demolition pro I hoped might be able to fit us into his schedule."

I set down a sledgehammer to extend a hand. "Liam Sexton."

"Luke Lawson. Thanks for coming." We shake. I also nod at what he probably means to come out as joking but actually has a gut punch of worry behind it. "Demolition, though? Just letting you know, I don't have the budget for a complete rebuild."

"You shouldn't need one if I'm careful." I point out structural issues that past builders patched over decades earlier. "Here are your main problems."

"Main problems? More than one?" He leans over the plans with us. "Where?"

"Here and here." I point up at where the library's walls join with the original school building. Then I point at where a preliminary check made Dom call a halt. "You've got a double whammy here of too much load to bear and insufficient foundation. Good thing Dom spotted it before taking the rest of that wall out."

"Because?"

"Because according to the plans, the rest of the building should be well supported, but?—"

He interrupts with a key question. "Am I evacuating the students right now?" He squares his shoulders, and I appreciate that he's ready to take action, depending on my answer.

"No. As it stands, the building is sound."

"But if the project continued as planned?" He looks to Dom, who gives a one-word yet graphic answer.

"Boom." He gestures upward. "The whole side of the building potentially gone."

That word potentially could be a get-out for some property owners. I've seen developers take stupid chances based on probability, on flipping a coin with fate, and fuck anyone who got to pay the price for that coin toss years later.

Luke Lawson doesn't want a get-out. He eyes a fire alarm button on the wall. It's currently behind glass, but I'm pretty sure he'd smash it on my say-so. That's a solid point in favour of taking this job, and not only because Rowan might get to work here one day and I don't want to picture him as a very pretty pancake. I already know what it's like to sift through rubble after being deaf to orders, then to retreat, leaving behind peacekeeping collateral damage.

Leaving behind a brother.

Knowingly let anyone else deal with that fallout?

No thanks.

That means I pull aside construction netting and point up. "Part of the problem is that the whole build is nonstandard. Those windows?" Heavy stone mullions frame old diamond-pane windows. "They have to weigh over a ton each. What's in the classroom directly above us?"

"The science lab." He lowers his voice. "Double boom?"

"Not on my watch. But it means this part of your project will take longer than you've planned for."

"Doesn't matter."

I like that instant reaction. Dom is more cautious. "How much longer?"

"Weeks. It would be quicker if I had my—" I snap my mouth closed on the word crew. I don't have one. Wouldn't risk one, even if I did. "One person working stone by stone is all I'd risk here. Chip away at it and re-dig the foundation as I go."

"You'd rebuild too?"

Dom answers for me. "No. Liam's the full package, but demolition is his main gig. Not many pros with his skill set would?—"

I wonder how he'll finish, steeling myself for him to say survive for long if they work with him. He surprises me with a different, less guilt-inducing closer.

"—be interested in small, labour-intensive projects like this one." He flashes a quick look my way. "You decided against York?"

If I hadn't already on Rowan's behalf, Luke Lawson's reactions have convinced me that this project is worth taking. "Yeah. I've got several small jobs up-country that I've signed contracts for and can't shift. One this week and a few others after that, but if you can be flexible, I'll do as much as I can between them, starting next week."

Luke scrubs at his jaw. "Okay. That could be much worse." His huff sounds relieved when I nod. "Might push the rebuild into the half-term break though, Dom. Did you have holiday plans with Maisie?" He meets my eyes. "And can you work through it, if needed?"

He's asking if I have a family, if someone will need me around to look after kids of my own. "I don't have any ties." I hook a thumb towards the car park. "Have van, will travel." That reminds me. "I've drawn up a schedule. What equipment I'll need and when. You'll need to order more steel for a start. A lot more supports. Let me go grab my schedule."

I leave Luke and Dom leaning over the plans again and head off, taking the path outside to the car park, and that's where I hear it.

Not the boom of a school building collapsing behind me, nor a waking flashback of another pile of sickening rubble. I still have to grip a fence when a chime rings out, and I can't blame tinnitus for it.

Rowan.

His laugh is exactly as wild as I remember. The only difference is that he doesn't hug a lamb tight today. Right now, he clutches something I can't see while sitting on the edge of a sandpit with his back to me. He also talks with another teacher instead of yelling No shit Sherlock at me or babbling about how he'd lost the second chance he wanted so badly.

Apparently, he didn't lose it. He's exactly where he wanted to be, and I only realise I'm grinning when the stretch of my smile pulls. I touch my cheek at that weird, rare feeling, then clutch the fence again because Rowan laughs one more time, only with a nervous edge that means I can't move on. Not without finding out what's got him in a spin this time.

Turns out it's me.

"Thanks for these, Charles." He gets to his feet only to promptly drop what looks like a scrapbook. He scoops it up only to drop two others, the muppet. He scrambles to get his shit together in a hurry. "I promise I'll read them all by first thing Monday morning. And I'll pay much more attention."

The teacher he's with is properly posh. "You do seem a bit distracted."

"Sorry, sorry." Rowan points up at a window. "I thought I saw someone while we were upstairs. Really want to get a closer look to make sure."

"Saw someone?" The other teacher pats the edge of the sandpit beside him. "Oh, no, no, no. You sit right there for your own safety. I warned you that Dominic Dymond was as hot as sin, didn't I?"

He isn't wrong about that.

"What else did I tell you about him?"

"That his husband would have my bollocks for his breakfast? He won't. I wasn't looking at him." Rowan almost drops his armful again. "And I'm not usually this clumsy. Or an airhead."

I beg to fucking differ, because I'm not only a demolition expert, am I? I'm a recent expert on Rowan falling. On how he trips when he's laser-focused as well, like on the way to his hotel room after kissing in that alley. I'm an eyewitness to how his thoughts float and he doesn't hesitate to share them, like he did in bed after, all while tapping out a rhythm with light fingers that sent me to sleep when I hadn't meant to.

Now he's here, wanting to see me again, and I open my mouth to tell him I'm right here wanting the same. God help me.

I shut it when the other teacher says, "Don't you ever apologise for being you."

He's right. Rowan doesn't have a single thing to be sorry about. The world could do with more people prepared to dive headfirst—just as long as someone's there to catch them.

That means I lean against the fence, captivated by this teacher heading towards an outdoor blackboard. That's where he rummages in a box, finding a chunk of chalk to show Rowan what he means with both words and colour.

"A lot of those learning journey scrapbooks are full of this kind of progress." He chalks a thick, white line. "Imagine a beam of white light. Typically, that light shines straight ahead. That makes it relatively easy to predict and plan for the next steps in their learning. But plenty of those books you're holding are full of nontypical progress." That white stripe of chalk breaks into rainbow colours. He dashes them out at all kinds of angles, starting with a sky-blue line. "This one? It's little Asa's journey. You might not remember him. I danced?—"

Rowan joins him at the blackboard. "With him when I played my whistle?"

I'm glad now I handed that whistle to him in his hotel bedroom. Gladder still when this teacher is delighted Rowan remembered one of his kids.

"Yes! Asa can't help having ants in his pants. Right now, he couldn't sit still for love nor money. Doesn't necessarily mean he's hyperactive, but boys and girls wired like Asa can struggle later. Get negatively labelled. I don't want that for him, so you'll see his learning journey is full of busy, fiddly activities. Busy because, right now, his movement dial is turned all the way up to max." He mimes turning that dial back. "Fiddly activities extend his concentration. Teaching him in those nontypical ways will help him to learn how to dial himself back. And who better to do that than a nontypical teacher?" He tilts his head when Rowan's silent. "I'm talking about you."

"Me?"

He taps his temple. "Have a think about your music dial. It's set at full volume, right? That's perfect for combining busy and fiddly tasks, yes?"

"Busy and fiddly." Rowan sounds all business. "With music. Got it."

"And here's little Maisie Dymond. You'll absolutely love her."

Dymond?I picture a shy smile, snotty nose, and a mermaid T-shirt as this teacher adds a bright orange chalk line.

"Maisie's delays mean that her book is full of adaptions and some stunning individual progress. None of her learning happens in a straight line."

I'm still caught on that delay description when he moves on.

"And here's another nontypical journey." The chalk line he touches next is a stormy purple. "Luke talked to you about Hadi's PTSD?"

Rowan nods, and I should have already walked away from a conversation that's switched from general to specific, but I'm no stranger to those initials, or to what this teacher describes so perfectly it's almost painful.

"He'll often freeze mid-task for no apparent reason or he'll stop doing activities he used to enjoy. Then he'll remove himself from play, but look closer and you'll see he's stuck, expecting the worst all over again. Sometimes, it's obvious, like if he hears something loud and sudden." My heart thuds. It also goes out to whichever child they're discussing. This also strikes home. "It's got to be absolutely exhausting for him."

I'm holding a fence—not rubble—outside a school, not inside a building I should have followed orders and left already.

I know that.

I do.

Dust still rises. A roar still echoes. It's never-ending, and I deserve to hear it.

Rowan's voice pierces through it. "How can I help him?"

The teacher's answer sounds testing. Important. "What did you notice in Hadi's learning journey?"

"I saw…" Rowan's cautious. He doesn't want to get this wrong, but just like the first time I saw him, he throws himself into problem-solving. "I saw that all his activities are paired." Here he goes, making another leap. "So that he'll make friends? So he doesn't have to keep being alone? I could make paired musical activities for him."

"Exactly!"

I like that this teacher sounds proud. He's a nice guy. Reminds me of Twin One steering me and Matt through so many demolition close shaves and rebuild near-disasters. It's gutting to hear someone do the same for Rowan while saying, "PTSD does such an unfair number on brains. It's a real life-limiter."

I'm the only life-limiter around here.

I turn away, heading for my van.

The teacher's voice follows, and for someone who speaks with a cut-glass accent, I don't know how he can sound soft enough that I falter.

"We can't ever magic it away, but we can keep offering bridges from one side to another. There's a way across for Hadi. And I wouldn't be without him, or without any of the colours that diverge from the norm in my classroom. Look."

I turn back to see him sketch a chalk line in a bright green, adding to a picture now reminding me of one of my dad's old Pink Floyd album covers.

"This is me. Fully dyslexic, nothing neurotypical about me, and still getting to do what I love. All of these colours? You can't make white light without them. Anyone who isn't typical can make the world so much brighter, so don't you apologise for being a little bit extra. Think about your unique gifts."

"Music." Rowan nods, standing straighter.

"Yes." This teacher has already got his number. "You definitely dance to the beat of your own drum."

Rowan's laugh rings out, a repeat of the chime that first drew me to pause here, only I'm not certain it signals that he's happy. "More like I'm a space cadet or away with the fairies."

"Well, whoever called you that missed their chance to dance to your beat with you. That's their loss. And that's what we're going to do together, okay? Dance every single day now that we have your music." He picks through his box of chalk sticks. "I'm green," he says much more quietly, so quietly it's hard to hear over an internal roar that still hasn't subsided. He holds out a handful of white chalk. He also offers a rainbow of colourful options. "What are you?"

Louder voices approach.

Dom and Luke Lawson round the corner of the building, so I head for my van and the paperwork I promised, which we talk through until I glance over their shoulders. Rowan isn't where I last saw him. "Take a look for yourselves." I shove the paperwork at Dom. "I'll just go grab my hammer. Left it in the library."

That's not much of an excuse for retracing my steps. I make it regardless, and once I'm around the corner, I run because if there's a colour reserved for people with a death wish, it'll be the same pink as Rowan's flush. Or the same honey shade as eyes that widen after he leans through that gap in construction netting outside the library and I have to pull him back to stop him. "I can't leave you alone for a minute, can I? You're a health and safety liability."

Here's the payoff for worrying about that nervous edge to his voice—when he's pleased, the whole world knows it. "You are working here!"

"Good thing too. Although not officially until next week."

He's still in my arms, and yes it's the weekend, but this school isn't empty, is it? There are still people around. I should let him go, not walk him a few steps back so that netting closes behind us, but here I go, not following my own orders. I wrap him even tighter, scrapbooks between us instead of a lamb, and his grin widens. "I wasn't actually planning on sticking my head through there." He nods towards the exploratory hole in the wall.

"You better bloody not. Not without a hard hat." Or without me. Christ knows what would happen. "You got the job then?"

His smile flickers. "Not exactly." He rallies. "But I definitely get to be here while they're short-staffed. I'm helping out with the little ones and covering some evening and weekend duties."

He turns the tables by going up on tiptoe to snatch a quick kiss with more of that bravery I didn't expect when I first saw him. Here's more evidence of it. "I'm on duty tonight but I'm free tomorrow evening if you want to…" He shrugs. "I don't know. Want to save me from myself, or something?"

I regret shoehorning in a job all the way up-country in Blackpool. It's a six- or seven-hour drive. I should travel tomorrow if I want to make an early start on Monday. He must read that from my face the same way I can read his tone despite tinnitus static buzzing. I watch his smile slip before he slides through the gap in the netting as if putting distance between him and my answer.

"No worries," he calls back before I can reply. "Just an idea. I don't even know where would be good around here."

Someone else answers. "Good for what?"

I grab my hammer and push netting aside to see that Rowan's dropped all of his scrapbooks at his headmaster's feet. His face flames, his focus on the floor rather than Luke Lawson. He doesn't move to pick them up, and I don't need purple chalk to recognise someone frozen. I've been that person, haven't I? Today I step in—step up—do what I should have back then.

I shield Rowan by sliding between them. "A good place for Row and me to catch up tomorrow evening."

"Ah." Luke's gaze flicks from me to Rowan, who is at my side now, his scrapbooks safely gathered. "So Liam's the old friend you were hoping to catch up with? Well, the garden where we talked is open until nine on Sundays. Beautiful sunset views and it'll be quiet this early in the season."

"There you go, Row." I rest the head of my hammer on my shoulder and back off. "What time do you get off?"

"Half six." He's still focussed on his scrapbooks, his cheeks still rosy, tips of his ears flaming, and fuck me, he's so cute like this. He's also back to brave, meeting my eyes dead on. "Let's do it."

"Take some supper from the dining hall with you," Luke Lawson offers, and I knew I was right to like him. "Share a picnic. The weather looks great for tomorrow," he says as he leaves us.

Once he rounds the corner of the building, that wary look I don't like on Rowan returns. He asks a quiet and careful question. "Just checking. You really want…?"

"To see you again?"

So what if I'll need to drive through the night to make an early start on Monday? I rattle off my phone number.

"Already looking forward to it."