Straight Up Love (The Boys of Jackson Harbor Book 2)
Straight Up Love: Chapter 7

Present day . . .

Dad asked me to come by his office on Monday, so even though I usually hang with my theater students in the drama classroom during my lunch hour, I let them know I wouldn’t be around today and walked the two blocks from the high school to Dad’s office.

If I had my way, I probably wouldn’t ever come here. Harrison works for my father, and whereas one time walking in these doors made me feel like a proud daughter and wife, now it just makes me feel like a failure. Another good reason why a girl shouldn’t weigh her worth by the man she’s with. I believed I was valuable because Harrison wanted me, and when Harrison left me, I had to grapple for the remaining shreds of my identity. It made me question everything—my relationships, my talents, even my job. I had to fight to rebuild my self-confidence.

Today, when I walk through the doors of McKinley, Morton, and Zimmerman, it’s just as it has been the last two years: a reminder of where I fell short. Harrison’s still here, his last name, Zimmerman, added to the door just a few months ago when he became partner, but I’m no longer in Harrison’s life. Not only was I not good enough for Harrison, turns out I’m not good enough for my father either.

I head past reception and down the hall to Dad’s office and am greeted by the sight of my stepmom at her desk. Unfortunately, Dad is that much of a cliché. He left my mother for his secretary.

Jill beams at me. “Hey, birthday girl! I’m sorry we didn’t get together this weekend.” She stands and walks around the desk to hug me. “Your dad had those tickets to the Cubs game and was dead set on going. I know he was sorry to miss your special day, though.”

I give her a quick squeeze, and when I release her, I return her smile and wonder if she believes the crap she’s shoveling. My father probably didn’t think twice about missing my birthday. “Jill, don’t worry about it. I was busy all weekend.”

Her shoulders sag in relief. “You are the sweetest girl. So understanding and always putting others before yourself.”

My stepmother doesn’t fit her end of the cliché. While I have no trouble thinking of my father as an asshole, I can’t think of Jill as a bitch or a floozy or any other match that would suit him. Maybe I wanted to believe the worst of Jill when Dad first left, but I was too young and too enamored by her beauty and sense of style to question if her kindness was genuine. Luckily, it was.

“Your daddy’s expecting you,” she says. “Can you stay? Maybe I could cancel his one o’clock and we could sneak out and take you to lunch?”

I shake my head. “I’ve gotta get back for fourth period.”

“Another time, then.” She smiles and leads the way to Dad’s office door, then knocks softly on the frame before cracking it. “Nelson, Ava’s here to see you.” She opens it the rest of the way and waves me in.

“Hi, Dad,” I say as I head toward him.

“Ava!” He stands, pushing himself up on the desk. My father must have some Dorian Gray thing going on, because I swear he hasn’t aged a day since I was a kid. At fifty-nine, he still has a full head of dark hair and the body of an athlete. Since I know he values his appearance, I’m glad he’s aged so well, but his good fortune means I’ve had to endure years of hearing my girlfriends talk about how they’re hot for my dad. That I could do without. “Did you have a happy birthday?”

He walks around the desk and wraps me in a hug, and I’m ten years old again—a little girl who believed her father left because she wasn’t good enough, and who cherished the moments he gave her any reason to believe she might be. I may wish I didn’t want his approval, but I still seek it out.

“It was a great birthday, Dad.” Pulling out of his arms, I look up at him and smile. “Did you and Jill have a nice trip to Chicago?”

“We did, and luckily for you, I ran into my old law school buddy while we were there. I don’t know if you remember meeting Vern and Martha Stone.”

I shake my head. “I’m sorry. The names don’t ring a bell, but maybe I’d recognize them if I saw them.”

“Well, I met Vern in law school and they’re dear friends, and now probably the best thing that ever happened to you.”

I frown. “How do you figure?”

He rubs his hands together, as if he’s hatching a great plan. “I heard about the layoffs, Ava, but lucky for you, Vern’s wife is an administrator for a school system down in Florida. I’d just read the news about the cuts that morning and found it rather serendipitous running into him. I gave him a heads-up that you’d be looking and reminded him that he owes me a few favors.” He chuckles like this is the funniest joke, but I don’t feel amused in the slightest.

My father assumes I’ll be one of the teachers let go. Way to have faith in me, Pops.

“We don’t know yet how many people are going to be laid off,” I say, trying to sound more patient than I feel. “I don’t have any reason to assume I’ll be one of them.”

Dad gives me a tight smile. “Let’s not be foolish by failing to cover our bases.” He arches a brow. “If we have an opportunity in Florida, then we’re going to make sure we nurture that opportunity in case we need it.”

“Yeah, but even if I do lose my job, I’m not even sure I’d want to—”

“Always so defiant.” His tight smile turns into a wrinkled expression of disapproval. “Perhaps you need to take a moment to reflect on the best words to say right now.”

If I were a flower, that sentence would have me withered and brown. Once again, I’m ten—the chastised child who isn’t showing the proper gratitude to her father for including her at Sunday dinner with his new family. I’m seventeen and living with my father’s perfect family and falling short with every other step. I’m twenty-eight and being lectured about why I should be more sympathetic toward my cheating husband.

I swallow hard and shake my head. I hate that my response disappointed him almost as much as I hate that I care. “I appreciate you looking out for me, Dad.”

His posture softens. “You’ll want to prepare yourself for their call. Martha was very enthusiastic when I told her how much experience you’ve had at the local children’s theater.”

Prepare myself for their call? That seems premature—and, I pray, unnecessary. But there’s only one appropriate response for my father. “I’ll prepare. Thanks for the lead, Dad.”

“You’re welcome. Now, can Jill and I take you to lunch?”

I shake my head. “I have to get back.” After all these years, he still doesn’t understand that I can’t just take a long lunch break on a whim. Then again, my father doesn’t make much of an effort to understand anyone’s world but his own.

He leans down and presses a kiss to my cheek. “Happy birthday, then. Jill will walk you out.” He walks around his desk and presses the button by his phone to signal to Jill that we’re done.

She dutifully appears at the door, and my father’s attention is fixated on the computer screen in front of him, as if I’m already gone. “Have a good day, Dad,” I say as I exit the office with Jill.

I’m perfectly capable of replaceing my way out of the building without Jill leading me, but she always walks me anyway. I wonder if she’s just being polite or if she knows how uncomfortable I am here, always afraid I’m going to run into Harrison in the hallway.

When we reach the front and push through the gleaming glass doors, the sun is shining, and the air is warm.

“It feels like summer is coming,” she says, tilting her face to the sky.

I smile. “I can’t wait.” Most people assume that summer means a three-month vacation for all school teachers, but I’ve never used it as such. Because of my position with the local children’s theater, I work as many hours during the summer as I do during the school year, helping with theater camps and directing our biggest production of the year. Local youth, aged five to eighteen, work on it all summer and perform right before they return to school. It’s my favorite time of the year. I spend my days hanging out with kids who are passionate about theater, my nights working extra shifts at Jackson Brews, and I even take the occasional weekend with the Jacksons at their family cabin.

“Guess what?” Jill says, pulling me from my thoughts. “Molly is coming home in a couple weeks.”

Oh, my stepsister. Ellie and I call Molly “Mother Teresa” because she’s always doing something to make the world a better place—an awesome quality in theory, but when it belongs to the person you’re always measured against, it’s a little hard to swallow. “That’s great. How’s she doing?”

“She’s good, but you can ask her yourself. She said she needed to talk to us about something important, so I think she has big news.”

“That’s great!” I force a smile.

Molly moved away for college—she went to a fancy liberal arts school where a year’s tuition costs more than my house. She left and only came home as the rare exception. Unlike me. I stayed as close to Jackson Harbor for college as I could. I had no interest in putting roots down in a new place. But when Molly started her degree four years after me, she was always getting this new internship or that new fellowship. I have no doubt that her big news is more of the same.

“Will you be able to join us for dinner when she’s in town?”

The truth is more that missing such a dinner wouldn’t be worth my father’s wrath. I might not want to go, but I know I will. Dare I share my big news when Molly shares hers? Mother Teresa is probably opening an orphanage in Calcutta while I, the underachieving daughter who might be out of a job, am contemplating an investment in sperm. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

When I get back to school, students are trickling into my classroom for fourth period. Drama is my favorite period of the day, and the group I have this year is full of enthusiasm.

“Good afternoon,” I say after the bell rings. I grab the stack of papers from my desk and start passing them out. “As promised, I brought in the applications for the children’s theater summer program. I really encourage you to look at the opportunity and talk it over with your parents. If you think you’d like to help me, get your application in by the end of next week. I always have more volunteers for the youth leader positions than I have positions available, so don’t put it off.”

Lance raises his hand from the back row as I distribute the last of the stack. “Miss McKinley?”

“Yes, Lance?”

“Was Miss Quincy serious when she said they were going to let a bunch of teachers go?”

There’s a collective inhale, and I draw in a sharp breath of my own. When Myla and I talked at the coffee shop on Saturday, she probably didn’t think about Lance listening from behind the counter. The layoffs aren’t exactly a secret, but no one wants to upset students either. “We don’t know anything for sure yet,” I say with what I hope is a comforting smile.

In the front row, Sydney waves her paper. “If you’re not the one running the summer program, I don’t want to do it.”

I shake my head. “The children’s theater isn’t connected with Windsor Prep. I promise you I’ll be running the program regardless of what happens here.”

“So you might get laid off,” Lance says.

“What if you have to move somewhere for a new job?” Corrine asks.

“What about next year’s musical?” Sydney asks. “There’s no one else at this school who gives a shit about the drama kids.”

“Sydney, language.”

Sydney’s cheeks flare pink. “Sorry, but it’s true.”

I take a deep breath. “Please don’t worry until we have more information. I don’t want to promise anything. Obviously, it’s not my decision to make. I’ll know when I know.”

“But you’ll tell us when you do?” Corrine asks in a small voice.

These kids act so tough and grown-up. Most of the time it’s easy to forget that they’re still just that—kids. But I see the vulnerability in the eyes of the fifteen students waiting for me to answer. They need the reassurance that I’ll be here next year because I’m a symbol of what they’ve come to love—bringing words to life on stage. I want to tell them I’m not worried and explain that I’ve been here longer than both of the other teachers in my department. But I bite my tongue just in case I’m wrong to be so confident.

“I’ll tell you when I know,” I promise. I point to the summer theater applications and grin. “But I’m doing children’s theater this summer no matter what, and so should you.”