He made a quiet sound of amusement.
“The next Christmas, my dad stormed out after an argument with my mom, and I thought he was leaving us for good,” she said. “I smashed it. I threw every piece of that nativity on the brick fireplace while my mom cried in her bedroom. She came, but not in time.” She paused. “I remember she didn’t get mad at me. She just held me and let me scream until I couldn’t anymore.”
She felt his hand on her shoulder, and part of her wanted to shake it off, but part of her wanted to keep it there. To keep her from falling back into that darkened room next to the Christmas tree lights that continued blinking on and off. She closed her eyes.
“As much as I can’t remember what that nativity looked like up on our mantel,” she said, “I remember exactly how it looked smashed on the floor around my feet. That’s how this last disaster felt. I thought I loved someone—or I thought he loved me. I mean, because of my parents I’d always shied away from deeper commitment, you know?” She turned to him. “He was an actor. He said one of the things he loved about me was that I was different from the Hollywood set. In every way, shape, and form. And then, he decided that to be an A-list actor, he needed an A-list actress on his arm. But he failed to tell me, and I caught them making out in my dad’s den during my birthday party. Everyone knew. It made the news.”
He cringed.
“One of the pitfalls of having a famous father. My dad was furious that an actor in a movie he was working on had broken his daughter’s heart. And he may or may not have punched said actor in the nose. That also made the news. One of the pitfalls of having an Irish father.” She let out a long breath. “Now you know all my secrets.”
He studied her, his finger tapping on the steering wheel.
“I don’t know how you still hope like you do, Mark. I admire it.”
After some time—a couple minutes or maybe twenty, she couldn’t be sure—he pulled his hand from her shoulder.
“I’m sorry I asked you to help me with this project,” he said.
She turned to him, leaning on her elbow. “I’m not.”
“First your dad left, then your grandma passed away—both at Christmas, both tied to a nativity. I had no idea.”
“I know. And I still chose to help you. We’ve already discussed this.”
He frowned. “Yeah, but—”
“But that’s all there is to it. Maybe it’s good for me. Facing my demons and all that. Right?” She smiled again, but her eyes burned with unshed tears. “Like you said, you adapt.”
He scrutinized her, but she didn’t feel judged. “So much for taking a nice drive,” he said, a hint of humor in his voice.
“Yeah,” she said. “Aren’t we something?”
He smiled, then checked his watch. “I’m pretty sure that paint’s dry.”
“Can we wait just a few more minutes?”
He nodded. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” She settled back in her seat. “I just want to look a little longer.”
“Fine by me,” he said.
She returned her gaze to the view, this time clearing her mind of her past. She hadn’t intended on sharing any of that with him. Or anyone. But it didn’t feel wrong.
Riley finished writing instructions for the art assignment on the whiteboard as the bell rang to end last period. She felt the collective relief from the class, as tangible as the oil pastels they’d dropped back into their boxes moments before. “Remember to have your Van Gogh projects in by Friday, and don’t forget to put your names on them.” She turned away from the board. “I’m looking at you, Wyatt and Charlie.”
The boys groaned as the triumphant sounds of school being out for the day filtered in from the hall. Charlie stopped.
“Hey, Ms. Madigan, are you dating Mark Rivers? Because that would be awesome.”
Wyatt chimed in. “My mom says you’re dating Mr. Gainer and that’s gonna tick off a lot of women in this town.”
Riley gulped a breath and stuttered out a laugh. “I’m not dating anyone—not that it’s anybody’s business.”
“Well,” Charlie said, “I think you should date Mr. Rivers. He’s awesome. Awesomer than Mr. Gainer.”
Wyatt turned to Charlie. “Maybe she doesn’t want to be married to a guy with scars all over.”
Charlie screwed up his face. “Dude, what does that matter? The guy is a hero.”
“Well, if she married Mr. Gainer, they would both be heroes, because teachers are heroes.”
Charlie slapped his hand to his forehead. “Are you even listening to yourself? If she marries Mr. Rivers, they would both be heroes, too.”
“That’s enough!” Riley cried, glancing at the remaining students listening avidly. “Thank you for your observations on heroism, boys, but nobody is getting married. Wyatt, scars should never matter, and Charlie, Mark and I are just friends. That’s all. Now go, or you’ll miss your bus.”
The rest of the class cast her sideway glances and muffled giggles until the room was empty.
Riley placed her cold hands on her hot cheeks and blew out a deep breath, attempting to ease her pounding heart. Wyatt’s mom was discussing Riley’s love life? Sixth-graders were ready to marry her off?
She turned to the table piled with boxes of pastels and pads of smooth, clean newsprint. Like a healing talisman, she pulled a pad toward her and slid open a box. If there was anything she liked better than oil paints, it was pastels. The soft, creamy crayons could put a lot of color and texture on a page in little time, and if she ever needed to do a quick sketch of something she wanted to paint later, she preferred them over pencils. The way they glided over the paper had always been soothing.
She grabbed a few colors and quickly mapped out a blue valley dotted with lit-up homes and highway lights, then
