#*2t

"So, uh, I guess we're both out of luck today, huh?" Ryland extends one hand out into the rain, drops pouncing and bouncing off his palm. He reels it in, shaking it before attempting to wipe it dry on his raincoat. Which, of course, doesn't work, because the raincoat is plasticy and not at all absorbent. Ryland sighs in defeat before reaching lower, rubbing his hand on the front of his jeans.

“At least you have a hood on this thing.” You reach out and poke his shoulder, near where the hood flaps over. The you-of-three-months-ago would have actually poked the folded-over hood. The you-of-about-two-weeks-ago realized you relished any excuse to touch him–feel his body heat soothe into yours before pulling away. God, how high school of you.

If anyone had told you when the semester started that you’d be head over heels crushing hard on the science teacher from the middle school next door, you would have laughed in their face. Rude, of course, but what else would you have thought? Coming into an elementary school, classes and friendships already established. Starting mid-school year is hard for the children, yet you’d never put thought into exactly how hard it could be for an adult. Trying to fit in with the other teachers, the cliques who’d been by each other’s side since August, or longer. Trying to match the pace and rigor of everyone else on the grade level.

You’d cracked, about a month in, on a day rather similar to this one. Cold February rain. You’d parked closer then–before you realized Ryland was likely to walk you to your car, pushing the bike along his side, before heading off down the street–and the rain wasn’t as aggressive. Just soggy, softening the edges of everything.

Maybe that’s what had inspired you to cry. Everything else had a post-sob feeling. You’d stayed way too late, again. You’d left without finishing your to-do list, again. Sensory overload in a world of grey as you stood near the bike rack nestled between the two campuses. Grover Middle to one side, your new elementary on the other, and you in the middle trying really hard to focus on how it felt to press your fingernails deep into your palm. You were hoping the crescent imprints would be enough distraction to help your breathing regulate.

“They’re never over, you know,” a voice said, accompanied by a certain crinkle. You hiccuped in surprise, your tears abruptly stopping as you were ripped back to reality. You shook your hands, palms stinging, and used the heel of one hand to wipe at your eyes.

“I’m sorry? Do I know you?” You hoped you didn’t look or sound too disturbed, chest still heaving slightly and eyes most definitely red from your stress-induced pity party.

The man looked over at you, bike helmet unbuckled. His glasses sat slightly askew on his nose, and he turned distractedly towards you. Blue eyes blinked at you from behind glass. “They’re never over,” he repeated. “To-do lists. They never end. Statistically, and especially in jobs like ours, they never will end. Even when we retire, we’ll still have to-do lists. I guess that’s what they call the human condition, huh? This constant muck we find ourselves in. I’m Ryland Grace, by the way.”

You took a moment to stare at the hand extended your way, brain trying to file and process everything this strange man just threw at you. Professional muscle memory kicked in, and you grasped his hand with lackluster force. For a moment, you don’t feel too cold, heat from his hand sweeping into yours.

“Uh, I guess you’re right,” you said, blinking back your confusion as you looked back up at him. You're captivated by his eyes as you introduced yourself; then: “Wait. How did you know I was hung up on to-do lists?”

The man–Ryland Grace–shrugged. “Word’s made it to Middle that you’re new. I remember when I was new. You wouldn’t think academia could be easier than teaching 12 year olds, but here we are. College is easy, if you really think about it. You do your work, you submit your research. You wait for feedback. Repeat. Nothing changes. Today, I had to figure out how to separate three boys from trying to get on the ground and pretend to be sea lions while I was lecturing about animal structures and functions along with adaptability.”

You were certain you were gawking. Ryland Grace had turned back to seemingly admire the parking lot as he rambled on. It was all connected, yet you still felt so behind by the time he got finished, your head was spinning.

You’d stopped crying and heaving, though, thanks to the total absurdity of the situation.

The gratitude you felt didn’t stop you from blurting out what came next: “Are you okay?”

That seems to snap the man from his stupor, and he whips his head back around. “Me? What? Oh, uh, yeah, I’m fine. Good. Great actually. Got my raincoat and it has a hood so, like, don’t gotta worry about getting too wet in this rain. So yeah, uh, doing swell.” He offered you two thumbs up before reaching down with one hand to steady his bike.

How does he do it? you wondered. Did his brain ever just turn off?

And then, amidst every other emotion coursing through your veins, you laughed. A quick chuckle, really, but it seemed to catch Ryland Grace off guard. His expression, wide-eyed and retreated, made you laugh again.

“Thank you, Mr. Grace,” you said, finally smiling. It felt good to laugh after everything. “I really needed… that.” Probably not a good idea to be too vague when discussing someone’s attempt at cheering you up. You couldn’t really pin-point anything exact from his spiel, though.

He replied with a short laugh of his own, a dismissed haha. He looked down, fidgeted with the handles of his bike. Realized his helmet wasn’t locked in, making him let go of the bike. It leaned on him as he fumbled with the straps, turning towards you once more. “Don’t mention it, we all have bad days. You don’t have to call me that though–Mr. Grace. That’s my dad. You can call me Ryland.”

You felt a little warmer. “Okay,” you replied simply. You told him he could do likewise with you, drop formalities in exchange for first names. Ryland excused himself then, pushing his bike off the curb to the parking lot. You watched him pull up the hood, rain bouncing off the yellow, before slinging one leg over his bike and riding off.

Here you stand now, a slightly similar situation. Rain. No umbrellas. Him the only one with a functioning jacket.

“You know,” he begins, staring out at the heavy rain, “given the climate of where we live and how often you find yourself in this situation, you really should invest in some kind of raincoat by now. Or park closer.”

“Or both,” you shrug. You look up at him, turning your head to gaze up over his shoulder. He still looks the same, just like the day he popped into your life. Tall, messy hair under his helmet, blue eyes shining behind his slightly tilted glasses. That absurdly yellow rain jacket. Except now, there’s a tender happiness that floats between the two of you, amplifies whenever you’re near one another, but it never goes away when apart. You think one day, if he hasn’t, you’ll ask him on a date. Maybe. If the butterflies don’t destroy you first.

“The parking closer is cheaper,” Ryland notes, tilting his head to one side. You absentmindedly wonder if he knows the reason why you park so far. You wonder if he minds.

You tilt your head to mirror his. “The obnoxiously colored raincoat is more fun, though.”

“Who said anything about obnoxious?” he feigns disgust, lightly slugging you in the shoulder. You pretend to fly back. Ryland uses both hands to adjust his jacket, zipping it up but leaving the hood down. “Yellow is a very distinguished color, thank you.”

“If you’re a bird, maybe.” The two of you beam at each other, enjoying how easy this back and forth feels. Surely, surely he feels the same. He has to.

Who else would hold his bike with one hand, and hold his other out for you to grasp? Who else would speed walk through an empty rainy parking lot with you, acting as a strong, balancing force against the slick pavement? Who else would wait until you were in the front seat, head no longer getting rained on, to put on his hood?

With Ryland’s text me when you get home safe still ringing in your ears even after shutting your door and turning the key in the ignition, you reach for the towel that has begun to live in your backseat. You run it over your head, through your hair, and over the exposed parts of your skin.

You sigh, head falling back against the headrest as the music on the radio quietly croons a classic song about having a crush. One day you’ll say how you feel. Or, maybe he will do it first. Or you both do it at the same time.