#tat

“But Mr. Harringtonnn,” Becky whines as soon as his foot returns to the sidewalk. “Jordan still hasn’t held my hand, and we’ve been together for three weeks. Three!”

“Sounds like torture,” Steve replies, monotone.

“Did you tell him?” you chime in. “You know, that you want to hold hands?”

She pouts up at you with hooded eyes. “Well, no.”

“Then how’s he supposed to know?”

“I dunno, he’s just supposed to. He’s my boyfriend.”

“If I had a boyfriend, I would ask him.”

“You don’t have a boyfriend?” She gawks at you like you’ve said something illegal. “But you’re so pretty, Miss, why not!”

A bubbly laugh escapes you. “Haven’t found the right one, I guess.”

“Well, aren’t you going to start looking? Before you get too old?”

“Hey— watch it. She’s not old, okay? And she doesn’t need a boyfriend. Nobody needs one. You’re way too young for a boyfriend, anyway. Why are we still talking about this?”

You and Becky giggle about it as Steve escorts another kid to their car. He opens the passenger door and waves to the parent in one practiced motion. It’s the car in front of theirs where Peter W. climbs into the front seat, all the papers in his folder sliding out onto the wet asphalt behind him.

“Petey, wait!” you shout as he slams the door shut. You hustle out into the rain, sweeping up the soggy confetti of homework assignments into the crook of your elbow. Your clothes are just starting to stick when the rain suddenly stops. Steve’s umbrella rattles over your head, his arm hanging out between you.

You edge closer to him until your shoes bump the side of his. “Thanks,” you puff.

His eyes flick past you, water beading on his dark lashes. You hear the Wentworth station wagon pull away, but all you’re focused on is Steve’s drooping hair. So much for keeping it dry the last forty-five minutes.

“I’m not married, by the way,” he says abruptly.

You blink, heat creeping up behind the chill of rain on the back of your neck.

“Or, like, seeing anyone, I mean,” he rambles on.

“Oh, cool— I mean, yeah, I guess.” You clear your throat, but your voice betrays you, climbing anyway. “Sorry, why are you telling me this?”

“‘Cause I… thought you might wanna know— you know, after— I don’t know. We’re like, kinda friends now, aren’t we?”

“Oh, yeah— yeah, of course. I just… I dunno, I’d kinda prefer if we just stayed coworkers. You know, just work friends.”

There’s a beat of hesitation on his face before he nods. “Yeah, ‘course.”

You can’t bear to crush the poor man’s heart for a second longer than that. It was much funnier in your head. “I’m messing with you. I’m so sorry.” You break out into a regretful smile and treat his shoulder to a big squeeze.

The realization hits him gradually, his lips parting in a slow-motion grin. “Oh.”

“Sorry, I’ve been told I need to work on my sarcasm.”

“Yeah, no, that was good. You got me, I—”

The next parent in the carline lays on their horn until you and Steve jump apart. You scramble back to the students, who thankfully have not killed each other in your absence.

And from there, from under the awning, you watch Steve jog Kate to her dad’s truck, thinking, friends has quite a nice ring to it.