“I just left him,” Bryony said. “He ran home for his dog.”

Susie’s countenance fell.

“I’m glad he’s found a friend in you,” Chuck said. “We practically begged him to sub for me for the year, and then abandoned him when he arrived. I had no idea I’d be down for so long.”

“You’re doing great now.” Charity patted Chuck’s knee.

When Chuck looked at his wife, Bryony saw love passing between them. They were not merely aged versions of iconic high school sweethearts. They were a mature, married couple surviving a crisis together.

“I hope to see you in here more often,” she said.

Chuck smiled at her. “I hope we see more of you, too.”

Bryony carried her coat to the rack in the back of the store, lifted it to the hook, let it drop, and sighed.

Chuck and Charity Henderson were not the people she had known in high school. She was not the person they had known then either. Everybody grew up—everybody except maybe Susie—and moved past divisions related to the competitive nature of high school. They could all be friends—except maybe Susie—including Cal.

That night she made a tomato pie. Bryony had read that dreaming of tomatoes was a sign of moving in a new work direction, one that would go well. Maybe daydreaming while working with tomatoes would have a similar effect.

Over the weekend, catalyzed by Etta’s encouragement, Bryony had mapped out a vision for her pie business, a bold plan starting with a state-of-the-art kitchen sufficient to produce enough pies for both local and online sales.

After the tomato pie cooled, she removed a piece to taste test. The savory tang of new adventure hit her tongue like the spicy scene in a novel or movie. She would be fine without Cal, and he without her. They would be friends doing their own things, as it should be for two independent adults, neither of whom had ever been married, neither of whom expressed a strong desire to head toward matrimony. Why muck up two perfectly refined single lifestyles?

She took another bite, and then another.

The taste lost its tang after the fourth bite, but she kept eating, for comfort and joy, neither of which she achieved as she swallowed forkful after forkful until the entire piece was gone, leaving only crumbs on her plate.

She started to press her finger into the crumbs to eat those, too, but stopped. After a deep breath and a chance to allow for introspection, she took her plate to the sink and rinsed it.

Crumbs were not her future.

CAL CALLS FOR HELP

The time between the end of dinner and lights out constituted the hardest part of Cal’s day.

Over the past several weeks, he had settled into an evening routine of reading his way through a new detective series recommended by Chuck, who said the stories helped during his recovery.

The main character—a middle-aged man tracking crooked colleagues and various kinds of trafficking rings from which imperiled people required rescuing—mourned his wife and daughter after the author killed them off in the first chapter of the first book in the series. Cal could relate to the loss of loved ones. The drama in the stories distracted him from missing Bryony.

Though they had run into each other a few times and been cordial, he had not called her, as she had not called him. They were both wise enough, he guessed, to know when to cut their losses. But tonight the loss of her loomed larger than usual. He needed to talk to somebody.

Chuck and he had not spoken in a few weeks, so Cal picked up his phone and pulled up his contact list. He wanted to check in. He hoped to hear good news.

After observing a few social amenities related to family, sports, the national news, and which volume of the series he was reading, Cal asked, “Any word yet from the school board?”

“Nothing,” Chuck said. “Charity’s pulled out all the stops with every contact she has. Seems like someone’s feeding the board information which makes our program seem redundant, unnecessary. Charity keeps hearing the word, ‘useless,’ passed around, and the phrase, ‘no evidence basis.’”

“Didn’t they read the report you sent in?” Cal asked. “We documented the rise in student attendance and the reduction in detention over the last five years for seniors entering the program.” Did the school board know anything about the young people served by the program?

“I don’t know, Cal,” Chuck answered. His voice sounded tired, though stronger than a few months ago. “I only know it’s not looking good at the moment, which can change. They won’t vote on next year’s budget until after the new year. I’m not sure what I’ll do next year if the program ends.”

Whether or not the program continued would have little impact on Cal. He would leave after the end of the school year. The idea of staying had been short-lived and exclusively tied to his feelings about Bryony. Feeling foolish now, he was surprised he could be taken in by his need for someone to call his own. Rock ballads came to mind. To yearn for one’s own great love story may be entertaining, but not pragmatic.

“You can always move back to Cleveland,” Cal said.

Chuck laughed. “If there’s no place for me next year in this school system, I’ll retire and do something else. Maybe I’ll be a greeter at Walmart.”

“Their loss, Walmart’s gain,” Cal said.

Chuck laughed again, paused, and said, “Listen. If the weather gets bad and you can’t drive to Cleveland on Wednesday, you’re welcome to come to our house for Thanksgiving.”

Cal appreciated the invite, though short of a blizzard, he knew he would be going home.

They ended the phone call. Cal spent the rest of the evening grading papers. Right before bed, he walked Bailey again and locked up for the night. In the morning he would finish the last few papers at school before the students arrived. Not stopping at the coffee shop gave him another thirty to forty minutes every morning. He missed the lattes, but he didn’t need all those extra calories anyway.

The scent of fresh sheets welcomed him to bed. Seeking the right neck support, Cal stuffed the pillow under his head. Bailey jumped on the bed and settled in beside him. “No snoring, buddy,” Cal said, and closed his eyes.

He woke to the sound of his ringtone. The clock registered twelve thirty. The caller ID on his cell read “Heidi.”

Cal sat up and switched on the light.

“Hey, Heidi,” he said. “What’s up?”

“Don’t panic, but I need you,” his sister said.

“Not a good way to start a call. Are the kids okay?”

“They are, but Dad fell again.” Her voice was rushed, and he heard sounds in the background—a car starting, an electronic voice reminding the driver to fasten their seatbelt. “We think he was rolling his garbage can back up to the house,” she said. “The neighbor found him in the driveway and called the squad. They took him to the ER. I’m on my way there now, but it doesn’t sound good.”

“What was he doing outside this late?” Cal threw off the covers and swung his feet over the edge of the bed.

“I don’t know. The nurse who called said Dad was confused. He might have bumped his head, or he fell because he was dizzy or disoriented.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can.” The blankets on the other side of the bed erupted into a plume of shaking dog fur. “Sorry, buddy. Didn’t mean to bury you.” He pulled back the covers, and Bailey jumped to the floor.

“Are you talking to your dog again?” Heidi asked.

“Yes,” Cal answered.

“Can you leave him home?” Heidi asked. “One less thing to worry about. We might all be pretty busy.”

“I’ll figure something out. Call if anything changes.” Cal made a mental list as he strode to the closet—dress, pack, call Mitch to arrange for a sub, establish pet care. Tomorrow he would call to have his mail held. He had filled the gas tank yesterday.

“Drive safely,” Heidi said.

“Always.”