"You've got to be kidding me," Sarah grumbled, barely loud enough for anyone to hear. Her heel snagged the same warped floorboard—again. Third time now. The old stage creaked under her weight, the sound bouncing around the mostly empty auditorium. She grabbed the podium, her fingers digging into the worn wood. Ten years, and nobody bothered to fix this stupid thing.
Ethan cleared his throat from across the stage, shuffling his notes like he always did. That sound hit her nerves—she didn't even have to look to know it was him. She'd memorized that rhythm ages ago, the way he'd tap his pen twice before opening his mouth, etched into her mind like graffiti on a bathroom wall.
The principal, already half-bald and somehow still too loud for the microphone, grinned at the scattered crowd of new teachers. "And here's Mr. Ethan Cole, back in our halls after his big constitutional law fellowship!" Sarah's nails pressed into her palm. Of course he'd crushed it. Of course he'd come back. The universe just loved its little jokes.
A janitor rolled his mop bucket past the stage, bleach slicing right through the old dust in the air. Sarah's stomach clenched. She couldn't help but remember hanging out by these lockers after school—Ethan's jacket on her shoulders, rain tapping the windows. That mix of his cheap cologne and wet concrete used to fill her nose. Now it was just disinfectant and the sharp, metallic hint of his wedding band as he fiddled with his tie. Hold on—wedding band?
She glanced down at her own bare left hand and swallowed hard.
The faculty room buzzed with first-day noise, but Sarah tuned it all out. She couldn't stop staring at the slim silver band on Ethan's finger as he dropped his briefcase next to her—yeah, assigned seats, just her luck—and popped it open like he'd done it a hundred times before. The ring caught the harsh fluorescent light, looking even brighter against his tan. She hadn't seen it up on stage. Honestly, she hadn't wanted to notice anything about him.
...
"Page twelve," he said suddenly, sliding a stapled packet toward her without meeting her gaze. His voice was all business, the same tone he'd used to recite debate points in their senior year. "Principal wants lesson plans submitted by Friday."
Sarah stared at the packet. There was a coffee stain near the corner, the brown ring blurred from too many hands. She tried to remember—did he make it, or did some other woman hand it to him this morning? Whoever she was, the idea left a sour taste in her mouth. "Thanks," Sarah said, holding the paper a little too tightly.
A student aide rushed in, arms full of mismatched mugs that clattered as she handed them out. Sarah used the chaos to sneak a look at Ethan. There was that faint scar above his eyebrow—leftover from their disastrous bike race. His jaw tensed up, just like always, when he fought back a sarcastic comment. Same old signs. Whole different life now.
The student passed Ethan a chipped blue mug. He stared at it for a second, then let out a short laugh. "Still kicking around, huh?"
"Yep!" The girl's grin was wide. "Mom swears it's lucky."
Sarah's breath caught. That mug—his old favorite. The one he'd swiped from the cafeteria and hid in his locker through senior year. She remembered sipping hot chocolate from it while he marked up mock trials at two in the morning, their legs tangled under the library table.
Ethan ran his thumb over the chipped mug, his wedding ring glinting. For a moment, his face changed—something honest broke through. Then the bell blared above them, and he snapped right back, all business. "Better get to class," he said, not even glancing back as he left.
Sarah let out a shaky breath. His mug sat there on the desk, steam curling up like nothing had changed.
She reached for it, then jerked her hand away. Ridiculous. Still, her fingers lingered in the air, giving her away. The mug would feel warm—just like his hands did when he'd warm up her cheeks after winter track. She shook her head hard and snatched her lesson planner instead. The leather creaked, almost complaining.
Ethan's voice drifted down the hallway, spilling out from his open classroom door. "Civil disobedience presupposes organized resistance, not vandalism." Still lecturing, still that smug, I-know-better tone. Sarah clenched her jaw and kept walking, not bothering to look in. Bergamot and old books floated out after her. New cologne. The scent hit her straight in the chest.
Her own classroom had that chalky smell, layered over the leftover nerves from last semester. Ninth graders shuffled to their seats, giving her that classic teenager look—sizing her up, already plotting how much they could get away with. Sarah straightened her back. "Open your textbooks to—" She stopped. A folded note landed on her desk, slid over by a passing hand.
Jagged handwriting she knew by heart: You never could resist my coffee cups.
Her heart thudded. She crumpled the note, didn't bother reading more, and shoved it deep into her blazer pocket. All through class, she felt the edges burning against her leg.
Lunch in the faculty lounge was all whispers and side glances. Sarah picked at her salad, catching pieces of gossip—divorced, actually... back for the tenure track...—when the chair beside her scraped across the floor. Ethan dropped into it, tray clanking. He didn't say a word, just ate his sandwich, slow and careful. The silence thickened between them, syrupy and heavy.
At last, he nudged his apple her way. Bruised, as always. She used to steal them from his lunch when he wasn't paying attention.
Sarah stared at the apple, then blurted out, "Who's the lucky wife?" The words cut their way out.
Ethan's hand froze on his napkin. "Ex-wife," he said, voice low. "Two years." That was it. He left the rest hanging. No need to explain.
Mr. Amblin's laugh echoed across the room, bouncing off the tiles. Ethan's jaw tightened. He stood up fast, chair scraping. "We're adults," he said, not quite looking at her. "We can be professional."
Sarah watched him walk away, his shoes tapping out a pattern that sounded a whole lot like someone forcing themselves not to look back.
She pulled the note from her pocket and unfolded it. Underneath his words, she'd scribbled her answer ten years ago in blue ink—never sent it, just crumpled it up and hid it away: Come home.
The ink had run where her tears hit the page.
...
Sarah ran her thumb over the invisible stain, almost like she could scrub out the memory. She heard his laughter echoing through the walls—a low, warm sound he saved for students who actually surprised him. There was a time when she was the one catching him off guard, sneaking doodles into his textbooks, hiding notes in his locker. Now, she was just another face he dodged in the copy room.
The bell cut through her thoughts. The hallway exploded with students, backpacks thumping, voices bouncing off the lockers. Sarah leaned back on her desk and watched the chaos. Some lanky kid barreled into another, and their books scattered everywhere. She started to step in, but Ethan showed up out of nowhere. He didn't yell, didn't hand out detentions. He just gave them a look—one eyebrow raised—and the whole mess settled down. He always had that quiet control, like he didn't need to say much to get through to people.
One kid mumbled, "Sorry." Ethan just nodded. Somehow, he glanced up and locked eyes with her through the door. Sarah snapped her head away, too fast. Her hip smacked the desk. She watched a pen tumble to the floor, noisy and embarrassing. God, how childish.
When the bell rang, rain pounded the sidewalk outside. Sarah wrestled with her umbrella, hands shaking a little. Suddenly, Ethan was there—coat collar up, rain dripping off his hair. He held out a manila envelope. "Hey, you left these. Department meeting notes."
Water slid off his hair and splashed onto the envelope. Sarah grabbed it. Their hands stayed apart. "Thanks."
He lingered, not moving. Rain pressed his shirt tight against his shoulders. She couldn't help but picture her hands there—junior prom, slow dancing, the rush of his heartbeat when she kissed his collarbone.
"Sarah." His voice almost got lost in the rain. "Was there ever—"
A horn blared. Ethan jerked back as a silver sedan slid up, window gliding down. "Ethan! I brought your jacket!" a woman called out.
Sarah's stomach lurched. Not the ex-wife. Someone else.
Ethan didn't even glance at the car. He just stared at Sarah, rain running down his cheeks. She almost let herself think it meant something—almost.
"I gotta go," he said, like he didn't want to say it at all.
She stood there, just watching. Watched him jog over, watched the woman—curly hair, pretty—hold out his jacket. Watched him leave it draped over his arm, not bothering to put it on.
The wind yanked her umbrella sideways. Rain slipped down her arm, soaking her sleeve. The envelope she clutched started to sag, paper going soft at the corners.
Still, the meeting notes inside looked untouched. She found something wedged between the pages—a coffee-stained sheet, old debate notes from senior year. Her own handwriting looped in the margins, that line she'd circled forever ago: TEAM SARETHAN FOREVER.
And just below it, in ink that hadn't dried long: Still voting yes.
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To be continued.