A swell of steam was beginning to shoot out of the small hole at the tip of the kettle. It whistled ever so slightly.

“Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not. You know your pregnancy brain has been bad lately.” The eggs were beginning to sizzle and spit oil into the air. Jack grabbed a spatula and flipped them as the temperature of the kettle continued to climb.

“Are you seriously gaslighting me right now?”

“I’m not doing anything, Grace.”

The kettle began screaming.

“Jesus Christ,” I shouted. “Shut that fucking thing up.”

Jack shoved the kettle from the burner. It hit the counter with a bang.

The noise slowly dulled.

“Happy?” He laid both hands on the counter, relaxing his weight into the granite, and sighed.

I stood, approached him and wrapped my arms around his waist. “I’m sorry.”

Jack shrugged, shifting from my arms. “It’s okay.” He poured the boiling water into the French press.

I picked up the spatula from the counter and began poking at the eggs. “Jack?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you believe in omens?”

“You know I don’t.” He passed me a cup, his eyes on the coffee, avoiding mine.

I paused before taking it, blowing gently on the liquid’s surface.

Chapter 60

“Grace?”

My English teacher approached as I bent to add my health textbook to my bag. Standing upright, I shut my locker door and fastened the lock. I turned and waited, pulling the straps of my bookbag over my shoulders and clinging to them with my fingers. My English teacher was wearing brown trousers that were pleated down the leg and a black cardigan sweater. His short grey hair seemed wet, but as he got closer, I realized it was some sort of product. Taking small, calculated steps to avoid colliding with a group of students who were coming toward him at an angle, his cologne reached me before he did.

“I was just talking to your father,” he said, removing his hands from his pockets. “He asked if I could give you a lift home.”

“Alright.” I studied him, chewing on the insides of my cheeks. “Did he say why?”

He shrugged. “He just said he had something to do.”

“Okay.”

“You ready?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.

I clutched my bookbag straps tighter, running my fingertips along the smooth edges. “Yeah, I’m ready.”

“Alright, let’s get a move on.”

I knew my English teacher was going to want to come in. He had been unusually quiet on the drive; he seemed deep in thought, picking at the cuticles of his nails and using his knees to steer. When he pulled into the driveway, he immediately killed the engine. “I’m going to have to use the john, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure.” I opened the car door and hopped out, grabbing my bookbag from the floor. It hit a branch on the tree in the driveway as I tossed it over my shoulder, startling me slightly. My English teacher walked behind me, and I could feel his eyes on my bare legs.