I stare at the words for a minute or two before they truly sink in. There’s nothing earth-shattering about the news, but the casual finality of it guts me for some reason. Her explanation is perfectly reasonable: A job, particularly in this economy, isn’t a small matter. But I’d gotten ahead of myself and imagined seeing Layla pass her GED, attend community college, study to become a paralegal. In my head, I would be serving as her mentor, even if I decided not to accept a permanent position with Victory Academy. Just like that, the scenario I envisioned is no longer a possibility. It’s a timely reminder that relationships can often be one-sided. Making space for someone in your life doesn’t guarantee they’ll make space for you in theirs.

“I’m ready for my lesson, Ms. Pereira.”

I startle at the sound of Dean’s deep voice. It’s tinged with humor—and matches the half smile he’s wearing as he leans against the door frame. His unbuttoned suit jacket allows me to see the sinewy muscles straining against his dress shirt.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, ignoring his attempt at flirtation.

His smile vanishes, replaced by a look of concern. “I thought we could catch a ride home together. Show up to my place at the same time. I think it would be awkward if I were alone with your cousins, and I didn’t want you to have to scramble if they asked you for something and you couldn’t find it.”

I should be grateful he’s thinking ahead, but I’m growing tired of the subterfuge. It isn’t Dean’s fault, though, so I muster a smile and slowly rise to my feet. “Good idea.”

He steps inside, then shuts the door behind him. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

Because Dean’s my friend, it never occurs to me to tell him anything but the truth. “I got some unexpected news today. About one of my most promising students. It left me a bit deflated.”

“Are they okay?”

“I think so. But they’ve dropped the class. For a good reason, I’m sure. I suppose I was getting attached, and I didn’t even realize it.”

“That’s a sign of a good teacher. You care.” Dean holds out his hand. When I take it, he tugs me forward and draws me into his arms. Neither of us says anything. I don’t know that there’s anything for us to say anyway. He’s providing comfort. Being supportive. This is precisely what I need right now, and somehow Dean gets that.

“Ready to head home?” he asks, his breath feathering over my ear.

“Sure, I’m ready to head to your place.”

Home. His place. There’s a difference. And no matter how comforting it is to be wrapped in his arms, I can’t lose sight of that fact.

Dean