Sometimes It Happens Here Read online

  Bodhi

  AFTER MEETING MACY and assuring both her and her father multiple times that she’s exactly on schedule with the parts she’s landing and the experience she’s accumulated, I finally manage to break free from the man only to be rounded up by a group of moms who try and persuade me to go out on a date with one of their sisters. I escape that awkward situation by dragging Teran in to take my place. I feel bad, but not terribly. Despite his infatuation with Hannah, he’s perfectly fond of being fawned over by women and never wastes any time in breaking out the charm – possibly his greatest asset.

  Before anyone else can derail me, I slip my baseball cap back onto my head and keep my gaze down while I hurry into the halls behind the stage area and try to find my way back to Hannah’s classroom. I could really use a little breathing room for a minute or two.

  When I find her class, it’s not as abandoned as I’d expected.

  “Where’ve you been?” Hannah asks, looking up from a stack of papers I assume will eventually come together to be the final draft of her script for the Christmas show.

  “Have you met Macy’s dad?” I ask, sliding into one of the desks and pulling my cap back off.

  “You’ve had to deal with him too, huh? I see that man’s been making the rounds this afternoon.” And I can tell by her tone, he’s leaving the same impression with everyone he deals with. “Anyone else I should have a talk with about your right to personal space?”

  “Nah, I think I can handle the others.” I kick my feet out and stretch my legs. Sitting here is bringing back memories of high school. Life was totally normal back then. I was a nobody. Wasn’t even popular by regular standards. And that part wasn’t all that different in college either. Surreal when I think about it. “Remember how you used to have to give me pep talks before auditions?”

  “Of course, I remember. Those were like first drafts for the speeches I give my kids now.” She leans back until she’s sitting on her desk. “Why? Need one right now?”

  I chuckle. She’d laugh if she knew how many times I’ve replayed her words inside my mind in the years since she stopped being around to say them to me. “I think I’m good. Just appreciating the contrast between past and present.”

  She glances around her classroom. “I’m not sure my contrast is as stark as yours,” she says dryly. “Not feeling great about it either. How did you get famous and I wound up in the same room I started, only sitting at the bigger desk?”

  “Don’t be crazy. You would hate my life. And you fucking love what you do.”

  She grins. “True. Forget what I said.” Her feet dangle and I get the sense her mind is wandering on to other topics.

  “What?”

  “What?” Her eyes go wider than necessary, a sign she’s faking her cluelessness.

  “Just spit it out.”

  “What’s your love life like these days?” Her causal tone paired with the fact she’s now avoiding eye contact, lead me to believe she’s not just asking out of friendly curiosity.

  “Seriously? You too? I just barely got out of having to go out with some woman’s recently divorced sister.” I pull myself out of the slouching position I was in and sit up straight.

  Hannah looks outright appalled. “What? Whose sister?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know. Jennifer maybe? Or Jenna? Jenni? It was some variation of the name.”

  “Jennessee,” she says flatly. “I’m so having a talk with her.”

  “Why? Because you’ve got the corner market on setting me up with women you know?” If she does, this is the first I’m hearing about it. Hannah’s never been into playing matchmaker before. Not even in college when I would have appreciated it. Oh. Wait. “Hey, how well do you know the Bread Bin chick? Also runs around here wearing a tool belt.”

  Hannah’s expression shifts from outrage to surprise to giddy satisfaction. “Lilan? Why do you want to know about her?”

  “That’s Lilan?” I’ve heard about her for years. She’s one of Hannah’s closest friends. Somehow, she’s not at all how I imagined her. “The same Lilan you’re always talking about?”

  “How many people named Lilan do you suppose I know, Bodhi? It’s not exactly your run of the mill name.”

  I shrug. “It’s a cool name.” That’s part of the reason it stuck from the start.

  “Cool name for a cool chick,” Hannah agrees. “What exactly happened between you two?”

  “Nothing.” Then it occurs to me this may not be the first she’s hearing about our encounter. “Why? Did she say something to you?”

  “You first.” She crosses her arms and ankles simultaneously, like she’s locking up her inner vault or something,

  “I saw her this morning. At the marketplace.” My first offering is small but I’m trying to negotiate for information here.

  “And?”

  Hannah’s not budging.

  “And...she left an impression.”

  She grins. “I bet she did.” She uncrosses her ankles only to switch sides and re-cross them. “Go on.”

  “Teran went and bought a loaf of bread from her.” I’m starting to realize how little I have to bargain with here. My interaction with her has been so limited it sounds pathetic in the retelling.

  “Wait. You sent Teran?” She just barely stops herself from laughing at me. “Why?”

  “I didn’t send him. He just went. All on his own. Because he wanted bread.” I’m not helping myself.

  “And you didn’t go with him?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I wasn’t ready, okay?! I was still in observation mode when he made a mad dash for her bread stand. Once he had bread, what reason did I have to go?”

  She laughs. This time, without any attempts at restraining her glee. “What reason? You mean other than talking to her? Or, I don’t know, buying another loaf of bread from her?”

  “She would have known Teran just got one,” I insist.

  “Yeah. And how long did it last? Trust me, people come back for seconds after they taste the first all the time.”

  Great. I didn’t exactly know that this morning. Somehow, in all the years and countless conversation’s Lilan’s name has made the rounds between us, her magic bread making skills were never mentioned. “I’ll keep that in mind next time I’m at the marketplace. But for now, maybe you could tell me what she told you. About me.”

  She nods. “She’s not interested.”

  “Excuse me?” Ordinarily, I don’t struggle to grasp the concept, but in this case, after all the torture she’s put me through and her obvious interest in talking about Lilan, I’m finding it a bit hard to swallow. Unless. “I see what you did there. I didn’t want to be set up with your friend and so you put me through this humiliation to teach me a lesson.”

  “Nope.” Her feet uncross and start to swing back and forth again. “Lilan is the friend I wanted to set you up with.”

  I slide my cap back over my head just for the sake of having somewhere to hide from the insane look in her eyes. “You’re sick. You know that, right? Total psychopath.”

  “Not even!” She jumps down from her desk and marches toward me. “Listen. Lilan is awesome. Like, we all girl crush on her, awesome. But, she is going to make you work harder than you’ve ever worked for a woman. And she’s totally worth it, but...”

  “But what?”

  “But you need to know that going in. Lilan is not to be screwed around with. You go after her only if you’re serious. Otherwise, don’t waste your time. More importantly, don’t waste hers.”

  I nod. I get it. There’s just one small problem. “I’ve only exchanged maybe seven words with her. How soon do I have to decide if I’m all in or all out?”

  She leans down until we’re eye to eye. She’s completely serious. No curl or quiver in her lip. No delight reflecting in her eyes. “Seven words ago.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  Her straight face cracks and she laughs. �
�I’m not. But you should have seen the look of panic in your eyes.”

  “I hate you.”

  “You adore me.” She slides into the empty desk beside me. “But all joking aside. You can’t forget, Lilan is a single mom. With...crappy history she constantly has to fight to put behind her because people just can’t let things be. Whatever you do, just don’t give them any more to talk about.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  LILAN

  “Do you think Hannah will still be the drama teacher when I start high school?” Mona asks after spending nearly the entire drive home in thoughtful silence.

  “Absolutely. I think Hannah with be the drama teacher when your kids start high school. And their kids after them. Trust me.” I smile at her in the rearview mirror, already anticipating the follow up.

  “What about Auntie Leaha? Do you think she’ll still be there too?”

  “I know so.” They knew they were going to be running the music and theater departments even back when we were in high school. Way back when, they were already making plans for the productions they would put on together, combining their skills and growing the departments until every student had proper access to the arts. They’ve come a long way toward fulfilling those dreams.

  “Do you think it’ll be good or bad when they’re my teachers?” she asks, apparently mulling over some concerns I can’t even fathom.

  “Why would it be a bad thing for them to be your teachers? You adore them and they love you. And they’re amazing teachers. Sounds like a triple win to me.”

  She sighs. “Yes. But what if they have to mean to me?”

  “What?” Now I’m really not following her train of thought.

  “You know, so other students don’t feel bad.”

  “Feel bad about what?”

  “About me being their favorite,” she says, exasperated with how hard she’s had to work to explain this to me. She only gets more annoyed when I start laughing.

  “Mona,” I get out between chuckles, “you are no doubt their favorite little person in life. But, trust me when I say, that will in no way translate into the classroom. How you’re treated there will depend entirely on how you perform as a student. Promise.”

  “If you say so.”

  I’m torn between reassuring her again and taking offense to her doubts in my promises, when my phone rings loudly through my car speakers. It’s Kaleaha.

  “Hey,” I greet her, curious to hear what might have her calling me less than thirty minutes after we parted ways. “What’s up?”

  “Hannah and I are having a bread emergency,” she says, sounding every bit as ridiculous as the words she’s spouting.

  “I don’t even know what that is.” I pause to check my blind spot before I change lanes. My turn is coming up. “How can one have a bread emergency?”

  “You’re in the bread business,” she says with mock disgust, “how can you not be familiar with this sort of crisis?”

  “How long are you going to ride this out before you get to the point? Because I’m driving and I’d just as soon tune you out and focus on the road if this isn’t going anywhere anytime soon.”

  She sighs, blowing air through the line in the form of a loud burst of static escaping my speakers. “Hannah and I picked up family style pasta from Giovanni’s and they forgot to pack the bread.”

  I laugh. “So, go back.”

  “Well, we thought about that,” she says, “but we’re closer to you to than the restaurant. And we figured, it’s the same bread anyway, so why not go straight to the source?”

  I make my turn and slow down. Our dirt road has been a mess of potholes ever since the heavy downpours we had last month before the weather turned cold enough to freeze everything. “I live in the middle of nowhere. No one ever just happens to be out this way.”

  “I already told you, we’re out this way for bread!”

  I can see I’m not going to get a straight answer out of her. At least not like this. “Fine. I’m just pulling up to the house. I’ll turn on the oven as soon as I’m inside.”

  “Yay!” I can hear her clap her hands on the other end of the line. “Don’t eat. We’ve got boatloads of pasta and we plan to share.”

  “So, you’re like inviting me to join you for dinner by inviting yourself to have it at my house?”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “Not at all. Just making sure it’s as insane out loud as it is inside my head.”

  She laughs, but it only makes her sound crazier. “See you in a few!”

  Then she’s gone and the speakers go back to playing a quiet stream of jazz. It’s my version of holiday music. At least until I reach the driveway and park.

  “Can I still have Grandma’s soup for dinner?” Mona pipes up as she unbuckles and collects her things from the backseat to take inside. “I’ve been looking forward to it all day.”

  Mama makes the best veggie soup. Especially this time of year, it’s like a bowl of comfort at the end of long cold day. “Of course. You can even have both if you want.” My kid is a total carb fiend, I know she’ll find it hard to turn down pasta once she’s face to face with it.

  “Good idea,” she exclaims, opening her door simultaneously to mine swinging open. We’ve been doing this so long in the same way, day after day, our motions have synced up perfectly.

  I step aside and let her pass me so she can get in front of me as we make our way up to the door. “Do me a favor and make a beeline for the shower. That way you’re done for the night and can visit with everyone. Deal?”

  She nods, reaching for the handle and pushing it down. “Grandma!” she calls out before she even steps inside. “We’re having pasta with soup!” Jax comes bounding down the hall toward us at the sound of her voice and she bends down to greet him, getting properly slobbered in the process.

  “Oh, are we now?” Mama shows up in the archway to the living room where she’s likely been sitting with her knitting for the past hour or so.

  Mona just nods and grins as she flies past her and up the stairs toward the bathroom, freeing Jax up to remember I exist as well.

  “Hannah and Kaleaha are bringing takeout from Giovanni’s,” I explain, reaching down to run my hand through his thick, soft coat before I scratch behind his left ear like he likes. I don’t bother telling Mama the part about their mysterious bread emergency. No need to spread the doubts and confusion around. “I guess they ordered the family portions and wound up with more than they were expecting.” Or at least that’s what I concluded toward the end of our conversation.

  “Alfredo? Pesto? Primavera?”

  I give her a solid stare before I answer. “Seriously?”

  “What? Those weren’t obvious questions to you too?”

  “No.” But then I was pretty hung up on the bread thing at the time. “I like the element of surprise.”

  Mama snorts. “No, you don’t. You hate surprises. They don’t accommodate your control freak tendencies.”

  “I mean, that’s hurtful,” I stop to glare at her, “but it’s true, so I’m not about to argue with you.” I hang my bag on one of the coat hooks near the door. “I promised fresh bread with dinner.” I point toward the kitchen. “If you want to continue to call me out for all my faults, you’ll have to follow me in here.”

  Mama glances back at the sofa and her knitting needles currently dug deep in an afghan I’m hoping will turn out to be for me, then back at me. “Nah, I think I’ll have more fun in here.”

  “Can you keep an eye out for our company?”

  “I can probably manage that. Though I don’t remember the last time either one of those girls waited for someone to get the door for them.”

  “That’s why I want you to watch for them,” I call back, making my way down the hall. “So I have a brief moment to prepare myself before they burst in.”

  I’m walking into the kitchen and flipping the lights on when I hear her. “You got it.”

  My first move is for the oven, my seco
nd leads me to the kettle and getting it on the stove. I move on autopilot, getting a mug down from the cupboard, placing a tea bag inside. Bringing the honey over and setting it on the counter beside my waiting mug.

  Then, I check on the dough I’ve left to rise all day. I pull a bowl of my Italian bread from the collection and take it over to kitchen table where I spread out a large baking mat and cover it in flour so I can knead the dough. But first, my water’s boiling and I zip back over to where I left my mug.

  Once my tea is steeping, I take the time to thoroughly wash my hands before I get to work on the bread.

  I’ve got flour up to my elbows, and probably on my chin because I tried to itch it with part of my arm, when I hear a brief outburst from my mother, followed almost instantly by Hannah and Kaleaha as they come traipsing inside. I pause my efforts to call out a ‘hello’ but catch myself when I realize there are more voices than just theirs. And, they’re male.

  Too stunned to do much of anything except stand here, frozen at my kitchen table with both hands buried in the dough I’ve been kneading, I watch as my best friends come waltzing in the room, followed closely by Bodhi James, and a guy who looks like Bodhi, but with shorter hair and a good three inches taller.

  “Yum!” Kaleaha exclaims at the sight of me. “Can I steal some dough?”

  “No.” I don’t know why I said that. I always let her have dough. I let everyone have dough who wants it. Personally, I think it’s gross raw, but it’s their prerogative to disagree. “Why are there boys in my kitchen?”

  “I’m sorry,” Bodhi two-point O interjects. “Boys?”

  “Penis people. The other gender. Those who are lacking in vaginas,” I offer as alternatives, though he looks unimpressed, and frankly a bit shocked.

  Meanwhile, Hannah drops two bags of takeout on the counter and grins. “Those who are lacking in vaginas. Nice one.”

  “Do you have a no penis policy in this house?” Bodhi chimes in, and I have to admire his ability to keep a straight face as he asks.

  I’m less impressed with Kaleaha’s when she answers. “She does. But we’re working on getting it changed.” Then she steals the dough I denied her, twisting a piece off and popping it into her mouth before I can stop her. “Which dishes do you want me to use to set the table?”