Teach Me (There's Something About Marysburg, #1)

by Olivia Dade

The world wasn’t just, though. She’d understood that before she’d even understood what just meant.

Those kids had never taken an AP course. Had no intention of taking one. But they were motivated enough to enroll in an honors course. After a year in her class, the ones who respected and liked her also trusted her. Trusted her good intentions, her teaching ability, and her promise that she’d meet their efforts with her own. They held their breath—knowing she would assign much more homework than they were accustomed to getting, knowing they’d have to juggle after-school jobs and responsibilities to their younger siblings, knowing they’d relinquish time spent asleep or with friends to complete assignments—and leapt.

I never got the appeal of AP classes. The level of homework in regular classes is heavy enough.

But as over four decades of candid photos could confirm, his default expression did not tend toward jollity, no matter what he was actually feeling. In class field trip photos, he’d been the sternest, most worried-looking second-grader in school history.

Not a single word from her mouth was objectionable. Not a single word from her mouth was personal, either. She didn’t ask him about himself. She didn’t tell him about herself. She didn’t smile. She didn’t do anything but give him necessary, job-related information. And that was absolutely, unequivocally her choice. She didn’t owe him, a near-stranger, smiles or warmth or personal information or interest. He’d told his daughter Bea the same thing many, many times over the years. Being a woman didn’t obligate her to make men—or anyone—comfortable in her presence. People who said otherwise could contemplate their terrible life choices while she shoved their arrogant presumption somewhere exceedingly painful.

And knowing someone was angry at him, in whatever context, made him twitchy. Always had.

None of that—none of the warmth, none of the liveliness—was for him. It was all for Bea, his sweet girl. And he couldn’t have been happier. Because this meant Rose probably didn’t treat her students the same way she treated him. Plus, anyone who smiled like that at his daughter couldn’t be too unforgiving.

He loved having her in his new house every other week, even when she talked enough for three people, ate all his favorite Pop-Tarts, and clogged the shower drain with long, soggy strands of her blond hair.

Clean your hair off the drain when you're done showering, ffs

“We’re touring UVA this weekend.” Bea’s elbow jabbed his ribs, and he smothered a grunt. “I know he looks like he’s about to deliver a fatal prognosis most of the time, but Old Sobersides here is actually pretty fun on a road trip. We do taste tests of gas station snacks.”

Bea grinned, her blue eyes bright. “Don’t let the lean frame fool you. He can pound the Ho Hos like nobody’s—” Okay, enough about pounding Ho Hos. “All right, Beatrice. Off we go. Say goodbye to Ms. Owens.” “Goodbye to Ms. Owens,” Bea parroted. Rose met his eyes, and for the first time, he saw warmth—at least a little of it—directed his way. “You’ve done well with this one, Krause.” When he laughed, she stilled for a moment, her smile dying. He didn’t understand what had happened. But he wanted that smile back, so he worked for it. “Funny. I was just thinking I should return her to the cabbage patch and tell them there’d been a clerical error.” And there it was again. That incandescent curve of her lips. This time, because of something he’d said.

Funny how he’d enjoyed both the ice and its temporary thaw. How he’d found both impressive. How something inside him had awakened when his nonsense earned her smile.

she needed time and space to work through what she wanted to say, and he wouldn’t insert his own words into the process.

Her voice lowered. “This isn’t about whether you love me, Dad. You do. I know that. This is about whether you ever really liked those nicknames, or whether you put up with them because Mom and I thought they were funny. And if you didn’t like them, you shouldn’t have had to hear them. Not when we were all a family, and definitely not now.” Befuddled, he squinted against the glare from another car’s headlights. “What brought this on, Bea?” She licked her lips. “When I called you Old Sobersides in front of Ms. Owens, you looked…I don’t know. Uncomfortable, I guess. Maybe a little embarrassed. And I got worried that I’d hurt your feelings. That we’d hurt your feelings, for all these years.” “You didn’t hurt my feelings in front of Ms. Owens.” He shifted in the seat until he was facing her profile. “Please don’t be concerned about that.”

Bea, true to her stubborn nature, was not mollified. “But do you actually think those nicknames are funny? Do you like them?” That…that was a hard question. “I guess I’ve had similar nicknames most of my life, so I don’t think too much about them.” He’d certainly had worse ones, especially as a kid. Casper, for how invisible he’d tried to become. Mute Boy, for how seldom he’d spoken at home. Pansy, for how he’d proven a liability in organized sports and hated playing the violent, mean games his older brother Kurt and Kurt’s asshole friends had preferred. How he’d cried that time their father used the spatula on him. “But do you like them?” Bea flicked him an impatient glance. “Come on, Dad, answer the question.” There was really no simple answer. That was going to be true of many questions in Bea’s life, so she might as well learn it now. “Sometimes I think those names are funny. Because you’re funny, and because you say them with affection.” Just as Bea had no doubt of her place in his heart, he didn’t worry for a moment about whether she loved him back. “But other times, maybe not.”

“Mom has Reggie. I’m leaving for college next year.” She unbuckled her seat belt and angled her body toward him. “Dad, you need to start dating. The thought of you in this house all alone—” Her hands fisted in her lap. “I hate it.” Her concern warmed him, but—dating. The word alone made his heart clench in terror. He’d been awful at dating. Awkward and too quiet and…boring. In academic settings, he’d communicated capably. Outside of them, he’d become someone else. Old Sobersides. Mute Boy. Casper. Only he’d been the one ghosted again and again as a teenager. Sabrina had been his first girlfriend. Likely his last, too. “I don’t need to date. I’m fine.” He touched her chin with a gentle finger. “And sweet Bea, you should know something. You can be more alone in a bad relationship than if you’d never dated anyone at all.”

Her mouth trembled. “Maybe I should go to Marysburg University.” God, he’d love that. “No, Bea.” He spoke over her protest. “No. You are not responsible for me. I can take care of myself, and you’ll have your own independent life to create. So you’re only going to Marysburg U if that’s the college you most want to attend. Period.” His daughter slumped in her seat. “I just want you to be happy.” “I am. I will be.” He got out of the car, rounded the bumper, and opened her door. “Come on out. I’m claiming my moment of mush for the day.” It took her a moment, but she eventually rolled her eyes and accepted his hand as she climbed to her feet. Then he pulled her into the tightest hug he could give without hurting her.

Without warning, she prodded his chest with a fingertip. “Ms. Owens likes you, you know. She smiled at your dumb jokes, and she was watching you when you weren’t looking at her. Which you were totally doing all the time. You should ask her out.”

Martin Krause, the paragon. Such a paragon she couldn’t really even hate him anymore, although she was petty enough to try. But hating a man who listened so intently, spoke quietly but intelligently, and never seemed to impose himself on others had proven more difficult than she’d hoped.

Preferably, he’d also refrain from laughing or smiling while in her presence, because when he did either, he became entirely too attractive for her peace of mind. She couldn’t exactly make that demand, though, much as she wanted to.

She didn’t want to know. She didn’t want to know. She didn’t, didn’t, didn’t want to know.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “What, precisely, does not yourself mean?” At that look, he took a half-step backward. He pursed his lips before slowly, reluctantly answering. “Your foot. It’s, uh, tapping.” “Maybe I’m impatient.” She enunciated the words very, very clearly. He inclined his head. “Maybe. But your foot didn’t tap once during that marathon three-hour staff meeting, not even when the consultant used the term growth mindset for the seventeenth time.” Taken by surprise at the unexpected snark, she couldn’t help herself. She snorted.

Her ex had tried to break her of that habit, the last remaining tic from her childhood as Brandi Rose Owens, trailer park princess. Barton had cringed at the sound every time, curling up on himself with irritation and distaste. But out of sheer contrariness, she’d chosen to retain that piece of her old self, unlike all the other telltale bits she’d so ruthlessly erased. Martin, however, didn’t cringe at the noise. Didn’t look away in disgust. Instead, he transformed in an entirely different manner. His arms eased from across his chest, and he propped his fists on his hips as he grinned at her.

His face creased, his blue eyes lit, and a woman would have to be either gay or dead not to respond.

He had a very, very nice rear view, which was a revelation she could have done without.

Martin got hints. Martin was watchful. Martin could read and interpret body language. Most well-off, cishet white men couldn’t do either.

Maybe he’d grown up poor, like her. Maybe he’d learned empathy and watchfulness from his years of teaching. But the way he’d stepped back from a simple glare…she’d seen that kind of reaction before. In some of the neighbor kids at the trailer park. In the wife of one of Barton’s colleagues. In some of her students, the ones she watched for bruises. And she wondered. About his childhood. About his marriage. It was foolish. She barely knew the man. She could be entirely wrong in every way. Still, what she was wondering burned in her chest like coals.

And even with him, all her coldness didn’t negate her generosity. She’d given him her time and guidance during the summer. She’d given him a substantial portion of her classroom storage. She’d put up posters for his students. She’d even reminded him to take care of himself, albeit in an affectless way.

but her descent into her desk chair lacked a soupçon of her usual grace.

WHY do some authors use such big words, that I have to look up, when a simple one would do -_-

why was Rose comforting him? Pansy, he could hear his father spit. Boy’s got no spine. Look at him snivel. No. He wouldn’t listen. He’d spent too many years erasing that voice with better, kinder, more truthful ones. The voice of his therapist. His daughter. His oldest friends. His students, as they hugged him after graduation and thanked him for caring.

Tuesday afternoon, he’d staggered into her office, half-drunk with exhaustion. He’d left wracked by guilt over what his arrival in Marysburg meant for her and the AP program. Too much guilt. So much guilt that she had to wonder yet again who had hurt that man, and how badly. Whenever she thought about it, those coals in her chest roared to life once more. How could she keep trying to hate a man who worked that hard? Who cared that much? She couldn’t. She’d given up the fight. And at this moment, she had to admit it: She liked him. Which made sense, because he was a very likeable person. Thoughtful. Smart. Funny. A great dad. Committed to his students. Devoid of a wedding ring. Hmmm.

Adorable. Simply adorable. So sweet she might as well call him dessert.

She considered him for a long moment. His hair might boast a conservative cut and remain an unremarkable gray-templed brown, but it was thick and shiny, and when pieces fell onto his forehead, they somehow emphasized the startling blue of his eyes. He might possess the world’s most boring wardrobe and wear a button-down and tie even on teacher workdays, but those clothes covered a lean, capable frame replete with surprising strength. He might wear reading glasses when grading or working on his laptop, but they lent him a sexy professor vibe she didn’t mind in the slightest. And when he smiled, that lean, ascetic face transformed in a way where no one in her right mind could doubt it: The man was sexy. Not to mention educated, intelligent, funny, perceptive, hardworking, and kind. But none of that would have swayed her, not on its own. She’d turned aside handsome men before, smart ones, even pleasant ones that made her laugh. But Martin did something for her none of those men ever had or could. With him, she felt...safe.

The man he’d shown himself to be, she couldn’t picture trying to make her feel small. Pitying her, rather than sympathizing with her. Hurting her with derision or snide judgment. Talking down to her. And she could swear he was into her, at least a little bit. He watched her when he thought she didn’t notice, and it wasn’t always the casual glance of a friendly but professional colleague. He’d blushed when talking about her allure just now. As far as she could tell, he hadn’t visited anyone else’s classroom for casual chats, not even on that first day. No one needed to know if they became more than coworkers and casual friends. Not a single soul. Martin seem...

“Martin?” She met his eyes, beat back her incipient panic, and offered a ladder to her tower. “Would you like to go on a date with me?” * * * Martin’s muscles lost all ability to move, including his tongue. Which was fine for the moment, because every conceivable answer to her inconceivable question was ricocheting around his overtaxed mind. Yes! Holy fuck, yes! No. Nononono. Excuse me, were you talking to me? Old Sobersides? Are you certain?

For the first time, she’d granted him the same face she showed her students, his daughter. Expressive. Warm with humor and affection and tolerance. And she’d revealed it not for just a moment, or in response to some stupid joke he’d made. He’d received the gift—and it was a gift, he knew that—of a Rose Owens freed of her self-imposed restraints for the entirety of his phone call and their subsequent conversation. Then…then she’d asked him on a date. Again: holy fuck.

He wanted to say yes to the woman who’d appeared today. Hell, he wanted to say yes to the woman who’d greeted him in the same department office three weeks ago, icy remove intact. Both those women intrigued him, impressed him, and—unprofessional though it might be—aroused him. But he’d fled her room in a panic earlier that week for good reason. He wasn’t worthless or weak or mute, or anything else his father and brother had called him. But he’d just emerged from a twenty-four-year marriage with the one and only girlfriend he’d ever had. A simple, straightforward woman, with simple, straightforward needs. He hadn’t been able to meet them. He’d bored the living hell out of her. So how the fuck could he even pretend he’d be able to give Rose what she needed? She was two women in one, and he didn’t truly understand either of them, much as he admired both. Her motivations, her desires, her capabilities all eluded his grasp.

Maybe more time spent together would remedy his befuddlement. But even if he understood her, what exactly could he offer her? A middle-aged, divorced man with Resting Proctologist Face mourning the imminent departure of his daughter to college? Rose was a powerhouse. Gorgeous and complicated and vibrating with authority. She could do better than him. She’d realize that at some point, if the date blossomed into something more. At the thought of her disappointment, her anger, as he failed to offer what she deserved, all the wild hope that had pinwheeled to life the moment she’d asked him for a date shrank and shriveled into nothingness. He shriveled. Became small and awkward and quiet.

She was apologizing? In what world did she need to apologize?

And then, for the first time, Martin understood. Not everything, but enough. He should have realized it before, but he’d been too deep in his own muddled head to piece together an accurate representation of hers. A woman capable of such sincere, bone-dissolving warmth toward the young and vulnerable didn’t armor herself with fierce, chilly composure for no reason. Rose had dealt with bullies before. Rose had been hurt. Badly. Rose would likely understand his own fears. Might have even been patient with them. Might have helped him overcome them. And because of those fears, he’d just turned down her unguarded overture of interest, hurt her feelings, and pricked her pride. All in front of the last person she’d ever want to see her vulnerable. His guess? He’d never get another chance. Never see her unveiled and unprotected again. Not as a friend, and certainly not as a potential lover. Not even if they worked together until retirement.

If he could find a spare time machine, he’d go back ten minutes, extract his head from his ass, and then kick that ass until he shouted his acceptance of her invitation, bloody and exultant. But unless the science department had progressed far beyond the state’s standards of learning, he had no access to a time machine. He’d have to find another way into her tower, even though his head swam at great heights, and he imagined there would be thorns aplenty along his climb. It would require time. Patience. Faith in himself. He had plenty of the first two, less of the latter. But he was a teacher, goddammit. He’d learn.

Her former in-laws might have raised an egocentric, pompous ass of a son, but from the beginning, they’d treated her with the generous kindness of doting relatives. Sent cards and called on her birthday. Had thoughtful gifts—midnight-dark cashmere gloves during a cold winter, or DVDs of historical documentaries they thought she might enjoy—delivered to the home she shared with Barton. Taught her how to navigate through the iceberg-studded waters of moneyed society. Inquired about her career and supported her training to become an AP teacher. After the divorce, she’d assumed that would cease. That they’d turn on her, as almost everyone else in Barton’s social circle had. Instead, they invited her to dinner at places where the menus had no listed prices. Suggested shopping trips to stores she could no longer afford and offered to pay for everything. Made their advocacy of her and her career clear to the upper echelons of the school system.

At some point, she’d started accepting a few of those dinner invitations, because Annette and Alfred said they liked good food, and they knew she did too. They said hundred-dollar entrees seemed a small price to pay for such excellent company. They said they might only be first-generation rich because of early, lucky investments in now-giant tech companies—a fact their social circle never allowed them to forget—but they had more than enough money for a few plates of truffle risotto. So occasionally Rose swallowed her pride, along with a glass or two of excellent wine, and let them pick up the check. A few times a year, she agreed to shopping trips too, because Annette needed someone other than those well-coiffed, ill-intentioned piranhas at the country club telling her what suited her coloring and slight frame. But despite Annette’s pleas to buy clothing for them both, post-divorce Rose only accepted gifts on her birthday and at Christmas. She’d rather take impeccable care of the clothing purchased during her marriage and scour consignment shops in expensive neighborhoods than accept charity.

She’d never bothered fighting her former in-laws’ attempts at professional protection, though. Margie Owens hadn’t raised a fool. Without the Buckham family at her back, Dale would have driven her to a different school district long, long ago. After the first time she ignored his boorish attempts to belittle her. Or maybe when she told him if he hugged her one more time, she’d neuter him where he stood. Plus, the only time Rose had ever mentioned to Annette and Alfred that she could perhaps handle her own work difficulties, their faces had dropped in unison. With wounded dismay in every quavering...

She could have refused his company. If she did, she knew he’d promptly leave. But…well… As far as his classroom visits, she refused to let him know they—he—affected her in the slightest. A request to end the visitations would reveal too much. And when it came to their parking lot walks, the days were getting shorter, and the lot did need more overhead lights. Plus, when her briefcase got heavy with books and grading, he wordlessly held out his hand for it. Hefted it for her. Set it inside her car and waited until she left the lot before he did the same.

Again, she could have denied him his gallantry. She lifted weights at the nearby gym before school three days a week, after all, and she’d been walking alone to the parking lot for umpteen years. But whenever she handed over her burdens, he didn’t become bowed by them. Instead, his shoulders seemed a bit straighter. Whenever he walked beside her, his stride loosened and lengthened. So she’d let him be chivalrous. But she still wasn’t chatting. Once burned, twice no-way-in-hell. That resolution became harder to maintain once she saw him teach, however.

Martin Krause was a fucking phenomenal teacher. At the sight of such brilliance, such unmitigated competence, she had to shift a bit in her desk chair. Martin had never, never seemed sexier to her. It really sucked.

“Well, technically, a half-woman. Don’t forget the lion bits.” When Martin grinned, the class laughed. “But you’re right. Hatshepsut was one of several female pharaohs. She ruled from 1478 to 1458 BC, and her reign began a lengthy peaceful, prosperous era in Egyptian history. After a few early, successful battles, she concentrated on forming international trading relationships and overseeing building projects that advanced Egyptian architecture so much, no other country in the world could match it for a thousand years.”

“Other things are different, too. Her chest is broader, her proportions more traditionally masculine. So tell me this: Why do you think the representations of Hatshepsut changed over time?” The image of the pharaoh as a sphinx reappeared. “Why show her like this later in her reign? And why aren’t there more images of her as a woman?” A hand shot up in the back of the room, the student no longer slouched over the desk. “Maybe Hatshepsut was transgender.” “That’s an interesting thought, Sam.” Martin contemplated the matter for a moment. “Transgender people have certainly existed throughout history, although I haven’t heard any evidence in support of Hatshepsut transitioning to become a man. That said, historians can overlook things they don’t expect to find. They’re products of their era, just like the people they’re studying.” Sam nodded, looking…not happy, but something close. Affirmed, maybe? Whatever it was, Rose wanted to kiss Martin for it.

“Any other ideas?” Martin looked around. “Dante?” “Did she figure out she had to dress like a man to be taken seriously?” The boy frowned. “You know, because of the way people thought about women back then?” “Another great thought.” Martin acknowledged Dante’s comments with an approving tip of his head. “There are certainly many times and places in world history during which a convincing male appearance would have afforded women more power and authority.”

His forehead creased in thought. “One thing you’ll notice over the course of our year together, though, is that history isn’t an inevitable march toward greater freedoms for women and various marginalized groups. Rights can be granted and then removed, and then given again at some point in the future. Or not.” He swept a glance over his class. “At this point in Egyptian history, women owned their own property, worked outside the home, received equal pay for equal work, and had equal status under...

He spoke slowly and clearly. “In its simplest terms, representing Hatshepsut with a false beard and a male form followed tradition. All pharaohs wanted to resemble Osiris, as a way of emphasizing their connection to him and their power as rulers. Also, evidence shows pharaohs were cleanly shaved, so even male rulers tied on their beards.” A brief pause let his students catch up to him and shake out their cramping hands. “But many representations of Hatshepsut as a woman didn’t just disappear of her own volition. They were razed after her death and replaced by images of her dead husband, who’d been pharaoh before her.”