Chats in the Stairwell

Until Tuesday.

Now I was parking, and Scott was right: the lot was a bitch. There were signs near the door of the hotel, with arrows; apparently there were about three different conferences going on at the hotel today. I found a place far, far out, and decided I'd need to come back out later for my bag; there was no time for me to check into my room. The workshop was supposed to start in, what, twelve minutes? Hell. The trip across the parking lot would consume half that, then the registration... it was a good thing I had a saved seat.

His next text came across just as I got out of the car, and I was briefly thrilled to see that it included a picture. I had no picture of him, and I was anxious to see whether he still looked like I thought he did. But no: this was a shot of a cheap conference-room table with some brightly colored art supplies. I frowned until he sent the caption: SHE'S HANDING OUT MARKERS AND CHILDRENS' SCISSORS.

I sighed, exasperated. Few things annoy AP teachers more than workshops full of "group work" and other such childish games. I quickly sent back I'M TURNING AROUND.

NOOO! came his reply, right away. I'M GOING TO NEED YOU IN HERE.

Smirking, I replied. NO WORRIES. I'M IN THE PARKING LOT NOW. I'LL COME RESCUE YOU SOON.

I juggled my school bag, a shapeless over-the-shoulder deal, and my travel mug with the dregs of my cooled coffee. The yoga pants felt good, riding freely, but the top was a bit too scanty for the weather: a scoop-necked shirt, sleeves down to the elbow, in dark green. I was getting goosebumps, from the cold this time, and my jacket was in the backseat with my overnight bag. Grimly, I trudged toward the nearest door.

The conference facility was a wing of the hotel, a very normal place of sterile walls with bad art and worse wallpaper; the carpeting alone looked like it had fallen off a truck. In Kabul. All the fittings were of cheap brass nearly everywhere I looked. Blessed with a good sense of direction, I was able to navigate the building's anonymous, mazelike hallways, moving steadily toward the front entrance where I reasoned the registration table would be.

I had eight minutes.

The smiling ladies at the table were at least good at their jobs: they processed me in just a few moments, no forms or anything. Apparently, my principal had done his job and sent everything in. They had a nametag for me, on an impractical lanyard that looked as if it would break before I even got to the room. "Enjoy your workshop!" urged the overly made-up lady who'd helped me. "You're in 201, just up the stairs here."

"Cool," I muttered, adjusting my bag and heading up.

I'm not sure what I'd expected from the workshop space; actually, in my mind, I had pictured the Monroe college classroom where the other one had taken place. Makes sense, but this one was far different: long tables in rows, chairs all on one side; this was not going to be a seminar. A line of institutional windows crossed the back of the room, and there was a water cooler in the middle of the wall. Whiteboards covered nearly every wall, except where a large projector screen hung from the ceiling. I was puzzled that the screen didn't line up with the tables, instead facing a big blank area of floor where the instructor had stuck a bunch of blank butcher paper to the wall.

Ahh. Group work.

I wasn't the last one in, but I was close; there were just five minutes to spare before the start time, and the instructor glanced at me in an irritated way as she straightened some handouts. She was a tall, austere woman, dressed at the height of fashion from about a decade ago. Big hair and small glasses. She smiled thinly at me, and every head in the place swiveled toward me. I looked back, searching for just one person.

I saw him immediately, and I was relieved to see that my memory had not failed me: he still had the same thin, expressive face, the same dark hair still thick on his head. I'll admit that I was relieved to see he was still in good shape, though his posture as he sat lazily back in the office chair could use some work. He was smiling broadly, and that reminded me that I was, too. He was, I realized, gazing at me just as intensely as I was gazing at him. Of course; he didn't have a picture of me, either. He must have been going through just the same anticipation that I was.

"Welcome!" said the instructor, all syrupy. "Come get a handout; we're going to try to start on time." Her nametag advertised her as Margaret Rickards, and I smiled fakely at her.

"Good morning," I said quietly.

"You can call me Margaret."

"Sure, Margaret." Never in my life had I met a Margaret that wanted to be called Margaret, but there's a first time for everything. "I'm Shannon."

"I'm sure you are," she'd said, already going back to her papers. Huh. I glanced sideways at Scott, now rolling his eyes at me. Yes. I'd certainly need him with this instructor.

He'd found two seats in the back row at the end, then politely left me the last seat. Good thing, too: he was insulating me from a large, angry-looking old guy sitting on Scott's other side. I hoisted my bag back up and started back toward Scott, not even putting on the show of looking for another seat. I felt myself smiling warmly as I approached him; he just looked at my legs. When I got close, I bent down and exaggerated a look at his nametag. "Good morning! Scott, is it?"

"Yes it is. Nice to meet you." He stuck his hand out for me to shake, a strong dry hand with long fingers.

"You too," I said, shaking; I bent low to drop my bag, and the old guy next to Scott glanced over to look down my top. He wasn't the only one. "Eyes up here, Scott," I muttered with a smirk as I plunked myself down in the chair.

"Sorry," he said, not sorry at all. "Can you blame a guy?" I was probably blushing as I got settled, but since the flirtation had already started I felt better already. It felt like eight years ago, like nothing at all had changed. It felt like the stairwell, in the sense that there was a feeling of adventure in the air. I glanced over; he still had a wedding ring, the same one as last time.

"This looks like fun," I observed, scanning the agenda Margaret had given me. I looked at a pair of Styrofoam coffee cups between us. "This for me?"

"Of course." He'd put a small plate over it to try to keep it warm. "I was thinking you'd get here a few minutes ago," he said apologetically. "Should still be hot enough. All they had was plain yogurt, though, and you don't strike me as a plain-yogurt woman."

Indeed, I was not. "You're a sweetheart." I sipped appreciatively at the cup, my own tepid travel mug forgotten, and arched an eyebrow at him. "We're starting early today, hmm?"

He grinned. "Rum. I didn't have time to run out for Kahlua, but it might be on the menu tomorrow."

"Oh, the rum is just fine, thanks." I could see that the guy on the other side of Scott was trying to be unobtrusive about leaning in to glance at me, but that was fine. After all, if some stranger couldn't take his eyes off me, Scott must be getting revved up already. I knew I was; the memories of the stairwell chats had crashed into me with a vengeance as soon as I'd sat down. I rolled my chair closer to his. "Are we passing notes the old fashioned way, or are we texting these days?"

"I liked the old fashioned way."

"Done." I leaned forward, automatically reaching up to keep my top from flopping down. I reached my hand across Scott. "Hi!" I said brightly to the old guy. "Shannon Boyle. Pleased to meet you."

"Oh. Um, I'm Bob Daly, from California." He blinked owlishly at me as he shook my hand, Scott rolling his chair backward to make room. "You two, uh, know each other?" He was so obviously trying to avoid staring at my chest that my heart went out to him.

"We went to one of these before, up at Monroe State," Scott told him. "It was awhile ago, though. Maybe ten years?"

I shot him a glance. He knew exactly how long ago it was. "Maybe." I took another sip of my spiked coffee. "Scott, aren't you from California?"

"Yeah, but a different part." He shrugged. "It's a pretty big state, Boyle." As I had been at Monroe, I was amazed that someone would come from California to here. "I'm a southerner. Bob's from Fresno."

"Well, they want us to start calling it Fres-yes now." He laughed at the shitty joke. I'd never heard of Fresno, and stared blankly as I went back to my coffee. Clearly, there was no further need to converse with Bob, and Scott rolled back up to the table. He reached over and tapped at my agenda.

"Best part of the day, right there." He was pointing to the lunch break. I shot him a long, even look of appraisal. I'd be lying if I said I hadn't been curious whether we'd do anything today, or even whether I'd want to; a lot of water can flow under the bridge in eight years. But Scott seemed to be exactly the same guy, and things were picking up right where they'd left off. It was going to be a nice, flirty day. I let my arm creep over to his armrest.

"A bit presumptuous of you, Scott, no?" I muttered. "For all you know, I could be a married woman now. That would make me off-limits. You know, as off-limits as you, for example." This time, when I looked at his wedding ring, I let him see me do it.

He gave a strange half-smile. "You changed your hair," he said. "Looks really nice." Then he ignored me, pulling out his binder and getting ready for the class to start. I kept staring for a few seconds, then chuckled and got my own stuff ready just as Margaret turned on the projector.

* * *

The morning session passed pretty uneventfully with Scott, which was fine; I'd signed up for this workshop because I needed a refresher, not in order to hook up again with Scott Herrick. Margaret seemed competent, if a bit of a bitch: she started by telling us she was from Texas, and then showing us a picture of her and her family holding beers at a UT tailgater. Her daughter looked like a younger, riper version of the mother. She'd occasioned my only note of the morning: "Why the fuck are we looking at pics of some college girl at a party?"

Scott glanced at my note and shrugged. "She's kind of a hottie, though, in a lazy Southern way," he'd written back, still in pencil, and I'd scoffed loudly. He brought the pencil back up, smirking. "I meant the mother, not the daughter."

I chuckled.

Soon enough Margaret got to the end of a discussion about the changes they were making to the AP exam, and looked up at the clock. "I think we'll take a break," she announced. "Y'all can go to the restroom, or get some food or coffee. Be back here in... ten minutes? That enough?" A chorus of vague agreement accompanied the inevitable rustle as people got to their feet and shuffled toward the doors, some of them stretching or talking quietly. Bob sat uncomfortably, fingering a newspaper. For his part, Scott just laid his head on the table across his arms, looking at me with that half-smile again. I noticed, and pulled out an apple from my bag.

"So," I said casually, inspecting the fruit, "have I changed at all? Other than my hair?" His eyes crinkled as his smile grew.

"How should I know?" he drawled. "Any tattoos I didn't get a chance to see yet?" I laughed out loud.

"None that you need to know about." His grin was infectious, as it had always been. "It's good to see you, Scott. You look really great."

"Thanks. What can I say? I've got two kids now, and they keep me busy." He watched me for a reaction, and I was careful not to give him one. If he wanted to flirt with me despite his family, that was his problem. And if he wanted to do more than flirt, well, that was his problem too. I had my own issues to deal with, and they were at that point riding out a storm in the North Sea. They certainly did not know I was keeping company with this man with whom I had a past, however brief.

Nor did they need to.

"Any funny or interesting school stories?" I asked. "Anything scandalous going on in your building?" He let his hand rest casually on my thigh under the table, and shrugged.

"It seems like my school has a sex scandal about every two years or so, on average."

"Huh." I looked down at his hand and moved my leg a little closer to him. "That seems like a lot. Teacher-student?"

"Teacher-student, teacher-teacher, the works. It's only an average, though. Like we had a big deal with a science teacher and a junior girl about five years ago, then nothing, then two more issues last year." He shrugged again. "It's not the kind of thing they like to advertise there; I teach in a pretty small town."

"Huh. You're not fucking any students are you?" I saw Bob do a double-take. "Or teachers?"

"Boyle, you know I'm a happily married man," he shook his head. Bob was definitely eavesdropping now; I could tell he knew where Scott's hand was. "I'm a model of moral rectitude and proper behavior at all times."

"You're a lying sack of shit," I replied indulgently. "My turn to get coffee. You still take it black?"

"Black and bitter, like my soul."

"Indeed." I disengaged his hand and got to my feet, fully aware that he and Bob would both be staring at my butt as a walked away. Which was the point of yoga pants. "Bob? Can I get you anything?"

"Uh, no thanks Shannon." He tapped at a thermos under the table. "I brought my own."

"From California?" I smiled warmly at him. "You're a dedicated individual."

"No, I just filled up at the hotel breakfast bar this morning."

"Cool. I like a guy who plans ahead." I made a face at Scott, then spun and walked off toward the door. There was a temptation to turn and catch them looking, but then what was the point? I already knew where their eyes were, and I smiled as I strode out.

* * *

Lunch promised to be a lugubrious waste of bad pasta, overcooked roast beef, and limp salads. Scott and I stopped as we reached the start of the buffet, both of us pleasantly buzzed after three spiked coffees. "Well," he said, looking hard at the tortellini. "I might just take a turkey sandwich for the road and call it a day." He looked over at me, gauging my reaction.

This was an opening for me. Both of us, I think, had been getting more anxious as lunchtime approached; I've never been certain whether I'd have put out for him during that Friday lunch eight years ago, but I very well might have. It was the road not taken, and I seemed to be getting a second chance this week; I was unsure what to do about it. I cleared my throat and gnawed at my lip. "Yeah," I said vaguely.

It had, indeed, been like old times after the morning break. The note-passing had been frequent and unabashed, our stifled laughter earning us stares from the other workshop participants. At one point, I swear to God Margaret had been on the verge of telling us to shut up. As I've often said, teachers make horrible students; you get a bunch of us together in any kind of professional development context, and the instructor will always have a hard time. But even by those standards, Scott and I were being too boisterous by half. As we'd escorted each other to the door at lunch break, I'd felt Margaret's eyes staring at us.

And now, surrounded by the bustle of three conferences' worth of lunchgoers, I thought about the man standing next to me. Yes, I still found him attractive. Yes, he still found me attractive. Yes, we'd enjoyed flirting all morning. Yes, I was prepared to go with him to some private nook and see what might happen. But, to my surprise, something seemed to be holding me back. I sighed.

"What's wrong?" He did not sound annoyed or frustrated, just concerned, and as I looked up at his face I could tell it wasn't an act. I was grateful for that.

"I don't know," I said uncertainly. What I did know was that this room was entirely too hot, tacky, and crowded. Maybe it was the rum. "You're right. Let's pick up some sandwiches and take off." Slowly, it was starting to dawn on me what was going on: I was 34 now, and although a random hookup had been fine at 26, it wasn't what I was looking for anymore. It shamed me to realize that I now needed something other than hormones and mutual interest: passion? Emotion? Love, God forbid? I wasn't even sure I felt that for Leon.

What I did know was that Scott's concern for my well-being, the worry so clear in his face, was making me feel better. Eight years ago it had been nice to be kissed; now, I realized, it was even nicer to be cared about. It was a sobering realization, but I went with it. I took Scott's arm briefly and smiled at him. "I'm fine, Scott, really," and as I saw the relief come out in his eyes, I felt my smile get a little naughtier. "Hey," I said in his ear, "it's lunchtime on Thursday. That used to mean something, if I recall correctly."

I watched carefully to see what would happen to his face. I was hoping, obscurely, that the concern wouldn't turn into lust, which I now realized would be a disappointment. I'd grown, and I wanted him to have grown as well. Which is why I nearly melted when what came into his face was... happiness? Satisfaction? Gratitude? It was something, anyway, and it wasn't lust. My heart beating fast now, I bit my lip again and waited for him to say something. When he finally did, I sighed with relief. "It did," he agreed, keeping his cool, "but not as much as Friday morning."

My sigh turned into a soft sentence. "I missed you, Scott."

He put his hand on my lower back and steered me toward the buffet. "You get the sandwiches. I'll try to find somewhere we can picnic. I'll text you in a few."

"Sounds good." He disappeared then, leaving me to focus on our provender despite my racing pulse. The room seemed to have gotten much warmer as I strode toward the sandwich bar to grab a couple of little turkey sandwiches for him and another one for me with alfalfa sprouts. Two bags of potato chips sealed the deal; I grabbed a plastic bag for my haul and then I was out the door, heading uncertainly back toward the workshop classroom with my phone in my hand. It bleeped shortly.

RECOGNIZE THIS? It was, of course, a picture not of the carpeted stairs near the registration table, but of the institutional set of stairs near the elevator over by the side door where I'd come in. I laughed loudly, surprising a man from some other workshop emerging from the bathroom, then skipped down the hallway toward the green-lit EXIT sign at the side of the building.

When I opened the door, I wasn't sure where Scott was. Evidently, though, he'd been listening for the door. "Down here, Boyle," I heard faintly from down near the floor. Frowning, I glanced over; there seemed to be no basement, just the first flight leading up from the side door. But, of course, he was underneath that flight, sitting as comfortably as he could in the angle of the steps beside a rack of spare folding chairs. As soon as I saw him I clapped with delight.

"Nice job, Scott, though not terribly imaginative." I rubbed my arms. "It's certainly no warmer than the last set of stairs we hung out in."

"Less humid, though. Not sure we'll need a change of clothes." He patted the linoleum floor beside him, and I very agreeably sat down to his right, the cold seeping through my yoga pants. I scooted close to him, our hips and thighs touching, and as I'd expected he reached his arm high to drape it around me. I sighed as I nestled into his chest, my own hand going comfortably to his thigh. He was wearing jeans and a button-down surf shirt; I thought I could feel his heart beating through the thin polyester. I smiled and turned my head to look straight at him.

"Don't be so sure," I sassed, my thumb moving on his leg. "There are other reasons why clothes get dirty." Our bag of sandwiches, forgotten, sat on the floor. I was starting to sound sultry despite myself, my voice getting husky. "I don't suppose you're staying at the hotel tonight."