After catching her fiance cheating with his realtor partner, Aubrey Peters decides to sell everything and move cross country to LA. With the help of her cousin and self-proclaimed influencer, Eloise, Aubrey slowly starts to rebuild the shambles of h...
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One month ago...
"Hey, Mr. Diaz, it's Ms. Peters. Christopher's teacher. I'm sorry to bother you, I just wanted to reach out to you and see how our little guy is doing? I noticed he's missed three days of class now. I tried calling your wife, Shannon, but have only been able to get her voicemail. If you don't mind, I have a packet for you to do with Christopher. I can run it by your place if you want. I just don't want him to get too far behind in class, you know? Alright, well call me back when you get a minute. Thank you! Bu-bye."
Something tells me there's a story there. A sad one. But I don't want to push too much. I tell myself Eddie will reach out when he's ready, that things are probably fine, but it feels like a lie.
Meatloaf nudges my leg sensing my distress. The eager little pup grips his leash between his crooked teeth and stares up into my soul. Those big brown eyes communicate everything all at once, demanding my attention. They're so willful, so pleading. I'm a sucker. God, his tiny wrinkly face kills me every time! And that nub of a tail- I'm melting like butter!
After puffing out a long, deep breath, I finally concede and take the leash. And Christopher's folder.
I know. I know- it's insane to be so concerned about one student. Like or not, the boy can't afford to fall even more behind. All of this drama with his mom coming back into his life has really done a number on his academics. Poor kid. I can't even begin to imagine the confusion. The frustration. The unknown.
I'd fight for a kid like Christopher. I'll never understand why Shannon left. A man like Eddie doesn't come around often, and a kid like Christopher is the dream.
I sigh and walk Meatloaf in the direction of the Diaz's place. Maybe it's a little creepy that I'm doing this, but I've made plenty of at-home visits in my career. And this is just another one of those, right?
Meatloaf grunts as if reading my thoughts. "It'll be fine." I coo. He snorts. I puff out steam.
I want this to be fine. And not weird. But I can't shake this gnawing feeling that something's off. Something's deeply and terribly wrong. And maybe it's my nosy nature or the way Meatloaf waddles along the sidewalk nearly out of breath, but a very strong part of me is telling to turn the other way. Abort mission and be patient. But that nosy part of me is fierce, and I'm locked in.
With every step, I'm more empowered. More
as I approach the small house, I can't help but notice a long line of cars leading up the drive. Loaf stalls, anxiety leaks into my veins. I swallow hard. My brows knit tight across my forehead. Beads of sweat clutter along my hairline. My heart begins to slow, and then all too suddenly it speeds back up.
Everyone is wearing black.
They're spilling out of the home in clusters. Each face strained and distressed.
