The Grump I Despise (When In Waverly Book 3), page 1
The Grump I Despise
Copyright © 2022 by Haley Zaragoza
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, ideas, situations, and places are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by Haley Zaragoza with illustrated people by @simplydylandesigns on Instagram.
Editing by Jenn Lockwood
Created with Vellum
For my husband.
You’re a grump, but you’re my grump.
(P.S.— I do NOT despise you.)
Contents
1. Chapter One
2. Chapter Two
3. Chapter Three
4. Chapter Four
5. Chapter Five
6. Chapter Six
7. Chapter Seven
8. Chapter Eight
9. Chapter Nine
10. Chapter Ten
11. Chapter Eleven
12. Chapter Twelve
13. Chapter Thirteen
14. Chapter Fourteen
15. Chapter Fifteen
16. Chapter Sixteen
17. Chapter Seventeen
18. Chapter Eighteen
19. Chapter Nineteen
20. Chapter Twenty
21. Chapter Twenty-One
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Haley Zaragoza
Chapter One
Norah
I never in a million years thought I would be back here. I left Waverly, Texas behind after high school, thinking I’d never come back—at least not permanently. Short visits with my family for birthdays and holidays? Sure! But making it my permanent residence again? Never. But here I am, in my childhood bedroom at my parents’ house, surrounded by boxes of my belongings, trying to figure out where to cram everything in the moderately sized room. My mom never got rid of any of my junk I left behind when I moved away. My old Orlando Bloom poster is still on the wall right where I left it, and that celebrity crush ended at least ten years ago.
How disappointing to be thirty-one years old and living with my parents again after a decade of complete freedom. My dad is already asking me questions about my car’s maintenance, if I remembered to cancel the utilities for my apartment, and what time I need to be at work on Monday. My mom is rushing around, trying to make sure I have clean sheets and towels. I’m tempted to call up an old friend and beg them to go to dinner with me so I can have a few minutes without their obsessive badgering. But then I remember I didn’t bother to stay in touch with anyone here after I left. I’m now regretting that decision. A friend would be really nice right about now.
I know my parents act like this because they care. After the year we’ve all had, I can’t blame them at all. It’s been one for the books, that’s for sure. But I’m exhausted and in desperate need of some peace and quiet. Car maintenance and towels can wait until I’ve gotten settled.
“I’ve got lasagna in the oven. It’ll be ready soon, so wash up and come down. Your sisters and I are very excited to have you back home for good,” Mama says from the doorway. She looks like she wants to hug me, but she turns around and rushes out of the room before the tears in her eyes have a chance to run down her cheeks. I restrain the urge to curl up in my bed and sleep until tomorrow morning. My sisters have been ecstatic about me moving back. They’d be furious if I slept through dinner on my first night home.
I go to my bathroom and wash the grime from my hands and face. Moving is a messy business. Looking at my reflection in the mirror, I can’t keep my eyes from roving over my long curly hair, my round face, and my healthy body. I’m so thankful to be here and whole, and I’m so lucky my parents are letting me crash here while I get my life back on track. This may not be the most ideal situation, but I am grateful to have them to fall back on. I don’t know what I’d do without them.
I hear all three of my sisters’ boisterous laughter and chatter downstairs and make my way down to join them. I stand at the top of the stairs and watch as Chelsea, my older sister, fusses at her two kids for running in the house. Her husband, Brian, stands off to the side with his hands in his pockets, looking like he just wants a quiet evening at home. Instead, he gets an evening with the Sullivans, the noisiest, most intrusive family in the world. They drive me crazy. But they’re mine, and I wouldn’t have them any other way.
Madeline, my sister who is three years younger than me, argues with her boyfriend, Chad, over the phone. From what I hear from my mom, they fight more often than they get along these days. No one knows what she sees in him. Right now, they’re fighting about him not showing up for dinner to see me. Honestly, the guy’s a bum, so I have no interest in seeing him tonight.
I rush down the stairs, and I’m immediately wrapped in a hug from my youngest sister, Layla. “I’m so happy you’re here. We have to go get lunch and pedicures tomorrow. And the cutest bookstore opened up downtown a few months ago. You’ll absolutely love it, so we have to go there, too!” she says.
“It might have to wait. I need to get all unpacked this weekend so I can be ready to start work on Monday. I’m pretty nervous.”
“You’ll do great. The kids will love you,” Layla says. I’m not so sure she’s right. I’ve never taught high school, and I don’t know what to expect. Before my life got flipped upside-down, I taught middle school. Now, I’m coming into a new school with older kids—and right smack-dab in the middle of the school year, no less. It’s a lot to take on.
I’ve been told that the teacher I’m taking over for was loved by everyone. The type to always go above and beyond for her students. How am I supposed to fill her shoes while I’m shaking in my boots with fear? And I have to take over her other duties as well, like overseeing the club that she helped run. I’ve never done anything like that before. I’m not even sure if the middle school I taught at had clubs.
I’ll figure it all out. One day at a time, I remind myself.
Dinner with my family goes much like every other dinner has gone with them over the past year. It’s one long interrogation. Were you able to make your hospital payment this month? When is your next appointment? What do you need from us? I know they all mean well, but I just want to eat my lasagna and let my mind go blank. If I’m not thinking happy thoughts of melty cheese and garlic bread, I don’t want to think at all. The food is making their questioning more bearable than usual, though.
I finish eating as quickly as possible and make excuses to head back up to my bedroom. It’s not an absolute lie. My room is a disaster, and it does need a lot of work before I’ll be able to function in it.
I run up the stairs and flop down on my bed with an exhausted sigh. It’s all still so new. The never-ending questioning will all stop once they’re used to seeing me every day. They’ll see that I’m not ten seconds away from breaking, and then they’ll give me peace.
Is it normal for hands to be this sweaty? I don’t think so. I can barely hold onto the steering wheel of my car as I drive to the high school. They’re slipping all over the place, like a Slip ‘N Slide. It’s a good thing my nerves had me awake obscenely early this morning, and I ended up leaving my parents’ house before the roads got busy. With the way I’m driving right now, I probably would have caused a fifty-car pile-up if I hadn’t.
Other than the cross-country team getting their early morning run in, the parking lot is mostly empty when I pull into my parking spot. I take a moment to check my hair in the mirror (I refuse to go in there on my first day with any rogue curls), and I apply my favorite red lipstick. It’s the perfect confidence boost. If I’m wearing red lipstick, I can do anything—even face a room full of terrifying teenagers.
I put my teacher’s ID around my neck and climb out of my car. The flowy skirt I’m wearing may have been a terrible idea. It’s an abnormally cold day in Texas, and the wind is blistering. I know it’s January, but it’s still Texas. I wasn’t expecting thirty-degree weather. Thank goodness I did have the forethought to squeeze myself into some tights.
I grab onto my skirt to keep it from flying up in the wind and shuffle into the building. I shake out my frozen limbs when the warm air of the front office hits me. At first, it makes my nerve endings tingle, but soon, I start to thaw out. The secretary greets me with a smile on her face, and I walk through to sign in for my first day.
The hallways are empty and quiet as I make my way to my classroom. I came in last week to get everything ready. There wasn’t much for me to do, but it was good to get acquainted with the room. The previous teacher was so kind and left all her books and the lesson plans she had used for her three decades of teaching. Some I love, and others will be replaced.
I’m turning the corner into the main hall, and my eyes land on a tall, broad figure walking in my direction from the opposite end of the hall. Even from this distance, it’s easy to tell that this is a beautiful man. His blond hair and beard are neatly coiffed, and his navy-blue slacks hug his thighs just right. His sky-blue eyes meet mine, and he stops dead in his tracks.
My admiration for his fine figure tu rns to deep-rooted disgust as I realize exactly who I am looking at. A pit forms in my stomach. I haven’t seen Colby Stuart in thirteen years, and I could happily go another dozen or so without looking at his smug, irritable face again. But alas, it’s not to be, because here he is with those icy-blue eyes glaring a hole into my soul.
I wish I could wipe the memory of him from my mind. I wish when someone said the name ‘Colby Stuart’, I could ask, ‘Who?’ Instead, whenever I accidentally see a picture of him on social media or hear his name in passing, my blood boils. I nearly crack a tooth from grinding my teeth as I stare at him. I want to throw my phone against a wall.
We’re standing at an impasse, like an old western movie when two opponents are about to draw weapons on each other. Neither of us says a word. I ball my hands into fists, refusing to be the first to relent. I straighten my spine to stand a little taller and give him the most evil smirk I can manage. I have to let him know he’s not getting to me—even though he really is. But he doesn’t need to know this is all a show. His eyes narrow into slits.
I have despised this guy since our very first interaction when I walked into our seventh-grade history class on the first day of school, excited to see my friend already sitting at a desk. I ran over to her, where she was talking to him. I threw my bag down and sat at the desk in front of her. I thought he was the cutest boy I’d ever seen…until he opened his big, fat mouth to speak. “What do you think you’re doing? You can’t sit there,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone, as if he owned the place. Hello! It’s a school. No one owns it! I’d never even met the boy before that day, and he had the audacity to speak to me like that?
“Who do you think you are?” I asked in complete disbelief. “I will sit here if I want.” He opened his mouth to speak again, but the teacher came in and began putting us in seats alphabetically. That’s when I learned that I’d be forced to stare at the back of his head for one whole hour, five days a week, for the entire school year.
That’s right, folks. Colby Stuart and Norah Sullivan, doomed to be seated right next to each other in class after class after class for six agonizing years. What a cruel twist of fate. Why must teachers always put their students in alphabetical order? It’s just wrong. Because of this, I have vowed to never do alphabetical-order seating charts. I start the year by letting them choose their seats, and then I periodically move them around throughout the year when needed.
Colby clears his throat, and I’m finally ready to admit defeat. I turn back the way I had just come and walk away. I’m so tempted to run as fast as my short, chubby legs will take me, but I resist the urge. I can’t let him know that he’s still getting under my skin thirteen years later. And I’m wearing heels, and I don’t want to make a complete fool of myself on my first day by falling flat on my face. That would be my luck.
I should be mature enough to look past the mistakes of his youth, but goodness gracious, the guy was insufferable. And judging by the enraged look on his face just now, he still is. Who glowers at people like that first thing in the morning? Drink some coffee, for crying out loud.
I take the roundabout way to get to my classroom since he was kind enough to get in the way of the direct route. I had no idea he was a teacher. He seems like the least likely person to enjoy working with young, impressionable children. Does he like kids? Does he even like people? Good grief, his students must live in perpetual terror of him. Poor dears. We should form a support group for them.
I walk into my room, flip the lights on, and take a good look around. It’s just as I remember it from a few days ago. The walls are a bit bare and boring. I’ll have to add some color to make the room more cheery and exciting to get the students in the mood for analyzing literary classics.
I toss my bags onto my desk and sit in the ancient rolling chair to take a moment to calm my nerves before students begin arriving. My head is starting to pound, and I really wish I would have taken a moment to grab some coffee. But coffee makes me pee incessantly, and I didn’t want to have to deal with that on top of my jittery nerves all morning. I’m regretting that decision now. I pop an ibuprofen and begin organizing today’s assignments.
I’ve planned to keep today relaxed since the kids will be on a high from their two-week holiday break, and I need time to get acquainted with them. The only thing planned is to have all the students introduce themselves to me by telling me their name and what they like to do with their free time, and I’ll introduce their new reading assignment. Easy peasy…hopefully. My shaking hands would disagree about the ease of what’s ahead. What if this school is full of ruffians, and someone decides to start a mutiny because they hate the book? In the back of my mind, I know this is Waverly, Texas, so it’s highly unlikely. But I haven’t lived here in years; things could have taken a sharp turn for the worse. Maybe that’s why Colby Stuart is teaching here. I bet he thrives in a gloomy environment.
Before I know it, there are students walking around the halls, talking, laughing, and catching up from their two weeks away. Two boys throw a football back and forth right outside my doorway before another teacher takes the ball, putting an end to their fun. Students begin trickling into my room, giving me curious glances. I make a mad dash to the bathroom because my bladder didn’t need coffee to put it into overdrive. My nerves are doing just fine with that on their own.
I check my hair in the mirror and wet my hand a little to try to tame a few curls that didn’t survive the intense wind outside. Wind isn’t kind to us curly-haired girls…really, weather in general isn’t kind to us. Any kind. It’s rough out there.
I make it back to my classroom right as the bell rings, and twenty-two faces all turn to watch me. I fold my hands behind my back and begin my first day back to teaching in six months.
Chapter Two
Colby
When I saw Norah Sullivan standing in front of me in the hallway this morning, I was hoping and praying she was a mirage. A waking nightmare, if you will. But now, as I sit in the corner of the teacher’s lounge, trying to eat my bland kale salad in peace, I am disappointed to find that it was one hundred percent real.
She walks into the room with a huge smile plastered on her face and immediately starts chatting it up with some of the other women in the room. She introduces herself to a few people she doesn’t already know and hugs the ones she does. Gosh, does she have to be so loud and…happy? I see some things never change.
And what on God’s green earth is the woman wearing? It’s thirty-five degrees outside, and she’s wearing a knee-length skirt and heels. And has she never heard of color coordinating? Why does any one person need to wear the entire spectrum of the rainbow at once? Her skirt is green, her sweater is pink, her shoes are turquoise, and her lips are bright red. I hate that I notice her lips—that I’ve always noticed those red lips. I think she does that just to get under my skin. She’s the most annoying and infuriating woman I’ve ever had the misfortune of meeting.
This feels eerily like the first time I laid eyes on her in our seventh-grade history class. She walked into the room, squealed so loud I thought my ears would bleed, and then ran over to where I was sitting—well, to where her friend was sitting. Her long, curly hair was as wild as her eyes as she started talking to Cassidy, the girl sitting beside me and talking to me. She threw her bag down, sat at the desk that I was saving for Jameson, and then she refused to move when I tried to tell her the seat wasn’t available. She pointedly ignored me and started talking to her friend. Her voice was so unbearably loud. I was excited to get away from her incessant talking when the teacher started putting us in alphabetical order…until I realized I would be sitting right in front of her. I had to listen to her talk and talk and talk for the entire year. And we had so many more classes together throughout the rest of our middle school and high school careers. The amount of nonsense I was forced to endure from her bright-red mouth year after year was almost enough to drive me insane. How does one person have so many words in their head?
