Chapter 1: Stranded with Rachel

Recently, a woman hired me to tutor her daughter, but every time I visit, I can’t help but notice her watching me. It’s not subtle.

Every time I park my old Corolla in her driveway—a cracked strip of concrete squeezed between a patchy yard and a battered white mailbox—I catch her peeking from the living room window, half-hidden by lace curtains. Sometimes I’ll look away just to see how long she’ll keep watching, her sly little smile giving everything away. The air between us hums with something unspoken, something that makes the whole tutoring arrangement feel like a secret waiting to break.

That day, I showed up at the usual time. After helping Chloe with a math problem, her mom leaned in the doorway, one hand on her hip, eyes flicking between me and her daughter. There was something about the way she filled the room that made it hard to look away.

She walked with this laid-back confidence, hips swaying in faded jeans as she left Chloe’s tiny bedroom. Her voice floated back: “Way to go, Chloe!” The house smelled faintly of vanilla candles and laundry detergent. I watched her go, thinking how she always seemed put together—even on a rainy Tuesday when most people would just throw on sweats.

The first time I met her, she knocked me flat. She was in her thirties, sure, but she was stunning—curves in all the right places. What got me was when she told me she’d won the county women’s kickboxing championship.

She’d mentioned it my first week, flexing her arm and smirking. “Don’t mess with me,” she joked, and I laughed, but there was real awe behind it. She wore her beauty and her toughness like they were just parts of the same package—like she was used to turning heads and knocking them together, too. Not the kind of mom you expect to find in a sleepy Indiana suburb.

But there’s a limp, just barely there most days. When it rains, it’s more obvious. I wonder if that’s why her husband left. She’s never remarried, not in all these years.

Sometimes, when she crosses the hardwood, there’s this gentle pause in her step, a softness as she shifts her weight. I overheard her on the phone once, saying her knee acts up when the weather turns. People in town talk—a little too much—about her ex running off a few years back. Small towns keep secrets, but they love making up their own, too.

After a few visits, she started turning the warmth up a notch. She’d tease me about my arms, saying, “With shoulders like that, you must hit the gym, huh?” Her eyes would linger, and I’d just grin, pretending I didn’t notice. It felt like a game, and I was pretty sure I was winning. Still, I didn’t want to push my luck.

Her limp never bothered me. With her looks, who would care? But I played it safe, waiting for the right moment. In a town like this, one wrong move and everyone would know by breakfast. I couldn’t risk losing the job or ending up in a mess I couldn’t explain. I stayed cool, but inside I was just as curious about her as she was about me.

That night, after an hour and a half of tutoring, a thunderstorm blew in. The rain came down in sheets, wind howling past the porch. By ten, the street was a river and thunder rattled the windows. Chloe’s mom flicked on the porch light, peered outside, and pursed her lips. “Looks like you’re stuck here for a while,” she said, and I swore there was hope in her voice. The house suddenly felt warmer, closer.

It was obvious I couldn’t leave. I faked some anxiety about the drive and my parents worrying, but inside, my heart was pounding. My shot had finally come.

I put on my best worried face, muttering about the roads and my folks probably freaking out, but I could barely hide my excitement. The night felt heavy with possibility.