Page 28 of The Headmaster’s Rule

Finally, he gives a slow, thoughtful nod. “That’s an excellent answer, Eleanor,” he says quietly.

My breath hitches. It’s the first time he’s called me Eleanor, and that tiny shift feels as though it carries a lot of weight. I look down, suddenly self-conscious, wondering if I shared too much.

Or maybe it was just the right amount.

“Anyway.” I issue an awkward laugh, flipping open the binder. “That’s if the board approves it.”

He’s quiet for a beat. When he finally speaks, I’m not prepared for what he says.

“They will. I’ll make sure of it.”

CHAPTER 11

Theo

Campus is dark when I step out for a late-evening run. Something I’d never normally do, but tonight… I had to get out. Had to escape the silence of my house.

It’s been a week since my last meeting with Eleanor. A meeting I haven’t been able to get out of my head, for reasons I can’t even begin to unravel. Things shifted between us that night, in a way that felt good. Promising. Like we might actually make something of this fundraiser after all.

But there was also… something else. Something I still can’t quite name. Maybe it was the way her face lit up when I told her we were going ahead with Safe Harbor. Or the way she spoke about it, so quietly, so vulnerably. Or maybe it was sitting beside her on those leather chairs in my office, how the space between us seemed to shrink. It felt… intimate.

Too intimate.

We should have gone to the conference room. There’s nothing intimate about the buzz of the fluorescent lights, the wide expanse of that wooden table separating us.

I turn onto the path past the gym, making a mental note to meet in the conference room next time. Whatever this feeling stirring inside me is, it’s not helpful. It’s not good. I need to stay focused on the fundraiser, on keeping the school out of trouble.

Not… whatever this is.

Still, as I plod along the dim path toward the arts building, chilled by the crisp autumn air and regretting my lack of a sweatshirt, my mind drifts to her.

I know what it feels like when people look right through you because they’ve already decided you’re not worth taking seriously.

Guilt tugs at me as I replay her words, because that’s what I did, isn’t it? I took one look at her colorful skirts and her flower barrettes, one look at her youth and inexperience, and decided she wasn’t serious. I did what everyone else has clearly done to her. Exactly what she’s spent years fighting against.

And yet, when I reviewed her proposal again today, prepping to present it to the board tomorrow, it impressed me. Not only the writing, but the intent. She impressed me. Part of me even considered asking her to come with me to the board to present it. It’s her idea, after all.

But then I pictured her in that conference room facing Helen, Patsy, and Charles, thinking of how skeptical and dismissive they can be, and something protective surged through me. Not because she couldn’t handle it, but because she shouldn’t have to. She’s already had enough people underestimate her, and I won’t make her face more of that.

Not when I can do this for her. Not when I can make them listen.

I turn to head home, already dreading the quiet emptiness of my house. Pulling my phone from my pocket, I stop to lean against the stone wall of the main school building, catching my breath. The scent of the ocean feels cooler and sharper than usual, and I write a quick email to Margaret, scheduling another meeting with Eleanor for tomorrow evening. I’m hoping I’ll have the board’s approval by then, but if not, there’s still work to do.

Before I press send, it occurs to me how inefficient it is to have Margaret schedule all our meetings. She’ll be asleep now, which means Eleanor won’t get the email until tomorrow morning. She may have made plans by then.

The cool stone presses into my back as I log into the staff portal, bringing up Eleanor’s contact information, before typing out a quick text.

Headmaster Wright: Hi Eleanor, this is Headmaster Wright. I thought it might be easier to coordinate directly via text to set up our meetings. I’d like to meet again tomorrow. Let me know what times work for you.

I almost press send, then hesitate. Something about texting Eleanor at night feels strangely… intimate.

There’s that word again.

My finger hovers above the button as I reread my message, ensuring the tone is professional. Of course it is. And that makes it perfectly appropriate to send. Besides, we’ll be meeting regularly for the foreseeable future, so it makes more sense to schedule meetings with her directly.

Hitting send, I slide my phone away and continue on home. There’s no sound to signal an incoming text as I run, and nervousness flickers in my chest. What if she’s uncomfortable with me texting her? It’s so much less formal to communicate this way. Have I crossed a line I shouldn’t have?

But as I reach my doorstep and tug my phone out again, a text sits on the screen.