I never expected to meet my high school instructor at a packed farmers’ market years later. He called my name with no delay. What began as pleasant chat became something I never expected.
Everyone loved Mr. Harper in high school. He could make ancient history seem like a Netflix series right out of college. He was humorous, lively, and maybe too handsome for a teacher.
Most of us knew him as the “cool teacher,” who made learning fun. I saw him as Mr. Harper—a compassionate, witty adult who always had time for his pupils.
“Claire, great analysis on the Declaration of Independence essay,” he said after class. Your thinking is acute. Ever considered law school?”
Shrugging nervously, I tucked my notepad across my chest. Don’t know… Maybe? History’s… simpler than arithmetic.”
He chuckled. I promise, arithmetic is simpler without overthinking it. History, though? That’s where tales live. Finding tales is your forte.”
It meant nothing to me at 16. He was a working teacher. I’d be lying if I claimed his remarks didn’t stay.
After that, life occurred. High school memories faded once I graduated and went to the city. Or so I thought.
Eight years later. At 24, I was browsing the farmers’ market in my rural village when a familiar voice stopped me.
“Claire? That you?”
He was there when I turned around. He was no longer “Mr. Harper.” Just Leo.
“Mr. Har—I mean, Leo?” I stuttered over the words, blushing.
His smile expanded as usual, but with greater ease and charm. “You don’t have to call me ‘Mr.’ anymore.”
It felt weird to see my essay grader laughing with me like an old friend. I wish I’d understood how much that moment would affect my life.
“You still teaching?” I inquired with a basket of fresh veggies on my hip.
“Yeah,” Leo answered, hands in jacket pockets. Now at another school. Teaching high school English now.”
“English?” I joked. “What happened to history?”
His laughter was deep and easy. “Well, turns out I’m better at discussing literature.”
Not only did he appear older, but he looked lighter. More assured and settled than the eager rookie instructor.
Conversation danced as we spoke. His experiences teaching pupils that drove him crazy but made him proud and the anecdotes that stuck with him. I recounted my city life—chaotic employment, failed romances, and my desire of launching a small company.
“You’d be amazing at that,” he added over coffee two weeks later. “Your description of that idea? I almost saw it.”
“You’re just saying that,” I joked, but his steady look stopped me.
“No, I mean it,” he answered softly but firmly. The road is there, Claire. You only need a chance.”
After our third supper at a candlelit restaurant, I noticed something. Age difference: 7 years. Instant connection. The feeling? Unexpected.
“I’m starting to think you’re just using me for free history trivia,” I joked as he paid.
“Busted,” he grinned, leaning forward. “Though I might have ulterior motives.”
Something unsaid but unmistakable passed between us as the air altered. A murmur disturbed the quiet as my pulse raced.
“What kind of motives?”
“Guess you’ll have to stick around and find out.”
A year later, we were beneath my parents’ backyard oak tree with fairy lights, friends laughing, and leaves rustling. Our wedding was modest and uncomplicated, as desired.
I smiled as I put the gold ring on Leo’s finger. I never anticipated this type of love tale, yet it felt perfect.
Leo and I had some time alone that night after the last visitor went and the home was quiet. We sat in the gloomy living room in our wedding attire, shoes off, champagne glasses in hand.
“I have something for you,” he broke the serene stillness.
Curious, I raised an eyebrow. “A gift? In addition to marrying me? Bold move.”
Softly laughing, he withdrew a little, faded leather notepad from behind his back. “I thought you might like this.”
I grabbed it, touching the broken cover. “What is this?”
“Open it,” he said, his voice clouded with nervousness? Excitement?
I recognized the first page’s sloppy scribble as I opened the cover. My handwriting. Heart skipped. “Wait… is this my old dream journal?”
He nodded, beaming like a child revealing a secret. “You wrote it in history class. Remember? That assignment to envisage your future?”
“I completely forgot about this!” Despite blushing, I chuckled. “You kept it?”
“Not on purpose,” he said, massaging his neck. “I discovered it in an old paper box when I transferred schools. I wanted to discard it but couldn’t. It was too nice.”
“Good?” I read youthful fantasies as I turned the pages. Starting a company. Going to Paris. Difference-making. “This is just the ramblings of a high schooler.”
“No,” Leo responded, forceful yet soft. It’s your life’s roadmap. I retained it since it showed your potential. And I wanted it to happen.”
My throat tightened as I watched him. “You really think I can do all this?”
A hand covered mine. “I doubt it. I know. I’ll be there throughout.”
The notepad on my chest brought tears to my eyes. “Leo… you’re kind of ruining me right now.”
He grinned. “Good. My job.”
That night, as I sat in bed with the old leather notebook on my lap, I felt like my life was going to alter in ways I couldn’t understand. His steady breathing warmed my shoulder as Leo covered me.
As I glanced at the notebook’s pages of buried dreams, something changed within me.
“Why didn’t you tell me you had this sooner?” I broke the stillness with a whisper.
He shifted but didn’t look up. “Because I didn’t want to pressure you,” he slept. “You had to find your way back to those dreams on your own.”
I ran my fingers over the pages, unfamiliar with my juvenile penmanship. “But… what if I fail?”
In the faint light, Leo lifted himself on one elbow and looked at me. “Failing isn’t that bad, Claire. Never trying? That’s terrible.”
He remembered his comments long after falling asleep. I decided by dawn.
I started pulling down my self-imposed barricades over the following two weeks. I resigned my hated desk job and pursued my long-held dream of a bookshop café. Leo was my strength through late nights, financial issues, and self-doubt.
“Do you think people will actually come here?” I questioned him one night while painting store walls.
Smirking, he leaned on the ladder. “Are you kidding? Bookstore with coffee? People will queue to scent the location.”
He was right. Our company was part of the community when we opened. It was ours.
I sit behind the counter of our bustling bookshop café, watching Leo assist our toddler pick up crayons from the floor, and I think of that notebook—the spark that sparked a fire in me I didn’t realize had gone out.
Leo looked up at me. “What’s that look for?” he grinned.
“Nothing,” I answered, heartful. “Just thinking… I really did marry the right teacher.”
“Damn right, you did,” he winked.
