Page 37 of Holiday Hire

"I'm nannying for them."

"Nannying? You have a degree, for God's sake," he says, as if nannying is beneath me.

"Yeah, I do. So what? It doesn't make me unqualified."

"You're supposed to be teaching art. Why aren't you doing that, Phoebe?"

I cringe inside. It's the same accusation he always makes.

Lance has never understood the dynamics I faced working for the school system. I did it for a few years, but I couldn't handle it anymore.

Several kids threatened to punch me in class. They'd call me names and not do their work, and I could do nothing about it. The administration wasn't supportive of their teachers. Parents were an even bigger joke, mostly absent whenever I tried to contact them.

So, I spent the last year trying to get into a better school district, but no one was giving up their jobs—especially art teachers, which is a dying subject in many districts.

Lance knows everything I've gone through while teaching. I've hidden nothing from him, yet he can't seem to show me any sympathy or realize how much the environment I worked in affected me.

The last thing I want to do is rehash things with him. He's never going to try to understand where I'm coming from. He'll always think I need to be an art teacher in a school, and nothing else.

He adds, "Or we can get married, then you don't have to work. It's silly that you even thought you had to get another job. You know you'll be my wife someday, and I have money."

I swallow the lump forming in my throat. When I first met Lance, I saw our future together. And it's what I wanted. Now, I'm not so sure.

He always talks about marriage, yet he's never actually proposed. I'm unsure what I'd say if he got down on a knee and offered me a ring.

He lowers his voice, whining, "Phoebe, come on, babe. It's time to stop these childish antics and return to California. I'll take care of you. You don't have to worry about this nanny nonsense or getting a job. I think it's time we start our life anyway."

My pulse shoots to the sky, and I should be happy that he wants to finally commit. But I don't trust him. Right now, I don't really trust myself to make the right decision either. So, I muster up all my courage and tell him what I wanted to tell him in person before I left California but couldn't because he was nowhere to be found. "Lance, we've been together a long time."

"We sure have. So stop being dramatic. You know I love you. No one will ever love you the way I do either," he adamantly states.

Fear hits me. It always does when he says that, and I usually tell myself to be thankful he loves me. I could be alone, but Lance usually treats me well.

What if it's true, and no one will ever love me better than him?

What if I give him up and end up alone in life?

My insides quiver. An older version of me, alone and unloved, fills my mind.

"Admit I'm right," he insists.

He's not.

Is he?

I muster my courage and state, "If we're going to survive this, we need to take some time and figure out what's important to both of us. Then we can make a decision to continue forward or not."

"Make it through what?" he questions.

I sigh, explaining, "I love you, Lance. But things haven't been good between us for a while. I think it's best if we take a time-out. Then, we have some space to think. We don't want to make a bad decision and stay together just because we've been together so long."

"Don't be silly. There's no reason to take a time-out. Stop playing games, Phoebe," he demands.

"I'm not playing games. I've tried talking to you, but you don't listen. I wanted to talk to you about this before I left?—"

"So you just run off to Texas and throw this on me over the phone," he spouts.

"Well, I wanted to talk to you face-to-face, but where were you? Huh? And I'm still waiting for you to tell me where you've been the last few days!"

---