Page 33 of Taming His Teacher

He doesn’t defend himself but collapses onto the mattress heavily, snoring within a minute, leaving me to stew in our marriage bed.

I make my obviously hungover husband pancakes and coffee the next morning. Cream and sugar, how he likes it. When he bothers to get me a cup, which isn’t often, he still puts sugar in mine even though I’ve told him a hundred times,Just cream, please.

I get a couple of tabs of aspirin from the bathroom, pour a glass of orange juice, cut some strawberries, warm up syrup on the stovetop before pouring it into a tiny pitcher. I put the whole production on a tray with legs that fold down, a wedding present from one of his sisters. Balancing the heavy tray along my arm so I don’t spill, I come into our bedroom. When I’ve roused him to seated, I place the banquet over his lap.

“Thanks, angel. This looks wonderful.”

He’s started to eat and I sit down on the chair next to our bed, twisting my fingers together in my lap. “Will, I want a divorce.”

He pauses with a bite of pancake dripping with syrup hanging over his chest. A drop falls onto his buttoned-up pajama top. That’s going to make him crazy. But his fastidious compulsions are momentarily silenced.

“You what?”

“I want a divorce.”

“No, you don’t, Erin. You’re saying that because you’re upset about last night. It won’t happen again, I swear. I’ll finish eating, we’ll get cleaned up and we’ll go have a wonderful day. Everything will look better. I was going to take you to the special collections at Harvard. They have—”

“Does that sound like something I’d like to do, Will? Honestly?”

He lays his silverware down on the tray and his face furrows into a bewildered frown as if he’s never thought of it before. He has, occasionally, but only when he’s sorry. Except Will is never truly sorry. What he is is sad he got caught, uncomfortable with having someone angry at him.

“Look, we’ve tried. We’re not in love, there’s no baby, and I can’t take this anymore. The lies, the drinking, the cheating. I’ve held out for three years, hoping you could become the man you say you want to be. You even were for a while. But deep down, every day, you’re just Will. You’re charming and intelligent and handsome, but you’re also irresponsible and careless. I don’t want my life tied to yours anymore.”

“But—”

“No, Will. No buts. Not anymore. If you’re worried about your job, don’t be. I already talked to Rett and we can both stay. We can keep it quiet through the end of the school year. After graduation you can move out, and we’ll both go about our business.”

I’d love it if he’d leave, if I didn’t have to see him strutting around campus all the time, wondering who he’s sleeping with, but at least I’d be able to be thankful he’s not sleeping around on me anymore.

“What if I don’t want to stay here being ex–Mr. Erin Brewster? You’re like Hawthorn royalty, so what the hell will that make me?”

“Single?”

He scowls and shoves the tray down the bed, hard enough that orange juice and coffee slosh over the sides and onto the tray, sullying the puddle of syrup on his plate.

“I’m not going to stay here and be made to look like the bad guy.”

“When have I ever made you look like the bad guy?”

He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. There’s nothing to come out. Will may be a terrible husband, but that’s no one’s business but ours. I’ve been careful to keep my problems behind closed doors, and been suchssful to the extent that Uncle Rett was surprised when I’d asked over our usual Sunday dinner what happened to faculty members who got divorced.

“I’m still leaving.”

“That’s fine. I’m going to stay.” There’s a one-man-band playing in my chest and I want to get it out but at least I haven’t cried. I don’t want to give him any more of my tears, though it’s tempting. Will never knows what to do with me when I cry. “I’m going to take a shower.”

I walk out the door and start counting in my head.One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi—that’s when I hear it. The shattering of something against the wall. My guess would be the glass of orange juice. That’ll be fun to clean up. I shut the door, pull the shower curtain closed before I turn on the spray and sit down on the nubby bathmat, letting the hot stream of water drown out my tears.

Will goes to his parents’ house in Cherry Hill whenever he can, trading duties with other faculty and staff. That means the weekends he’s around, he’s not, and that’s ducky. He’s been sleeping on the couch and we live around each other, not with each other.

He’s been looking for other jobs, closer to his family. He’s got interviews with several schools this weekend. I offer him good luck as we pass each other on the threshold, and his nose wrinkles. “You’re in such a hurry to get rid of me, aren’t you?”

“I meant it when I said you could stay here, Will.” I did, too, though I’m relieved he’s leaving.

He slings his leather bag, heavy with his laptop and papers to be graded, over his shoulder and without another word, heads down the hall.

The breath I’ve been holding leaves my body in a rush. It’s always a question: Which Will will I get today? No yelling and no breaking things is a good day. He’s gone until Sunday night, so even better. I set my own books down on the kitchen table and flop onto the couch. Spring break will be here soon, and I can’t wait for two weeks of uninterrupted Will-free time. But for now, I’m going to make the best of what I have.

I’ve been keyed-up and anxious all day. Even though Will’s gone, I can’t get my head to stop being on guard.Relax, relax.I close my eyes and breathe, but the low-level anxiety that’s been my more or less constant companion since I don’t remember when won’t let me go. I drink a cup of tea, turn on a movie I’ve been wanting to watch, but I’m still in its grip. His grip.

---