Page 30 of Teacher of the Year

“Thanks for the ride, bye!” I yell in his general direction over my shoulder, but also to anyone in my building awake and listening.

“Marvin, wait!”

Wanting to vanish into the night, I dash up to the front door of my building, fumbling for my keys. I crash my key into the lock, shove the door open, and fly up the stairs like a gaggle of gays racing for Gaga tickets. As I approach my front door, my phone vibrates in my pocket. Because I can use all the help from above possible, I quickly touch my mezuzah and kiss my finger. I throw the door open and Gonzo lingers inches from the entryway, purring. Startled by how his human exploded into his apartment, he darts away.

My phone wobbles in my pocket again, and I swear by all that is holy, if my mother is calling me at almost midnight on a Friday night, I will run, okay, walk very fast, to the coastline and hurl my phone into the ocean. For some reason, ringing her adult son past his bedtime has become acceptable behavior in the last few years. The first time it happened, I bolted up in bed and imagined someone was in the hospital, or worse, only to have her profess her love for me and ask if I remembered the website for the kugel recipe she loves. I worried she had relapsed and was drinking again, but there was no slurring or telltale noises of pouring or clinking glasses. The second time she explained she was confused by the time difference. Beyond discussing the three-hour gap multiple times, I even made and shipped a time zone chart to help her visualize the difference, and she systematically disregarded it. After that, I simply ignored any late calls.

I pull my phone out to cancel her call, but it’s not her. Olan’s number flashes on the screen. Not a text, the man is calling me. Does he not understand cell phones are only meant for texting, social media, and Candy Crush? Even though my head feels like a popcorn popper busting with kernels, making an ass once a night feels like my reasonable limit, so I pick up.

“Hello, this is Marvin.” Of course, it’s me, and I know it’s him, but I don’t know how else to answer.

“Marvin, it’s Olan.” His voice, deep and sure, sounds like he’s making a business call. Why are nerds so hot?

“Oh, hi.”

“You left your bag in the car.”

Naturally.

“I’m at your front door. May I bring it up?”

“Oh, sure, I’ll buzz you up. I’m on the second floor. 201.”

And with that, I hang up, press the black entry button by the door and wait. Typically, I’d open the front door for my guest, but nothing feels typical about this moment, so I leave the door closed, a barrier between us, and take deep breaths, counting the moments until Olan Stone knocks on my door. After whatever just happened in his car. And what did happen? The sweat on my brow becomes palpable, and I use my sleeve to wipe it away because even when panic overtakes me, I’d prefer not to look like a hot mess. He’s coming up. To my apartment. Now. In most situations where I’m required to be cool, I fail miserably. I close my eyes and offer a quick prayer that, this time, I remain calm. I dip into my bathroom, grateful the poor placement by the front entrance facilitates my current needs, and splash cold water on my face. The coolness sparkles on my skin and soothes the rising heat in my body. As I grab a towel to dry myself, the soothing smell of bleach and cleanliness takes over until Olan’s soft rap on the door startles me.

As I open the door, Olan stands, his coat buttoned up, looking out of place in the hallway of my rent-controlled building, with its tan paint peeling from the walls and ratty avocado-green carpeting underfoot. Coming from his home, so elaborate, so pristine, so expensive, embarrassment begins to trickle in. But Olan knows I’m a teacher, and well, America, your teachers are poor. He’s holding my bag in his arms like an infant and wearing a sheepish grin that makes my mouth feel like the Sahara.

“Your bag?”

“Thanks.” I take it, and my fingers brush his. We stand silently for a moment.

“May I come in for a minute? Please.”

“Of course, sorry,” I say, and he pierces my space, and even though I know embarrassment makes no sense, I wonder what he thinks about my apartment. The entire space, except my small bedroom, can be seen from where we stand near the entrance. The bathroom door lingers a few feet from us, and the main room a few feet away contains a small kitchen needing an update but unlikely to get one. My sofa sits across from an old buffet I found at a resale shop. There’s a small two-person table, but with all my papers and forms for Teacher of the Year strewn about, eating only takes place on the couch. My bedroom door on the furthest wall feels far away and unattainable.

“I freaked out. It’s my anxiety, it’s not you, I don’t always manage it well, sometimes it overwhelms me and, I was starting to panic, I’m, I’m…” I’m not sure what more to say.

“Listen, maybe I’ve read things incorrectly, but we’ve been texting, and when I see you, something’s there. For me. And you’ve been so sweet, not only to Illona but to me. I thought we had a connection.”

He stops. We stand a foot apart. The aroma of his soap, fresh, clean, and earthy, swirls to me, and I attempt to ignore my quickening pulse.

“I have wanted to kiss you,” he continues. “For a while. Since the field trip, for sure. Perhaps sooner.” He pinches his eyebrows like he’s calculating. “Maybe I’ve misconstrued signals. I, I do that sometimes.” His face falls slightly, and Olan Stone appears dejected.

I’m surprised by the shift in his tone, and my left foot moves a few inches in reverse. I stumble into the wall with a loud thump and Gonzo leaps from his perch on the counter. Smooth. Apparently, I’m so out of practice I don’t even know when a gorgeous man makes advances. The sweat slowly begins to start up again under the curtain of curls covering my forehead. He’s standing in front of me, waiting for me to speak, and once again, I’ve got zilch.

“I should probably go. I’m not entirely sure I’m parked legally.”

This would be the time to speak, to say something, anything, but what?

“Olan,” I stammer.

His eyes are waiting, wondering. I reach out and take his hand. His fingers fold into mine and the intimacy of our skin, palms warm and damp, makes my chest blossom. I tug him forward and wrap my arms around his broad shoulders, pulling him into an embrace. He melts into me and links his arms around my torso. As we stand there squeezing each other, my eyes close, and I take a deep breath, centering myself, allowing myself to be in this moment. Olan’s heart thumps against my chest. Or is that mine? I’m unable to distinguish his heartbeat from mine, and the room swirls around me as I’m smelling his scent – not soap or cologne, but the slightly sweet smell of skin as my face lands right on his neck. He’s warm and solid, his muscles strong against my chest, even through his coat. At this juncture, all I can wonder is why don’t people hug more. Enfold yourself in another person’s essence and hold there for more than a nanosecond while the world stops spinning and give yourself over. I want him to know that I’ve heard him and am here for him, even if only as a friend. Because we are friends. But friends don’t hope for more. Right now, gathering Olan up in my arms cracks me open and carefully, as we stand so close, begins to piece me back together.

We begin to move apart, our faces again passing like ships in the night, his scent making it difficult to separate.

At the moment our faces are closest, Olan pauses.

“Hello,” he says. The vibrations from his throat reverberate against my chest.

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