Page 93 of Teacher of the Year

“Yeah, me too. But congratulations again, Vin, really. Great job. Okay, take care.”

“You too. Say hi to Mark for me,” I say because being the bigger person always feels correct.

Adam hangs up, and I smash my face into the throw pillow and sob like a trust-fund baby being cut off and forced to find a job.

* * *

“It’s getting harder to use your lap as a pillow,” I complain.

“You try growing a human being in your stomach and get back to me.”

“Touché.”

Jill lounges at the end of my couch, her legs propped up on the pile of books I leave on the coffee table to make people think I’m smarter than I actually am. My head rests on her lap. We create a perfect capital L in this configuration, allowing us both to have our feet up as we chat. Gonzo sprawls out on my legs, purring at being included as I stroke him behind his ears.

Between the phone call from Adam and a night of tossing and turning before switching from rom-coms to horribly sad movies – the kind where someone gets really sick and dies – a self-inflicted intervention was necessary. Jill answered my distress call with a half dozen donuts in tow.

“So that’s it? It’s over?”

“I think so. The moment he said it, I wondered if I was making a horrible mistake.”

“I mean, he’s incredibly hot.”

“Not helping. But also, not wrong,” I say with a little laugh. “But he’s also one of the best people I’ve ever met. He’s kind and loving; all he wants is for other people to be happy. He’s a good man.”

“Then what the fuck is your problem?” She smacks the top of my head.

“Ouch! Your baby will come out with a mouth like a sailor if you keep that up.”

“God, I fucking hope so. Now quit deflecting.”

“It’s the drinking. It messes with my head. Whenever I think about him drinking or relapsing, it… it triggers me. I don’t want it to, but I can’t help it.”

Jill aggressively pushes my head off her lap, sending my arms and legs flying up to balance myself so I don’t tumble to the floor. My strawberry donut flies across the room, and Gonzo leaps from his resting spot on me and bolts into the bedroom, probably to hide under the bed. Part of me yearns to join him. Catching myself, I sit up and face her.

“What the hell?”

“Listen to me, Marvin, because you need to hear this. People are not perfect. Nick is not perfect. The man is a complete pig and a child. Do you know he forgets to flush the toilet? I’m not talking about pee either. Like a kindergartener. How is he going to remember to feed the baby if he can’t remember to flush the toilet? I’m not perfect – okay, I’m damn close, but I am bossy and needy, and well, that’s about it. So close. But not perfect.”

She drops her hibiscus salted chocolate donut on the coffee table, punctuating the seriousness of the situation before continuing.

“Olan is not perfect. He has a past, but everything you’ve told me says he’s doing the work to be better. He is better. Clearly. You talk about ‘the drinking’ but Marvin, is he drinking? Now? No. Your mother isn’t perfect. But Marvin, she was a single parent. And not of her own choosing. I’m not making excuses but try putting yourself in her shoes. She hasn’t had a drink in twelve years. I know she hurt you, but can you maybe entertain she’s trying to make amends? Your childhood wasn’t perfect, but buddy, show me someone’s whose was. Now get ready for the big one. Newsflash: You are not perfect. Olan’s right. You put way too much into work. Your anxiety can be crippling. You avoid life because you’re petrified. And you, too, have a past, and right now, it’s preventing you from your present. Nobody is perfect. But when you find someone whose imperfections complement yours and help you both be better versions of yourselves, you choose to make it work.”

As Jill lectures me, my hand travels up to my earlobe, my fingers rubbing it slowly. She doesn’t often raise her voice with me, but I don’t often go off the rails with a man like Olan.

“But, how am I supposed to…”

“Stop it. Stop making excuses. Meditate. Medicate. Go to therapy. Figure it out. Because if you blow it with a guy like Olan, you’ll have to live with that regret for the rest of your life.”

“What do I do?”

“Take some time. Not too much time. You need to tell him.”

“Tell him what?”

“How you feel, jackass.”

I sit with what she’s told me for a minute. My damn head keeps getting in the way of my heart. And fear, the worst of all emotions, keeps jutting itself in front of me, crafting obstacles to my happiness. I know Jill’s right. I need to figure this out, or I will lose this beautiful man.

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