Page 105 of Teacher of the Year

I want to kiss him so badly, but we still need to talk.

“I need to use the bathroom. And by use the bathroom, I mean give myself a bath in the sink,” I say, gripping Olan’s knee tightly under the table and rising to my feet.

“I’ll help,” he says, standing, and we briskly head to the men’s room, the table resuming their chatter.

The moment the men’s room door swings closed, I smash Olan against the wall and kiss him with all my pent-up emotions from the last few weeks. He places his hands on my waist and pulls me into him, and god, I’ve missed being this close. We share a too-brief kiss, I pull away, remembering.

“I went to your AA meeting. Your one-year anniversary… what happened?”

“Oops. I mean, I needed to be here. To support you. You’re so deserving and have worked so hard. And I was wrong. About you working too much. Too hard. I get it now. But I still want you to take care of yourself. And I want to help. Take care of you. You can’t be the amazing human you are for those kids if you’re not okay yourself.”

I lean in, about to kiss him again, but ask, “But you missed your anniversary.”

“No, I didn’t.”

He pulls a shimmering bronze chip from his pocket and holds it out. The words “To Thine Own Self Be True” are etched around a triangle with a beautiful number one in the center.

“Ralph delivered it this morning. We’ll celebrate my anniversary next month. We can go together. But thank you for going. That means a lot. It’s not a big deal.”

“Yes, it is.”

“I mean, the anniversary is a big deal, but celebrating it next month isn’t. Really, people do it all the time. This was only happening once, and I wasn’t going to miss it. Although you almost did.”

“Every time I almost run out of gas, I tell myself, never again, but, well, it always happens again.”

“So, you ran here?”

I lift my arms, and the full horror of my sweaty mess of a shirt reveals itself.

“Yup.”

“God, you’re adorable.”

“And you, you’re, well, here. How did you know when…”

“Dr. Knorse. I called her. She told me about your chat. You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know, but I’m tired of keeping this a secret.”

His lips turn up slightly for a moment, and the tiny gap between his teeth peeks out at me. I move in and give him the briefest of kisses because I need encouragement for what I’m about to say.

“Olan, I know what you said about us not being right for each other, and if that’s truly how you feel, I’ll understand, but there’s a reason you picked up your life and moved across the country. There’s a reason you picked Portland. There’s a reason your daughter was put in my classroom. Maybe part of the reason was so we could meet. None of this” – I motion between us – “happened accidentally. Someone wanted us to, well, be an us. I know meeting you has shown me how beautiful it can be to open up my heart.”

He takes a small step back. This is it. His answer. My stomach gurgles with uncertainty about what will come out of his beautiful mouth.

“You’re amazing,” he says. “I wish you could see yourself the way I see you. Maybe I can help you with that.”

“I’d like that.”

“And you’ve shown me it’s okay to love what you do and have a personal life too. A work-life balance is attainable.”

I grimace. “I mean, I need to work on that too.”

“Sure, we all can, I know that. But this running away thing you do worries me. What’s going to happen when my past comes up? Because it probably will at some point. Or what if I have another relapse? To be clear, I have no intention of that ever happening, but I can’t guarantee it. I can’t guarantee anything. Every morning, I get up and pray. I pray to stay sober, and I take that prayer and tuck it away so it stays with me all day. All I can do is promise you today I won’t drink. Each day, I make that promise to myself. For me first, but also Illona, and I’ll make it for you, too.”

My hand reaches for his, and he lets me take it, hold it, cherish it. With my other hand, I gently stroke the one I’m holding because touching him, his skin on mine, makes my soul sing.

“I can’t promise anything either, but I won’t run away again. I won’t. I’m going to start therapy. I need to continue unpacking why my childhood keeps impacting me as an almost thirty-year-old man. I promise to try every day, with you, to be the best version of myself. For you. For Illona. But mostly, for me.”

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