Page 68 of Teacher of the Year

“Don’t apologize, and don’t go. Please.”

I lift my head off his chest and begin to push myself up.

“Olan, I care about you, but please understand. I need to… I need space, to process this.”

I get dressed, throwing on the T-shirt I wore last night, my hoodie, and jeans, shoving clothes in my bag without much care. Moving swiftly, I do my best to remain unflustered and not appear frantic. Fear of what this means crushes me and the need to be away from Olan overwhelms me. I do not want to have a panic attack here.

“I’ll text you. I promise,” I say.

“Marvin. Wait.”

I stop at the bedroom door. It’s quiet. Illona either hasn’t woken up yet, or she’s keeping herself occupied in her room. Olan jumps up from the bed and stands there, naked. On the outside, he looks so fucking perfect and wonderful, but there’s clearly more under the surface I need to process. He jogs over and gathers me in his arms. As a reflex, I return the embrace, but my heart feels hesitant. I pull away, and he gives me a quick kiss, soft, on the lips. Even as my mind flutters and races, my lips respond to his touch.

“Please text me and let me know when you’re back.”

My lips make a thin, barely-there smile. I nod, turn, and head to the ferry. The early hour means I’m only one of a few as we head back to the mainland. Feeling desolate and confused, I wrap my arms around myself and watch the city come into view under cloudy skies.

Chapter22

The Sunday scaries have never felt, well, scarier. Not only have I not texted Olan, but my phone has sat untouched all day. I haven’t replied to the three messages he’s sent nor picked up any of his calls. And he’s called four times. Not that I’m counting. Except I’m totally counting.

The revelation of Olan Stone in recovery and having a relapse only a year ago, and him keeping that information from me, along with the fact I’m most definitely catching feelings for a recovering alcoholic, makes my head swell like a tick. How did I get myself in such a mess?

Gonzo, ever attuned to his dad, has been extra cuddly. After peeling off my clothes, silencing my phone, and taking a scalding shower, I crawled into bed and haven’t moved since. Imagined music in my head feels inadequate, so I fire up an actual playlist and when “Damaged” by the gone-too-soon Danity Kane comes on, I play it on repeat for longer than probably recommended by medical professionals. Warning: This song may cause severe desolation. The lyrics and message match my mood, and with apologies to Taylor Swift, I prefer my sad music to have some punch to it. Even the blasting bass and dance beat don’t faze Gonzo as we cuddle together under my thick comforter and I try to process what this all means.

I’m desperate to reach out to Jill. Keeping everything from her has forced a silent wedge between us I loathe. She’s finally expecting, and instead of celebrating and being there for her, I’ve retreated into a shell with Olan. Olan, who kept this from me. Olan, who knew why I don’t drink.

Tomorrow morning, Illona will prance into the classroom, and what if she says something? Asks me what happened. What do I say? How do I act? What about pickup? We agreed to keep our “hanging out” under wraps, but would Olan say or do something at pickup if he felt it was his only recourse? My stomach churns in knots, and bile trickles up my throat.

Of course, the Teacher of the Year visit would be this week. Thursday morning, a pair of educators will come to spend the morning with my class and have a one-on-one interview over lunch. With everything at stake, I should be reading, preparing, and focusing. My head feels dizzy thinking about what this means. It’s not just about me winning a silly award. How did I manage to end up with this burden on my shoulders? In my typical ADHD fashion, I push the worry away and ignore it. For now.

By bedtime, I resolve to tell Jill everything in the morning. I can’t keep this from her. She’ll see it all over my face. If I arrive before her and set up for the day, we’ll have as much time as possible. It’s better than texting. I need to talk to her in person.

Around seven, my phone vibrates. Olan’s persistent, I’ll give him that. I look at the phone and my mother’s, not Olan’s, name and number flash. I don’t have the energy for her right now, but I feel lost, close to slipping out to sea, and she’s calling, reaching out. Hesitantly, I pick up.

“Hey, Mom.”

“Marvy, you’re home!”

“Yes, mother, it’s Sunday evening. I have to work tomorrow.”

“Right, it’s night there.Oy. What are you up to?”

“I’m trying to relax with Gonzo. He’s lying next to me.”

“He’s such a sweet boy. Give my grand-kitty a kiss from me.”

She loves Gonzo as much as a passive-aggressive dig at her lack of grandchildren. Time to shift the subject.

“I will, Mom. What’s up with you?”

“Oh, you know, nothing new here. Oh wait, I started a new aerobics class at the Y, and that has been kicking my tuchus.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re getting out and staying busy.”

“The ladies are nice, I think I might make some new friends.”

“New friends are always good.”

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