Page 33 of Yes No Maybe

She shakes her golden head. “It’s funny. I had a sneaking suspicion that without Dean, you’d struggle coming up with a great idea on your own.”

My gaping expression returns.

“—But I’m happy to be proven wrong. I’m looking forward to an inspired year.”

She stands, indicating that our meeting is over. Feeling somewhat gutted, I leave her—a grateful smile plastered to my face. But inside, I’m crying for the notebooks that will go unused, the books we won’t be reading, and the work ahead of me. I might as well be a first-year teacher with nothing prepared.

That Jack Graham authored thisbrilliantidea makes it even worse.

Eleven

Rowan

Withinanhour,I’min my beach chair, letting the salty wind and the glittering ocean restore me.

Only it’s not working. Tossing out eight years of lesson plans and thousands of hours of hard work means sacrificing my identity as a teacher. Ihatethis plan. Worse, I don’t think I can pull it off.What have I done?

“A little harmless improvisation. That’s all,”Dean once said when the kids went off-script. I imagine that’s what he’d say now before reminding me what I’m known for,“Is there anything you can’t fix?”

I slump in my beach chair.I can’t fix us.I stare at my phone, willing Dean’s face to light up the screen. What goes through his head when he sees that I’ve called? Is he so busy that he doesn’t have the time or energy to respond, or does he not want to?

Pulling out Jack’s book, I stifle annoying tears. Crying never helps.

I open the cover and flip to the first page.The Other Us.

The first scene pulls me in immediately. A young couple sits nervously in a nondescript waiting room. It’s unclear what kind of waiting room it is or why they’re there, but there’s an alluring intensity to the way they are with each other, adoring and anxious. Sweet and tense. And peppered with little intimacies. It’s as if whatever awaits them determines their fate.

I reach into my bag for my pencil case, ready to mark the foreshadowing and highlight the engaging imagery. But then, I remember. I left that at home to force myself to try Jack’s way—to live in the story.

I groan.Jack.I don’t know what to think about him. Should I rely on my first impressions—that he’s a brooding Heathcliff, a partying playboy, and an obnoxious jerk? Or the brief moments that combat them—his apologies, sharing about his brother, his help getting furniture for Sara’s room (Rose has already sent a text alert), and his offer to toss out what he’s written? My feelings mix like spilled paint, swirling into icky shades of gray.

I need this beach day. I push thoughts of my enigmatic next-door neighbor out of my head.

But page to page, I trace him through the story like a faint backroad on a crowded map. I see shadows of Jack in his main character—his antsy writing energy, his moodiness, his dark eyes—but they aren’t the same people. Like a literaryWhere’s Waldogame, I find other familiar caricatures. Tom is a calm, well-spoken therapist. Marcy shows up as the main character’s sister. Rose is a nurse, while Vernon is a neighbor obsessed with model trains. Small clues reveal their identities—Tom’s voice, Rose’s red hair, Vernon’s rambling, and Marcy’s matter-of-fact way of putting things. But anyone outside the neighborhood wouldn’t make the connections. They are pale versions of the originals disguised in Jack’s fictional world.

The story revolves around Caulder and Jasmine, a seemingly perfect, passionate couple, magical in the way some couples just are. But they have secrets—Jasmine is bipolar, while Caulder battles depression, insomnia, and alcoholism. So, when they’re good, they’rereallygood. But when one or both aren’t, they’re the absolute worst people for each other. And they’re rarely “right” at the same time.

It’s tragic, sad, and dark but beautiful in how they stay together, regardless of how hard it is.The Other Usis the side of them they don’t let others see, the side they fight against to return to that sweet spot of mutual “normalcy.” And there’s hope,alwayshope like this impenetrable chain locked between them.

In a heart-wrenching scene near the end, they push each other away, sacrificing their happiness to help the one they love. They put on brave faces and say things they don’t mean, all while screaming on the inside like they’re being ripped in half.

I fold the book against my chest—I have to stop reading. I’ve never known love like that, but the scene hurts in strange ways. The pain I keep locked away rattles my inner cages. That’s what I do—put on a brave face when I’m screaming inside.

The sun and breezes bathe my bad feelings, and though fearing an unhappy end to his “not a wine and roses story,” I pick it back up.

When I finish, I’m crying. The sun’s setting. Nearby sunbathers stare with concern.

“It’s a good book,” I defend tearfully. “Areallygood book.”

Watching the surf, I let the tears come—it feels good to let them out, especially in the mental safety of a fictional world and surrounded by strangers. I’m devastated, but in the best way. Crying helps, after all, I decide as my tension releases in the purge. My personal sadness slips out, camouflaged with the emotions I feel for Jasmine and Caulder’s story.

The Other Ushas a happily-ever-after butnot really—the couple tries living apart to better their conditions only to discover they can’t and decide that five minutes of happiness together is worth whatever time it takes to get there. So, the ending is sad because things will never be easy for them.

Even so, part of me wishes for a love like that, one worth any struggle. This is what Mira meant about two people beingdesperatefor each other. I’ve never felt that before. But once, when someone felt somethinglikethat for me, it felt wrong and became my nightmare.

So, my other half understands—that’s why I love Dean.Safety and comfort are more important than desperation. I can’t imagine feeling that, anyway, let alone finding someone who is decent and kind, doesn’t mind my scars,andwants medesperately. That’s a fantasy reserved for romance novels and one-in-a-million couples.

During the quiet and thoughtful drive home, I’m still reeling from Jack’s beautiful story. I plan to reread it tonight in bed with a glass of wine—I’m shocked at how much I loved it.

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