Page 51 of Champagne Kisses
But it's not a neighbor. It's not a delivery guy. It's not some kid playing "ding dong, ditch".
Instead, it's Maya standing on the landing, her mouth open in horror. She sees Emily on my couch, hair down. She sees wine and two empty wine glasses. She sees all her insecurities come to life and, judging by her expression, she's jumping to all the absolute wrong conclusions.Shit!!!!!
Doing her best to hide the hurt on her face, Maya takes off down the stairs and I leave a confused Emily alone in my apartment to run after her. I catch her by the hand right outside the building before she can break into a run.
“Maya, stop! What you saw is not what you think it was!” This is now twice in one night that we’re arguing on the sidewalk and I feel a migraine coming on.
I willnotbe branded a cheater. When it comes to women, I never lie and I never cheat; I don't see the point. She tries to pull her hand away, but I hold tight.
“Let me go, Adam!”
“No! Not until you talk to me.” She’s angry now, nostrils flaring.
“Ok, Adam. Let's talk.” Her voice has gone eerily calm. She wipes the tears that threaten to spill with the back of her hand. “Let's talk about how I came over to apologize for doubting your feelings for me earlier only to find you getting cozy with the chick from Cape Cod. Don't think I didn't recognize her.” I rake a hand through my hair, beyond frustrated.
“Babe! Seriously. Emily just came to talk! She's going through a tough time and she's my best friend's little sister.” I can hear it, the desperation in my voice. Maya simply scoffs.
“Oh yeah. She just came over to talk. At 10pm. With wine!” She narrows her eyes and faces me. “Is that the kind of woman you really want? Is she someone you can show off to your boss?” Tears are streaming down her face and she's no longer trying to hide her hurt from earlier.
It may have only been a couple of months, but I thought I'd earned her trust. Hell, I stood by her when Candy came sniffing around, and it would have been so easy to fall back into that bad habit. I narrow my eyes right back at her.
“Those wereCory’swords; not mine! If you want me to go and set him straight right now, I’ll do it.” If he wants to be a dick, so be it. I've still got three other brothers.
She just rolls her eyes and I’m at a loss for words. Nothing I say seems to be getting through to her.
“I don’t know what to do, Maya. I want to be with you…” Her eyes widen. I can’t believe it’s come to this.
“But I don’t know if I can keep going this way. You’re beautiful," I sigh. "And I think you know me well enough to know that I don’t want to be with Emily, despite what you think you saw. But I can’t seem to win against the bullshit you’ve got in your head. No one else can change how you feel aboutyou.” I’m tearing up now too.Dammit.Thank God my brothers aren't here to see me act like such a simp. I let go of her hand. She’s just as shocked as I am by my words.
“Adam? Are you…are you saying it’s over?” God, I don’t want it to be over. I love her.
My heart gives a painful squeeze at the realization. Yup. I love her. And I already know I want to be with her forever…but not like this. She’s got to love herself too. The fact that she doesn’t makes my heart hurt even more.
“I’m saying you shouldn’t be punishing me for something my idiot brother said. And no one can erase all the bad things you tell yourself.” I stop talking to avoid openly crying in front of her. This hurts like hell.
I turn and walk back to my apartment, leaving her staring after me on the street.
Chapter twenty-eight
Maya
Kiki, a 12-year-old Latina with pigtails and an affinity for stickers and grape chewing gum, jumps up from the table she shares with two older boys and pulls on my protective smock. Even though it’s only part-time, I made the smock especially for this program and, because it’s what I do, I personalized it. “Ms. Maya. Art Teacher and Professional Weirdo” is stitched on the top corner in red thread. The kids got a kick out of it the first weekend I came. Kiki’s expression packs the annoyance of a woman twice her age and she smacks her grape gum for emphasis.
“Ms. Maya! Jeremy’s hogging all the beads! I’m trying to finish the necklace I’m making for my mom and he’s just gluing them to his janky ass poster board!” I press my lips together to stifle a smile. Are kids still saying “janky”? Miles, a lanky 14-year-old Black kid with glasses looks personally attacked.
“It’s not just a poster board, Ms. Maya. It’s acollage.“ Miles actually pulls Kiki’s pigtail and she shrieks in surprise. “Besides, we all know Kiki’s mom is still in rehab!” A chorus of “oohs” lets me know that the whole class was unfortunately listening in to the conversation. Kiki turns red with rage and throws her unfinished necklace to the ground. What is it with junior high kids that makes them such terrors?
I shoot a death stare to Miles to let him know I’ll deal with him later before running after Kiki. She’s crying quietly in the empty classroom across the hall and quickly wipes her eyes with her sleeves when I enter. We’re in the music room, surrounded by music stands and a few chairs left behind by the jazz band that finished earlier. I pull up a chair next to her.
“It’s a lie, Ms. Maya!” she shouts at me defensively. “My mom isn’t in rehab; she’s in therapy. The necklace is to make her feel better when she comes home.” Before I started, Tiffany clued me in on some of the kids in the program. Many came from difficult home situations or were struggling in school; art was to be their outlet to redirect the big feelings hitting kids their age. In Kiki’s case, her mom had to be hospitalized for some pretty serious postpartum depression after her baby sister was born. Before the program, she was acting out so much in class, she was in danger of expulsion.
“I know, Kiki.” I pat her on the back and try to keep the pity out of my face; these kids hate that. “Your mom just needed a little help to get better. We all do. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.” Kiki looks at me with red-rimmed eyes shining with tears.
“I hate him, Ms. Maya! He’s always trying to put me down in front of everyone!” A part of me wants to commiserate, since what Miles said was vile. If I were her age, Miles may have received a kick to the balls for making fun of my mom. Unfortunately, I have to be the adult in this situation.
“Don’t bother hating him, Kiki. He’s not worth it.” She sniffs again, her tears starting to slow. “Just know that we all have our struggles. It’s OK to get help.” I smile conspiratorially before adding, “Your necklace will be way better than his collage anyway.”
She laughs at that, and wipes her face again. It seems like being an art teacher also means being a therapist. Strangely enough, I actually like it. Maybe some of these kids will learn how to express themselves instead of just lashing out.
