by Kelly Myers
“Yes, she sees a therapist,” David says. “I’m a surgeon myself so I was lucky to find one who specializes in these sorts of things through my contacts.”
A doctor and a widower. With two young daughters. My friend Beatrice likes to joke that I have a bleeding heart. I’m always getting overwhelmed with sympathy for everyone, even those who don’t deserve it. But I don’t think I’m overreacting when I guess it must have been incredibly difficult for him to work such a demanding job, take care of two kids, and grieve a dead wife.
He must have remarried. It’s been five years after all. And the handsome man before me would have no trouble attracting a second wife. I hope Amy’s step-mother is supportive and gives Amy the attention she deserves.
“That’s good.” I glance back down at my notes. “And truly, Amy is a good student. Sometimes, I find that journaling can be useful to help any child cope with ups and downs and spells of sadness, so I’ll try to encourage that.”
“I’m sure she would listen to whatever you said.” David is sitting on the edge of the seat so his elbows are propped on my desk. “It’s just me at home, and I make sure I’m with them most evenings, but I want Amy to have as many support systems as possible.”
So, he’s not remarried. Not if it’s just him at home.
I clasp my hands together and pinch the skin at the base of my thumb to remind me to stop obsessing over this man’s personal life. It’s none of my business.
It’s not like I’m trying to flirt with him. He’s not my type. Too old. Too sophisticated. And, I could never be with a doctor – they work long hours and are always tired.
I pick up another sheet of paper and hand it to him. “Here’s the list of all our reading. The titles in the first section are books we’ve already read, and the titles below are what we will be reading for the rest of the section. The final list is just books I recommend for outside reading.”
“Do you pick all the books yourself?” David examines each title with care.
A rush of nerves hits me. I want him to be impressed by my list. “Some of the books are curriculum requirements. To Kill a Mockingbird, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. Then, I get to fill out the rest of the list with my own picks.”
“You have good taste.” David looks up with me, his brows raised. “The Hobbit; Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry; The Witch of Blackbird Pond. It’s a good range.”
I shrug, but inside I’m jittery with pleasure. I put a lot of effort into picking an eclectic mix of books that are diverse in story and style. “I believe there’s a book capable of changing every person’s life, and I try to find it for each of my students.”
“Well put,” David says. “I’ll make sure Amy has the list of suggestions next time we go to the library.”
The image of this tall man taking his blonde little daughter to the public library on a Saturday morning makes something inside me melt, it’s so sweet.
“In fact, I would love to hear suggested reading for my other daughter as well.” David reaches into his pocket and pulls out a slip of paper. “No rush, but if you could email me?”
“Of course.” I’m flattered. No parent has ever taken my suggested reading quite this seriously. People believe that either a kid likes to read or doesn’t, when in fact, it’s a lot more complicated. Most kids these days get so distracted by TV or technology or video games that they never bother to learn what types of books they like. “How old is she?”
“Kate is in the second grade,” David says. “She’s at this school too, we moved from Lincoln Park to this neighborhood when Amy started middle school.”
He glances around, and I realize he needs a pen. I reach for the mug that has a sketch of Edgar Allan Poe, and I grab him a pen out of the writing utensils resting in the mug.
He accepts it and bends over the slip of paper. For a moment, with his shoulders hunched and his brow furrowed in concentration, he looks boyish. I have the strongest temptation to reach out and touch the lock of brown hair hanging over his forehead. I squeeze my hands together to stop the urge.
Then he looks up with another sunny smile and hands me the paper. I glance down. In the grand tradition of medical doctors, his handwriting is a messy scrawl. But it’s legible.
“Thank you,” I say. “I’ll send you a list later today.”
He waves his hand. “No need to rush, seriously. And, I should be thanking you.”
I blush at his praise. He’s acting like I’m donating a kidney. In truth, it will take me only about five minutes to come with a list of books an eight-year-old might enjoy. I love making book recommendations.
“Do you have any other questions about Amy or the class?” The meetings are only supposed to be fifteen minutes, and our time is pretty much up.
“No.” David shakes his head. “I’m going to keep an eye on Amy and talk to her a bit about her moods, see if we can develop some coping strategies.”
“That sounds like a good plan, and I’ll continue to treat her as I’ve done, but be a bit more cognizant.” I stand up to shake his hand.
He rises also, and I’m once again reminded of how tall he is. Could he really be a surgeon? How could a man this big do anything as delicate as surgery with his hands?
I walk him to the door of my classroom, and he flashes me one last smile. I can’t tell if his friendliness is just his politeness or if he’s just naturally this way.
“Miss Ramirez, you did not disappoint,” he says.
I let out a shocked laugh, and even his smile turns sheepish at the lavishness of his praise.
I don’t know what comes over me as I blurt out: “You can call me Elena.”
“Elena.” He repeats my name and pronounces it perfectly. Many people emphasize the middle syllable, and say it like E-lay-na, when the first E is the one that should be emphasized.
My stomach tightens as my name rolls off his tongue, smooth and melodious.
Then with one last wave, he turns and walks away.
Chapter Three
I drift back to my desk in a daze, trying to think of the last time I asked a parent of a student to call me by my first name. It’s happened, for sure, but usually there’s a good reason. Most of the time, it’s because the parent volunteers for the PTA so we work together on school events. Or it’s after a child has moved on to the next year, but the parent keeps in touch.
Every so often, there’s been a father who wanted to flirt. I’m one of the youngest teachers at the school, and some men, even the married ones, seem to be incapable of talking to a young and reasonably attractive woman without flirtatious overtones. Those fathers will often call me by first name, usually while winking.
David wasn’t flirting though. Not really. He was just nice. And, appreciative. And, he clearly cares about his children.
And, maybe I romanticized him because he was so handsome and smart and tragic.
I sigh and start to pack up my bag. I’m done for the day, and I have plans to meet my friends at a housewarming party. It’s for a college acquaintance and her new husband. They just moved into the perfect home in Lincoln Park. As soon as I turned 25, these types of invitations started to hit me like a deluge. I used to not mind, back when I had my own boyfriend. I assumed Logan and I would be inviting people to engagement parties and housewarming dinners soon.
I shake my head. I had been an idiot. Too naive and blind to see the warning signs.
Maybe my instant attraction to David is a good sign though. I obviously can’t pursue it, but perhaps it means that I’m finally moving on from Logan. It still hurts to think about my ex, but if I can be attracted to David, that means I can be attracted to other men. And, it also means that maybe, someday, I will stop thinking about Logan constantly. I’ll stop wanting him back.
David is a good parent, and Amy is a good student, and that is it. I’ll email him reading suggestions, but other than that, we will probably never interact. I place the little slip of paper with his email in my desk drawer. I’ll email him on Monday.
I don’t want him to think I’m tripping over myself to please him. My mouth twists into a wry smile as I realize that half the teachers probably have a crush on him. He’s that type of generic good looks and charm that is so easy to fall for. I used to not be this cliche, I don’t know what’s happened to me.
I shoulder my purse and head for the door, flicking the lights off as I exit.
The housewarming party is just a few stops away on the Brown Line. Once I’m on the train, I check my messages. There’s no way I’m walking into this party alone. I always feel awkward without someone by my side at a social gathering.
I relax my shoulders when I see a text from Marianne that she just arrived. Marianne is a singer and an actress, and she is always comfortable in any social situation. She smiles and tells funny stories, and she can win pretty much anyone over. Zoe and Beatrice text that they will arrive within thirty minutes.
The four of us met freshman year of college. We’re all very different, and I often wonder how our friendship has lasted this long. Our personalities should clash. Zoe is super intense and ambitious and is addicted to her consulting job; meanwhile Marianne is artistic and free-spirited. And Beatrice, with her sardonic sense of humor, often seems too flippant and edgy to be friends with someone as shy as me. Somehow, we all get along. Zoe is passionate about Marianne’s skills and attends all her open mic gigs. Beatrice and I adore each other, and no matter how wicked Beatrice’s jokes get, I trust she would never say anything to hurt me. She has a good heart underneath her sharp edges.
The hosts of the housewarming party, Angie and Mark, really did find an adorable little house. Angie used to live in our dorm in college, and she was always nice and fun to be around. She was never part of our intimate group, but we all like her.
I wince as I remember how Logan and I used to go on double dates with Angie and Mark. Angie used to smile at me and joke about how lucky we were to have such great boyfriends. We didn’t have to brave the harsh rollercoaster ride that is dating in your twenties.
I received Angie’s wedding invitation just a few days after my break-up. The timing was pretty brutal. I was convinced I was being punished for some crime in a prior life. I still went for the party though. Even heartbroken, I’m a romantic at heart.
I ring the doorbell and paste on a big smile as Angie opens the door and squeals in greeting. She gives me a big hug and leads me into the front hall. I handed her a bottle of wine I picked up earlier.
The living room is filled with people clutching glasses of wine and chatting. I see Marianne giggling with some woman in a corner, and my spirits rise.
“Thank you so much!” Angie gushes. She lowers her voice and leans in close to my ear. “And don’t worry, Logan didn’t get an invite.”
And my spirits plummet. Do I have to be reminded of him everywhere I go?
“Oh, right.” What else am I supposed to say to that comment?
I didn’t expect him to get invited, since Angie and I were always closer than Mark and Logan. But even so, they could have invited him if they wanted.
I let Angie drift back to her gleaming new kitchen, and I head towards Marianne. She grins at me and squeezes my hand in greeting.
“I need a drink.” I sigh and let Marianne lead me to the refreshments table.
After pouring myself a small glass of white wine, we retreat to a corner.
“Isn’t this just depressing?” Marianne rolls her eyes and flicks her wild golden hair over her shoulder.
“I mean, I think the house is cute,” I say.
Marianne scoffs and purses her lips. “They’re not even thirty, and they’re settling down to this cookie-cutter perfect home nonsense.”
“Not everyone is a free spirit like you.” I give Marianne a teasing smile. Marianne has announced that she probably will never get married since it’s too much of a prison. She wants to travel the world and live an unconventional life.
“That’s for sure.” Marianne scans the room. “They’ll probably be divorced in ten years anyway.”
“Ok, now you just sound bitter.” I shrug. “I’m the one who should be bitter, I thought this was gonna be me and Logan.”
Marianne’s blue eyes soften as she rubs my shoulder. “He never deserved you.”
Her words are well-meant, but I’ve heard so many maxims over the last few months that they’ve all started to blur together. He doesn’t deserve you. He lost the best thing he ever had. You’ll find someone worthy of your time. They start to feel meaningless after a while.
Marianne perks up as she spots Beatrice across the room. Bea waves and makes a beeline for us, her auburn hair glistening under the lights.
“I swear, every woman in this room has the same engagement ring,” Beatrice quips under her breath. “It’s like the attack of the Bride Clones.”
Marianne snorts and I giggle over the rim of my cup as well.
“That’ll be you soon.” I give Bea a sly grin. “Zach’s gonna pop the question any day.”
Beatrice still jokes about us all being hopelessly single, but the truth is, she is deeply in love with her boyfriend Zach. They were high school sweethearts, but they reconnected a few months ago, and we all can tell he’s the one for her.
“Ok, first of all, I am in no rush.” Beatrice holds up her pointer finger. “Second, he would never choose some generic ring, he knows I’m not basic.”
“When he comes to me for advice, I’m totally gonna get him to buy you the same ring as Angie,” Marianne says.
Beatrice rolls her eyes, and we all smile and draw closer. That’s how we are at parties: shoulder to shoulder, our own little circle of protection.
“How was your day?” Beatrice asks.
“Long.” All my days are long, it’s a silly answer. “Parent-teacher conferences.”
“Fun,” Marianne says.
I shrug and think of David. “It was alright.”
We catch up for a while and then, fashionably late, Zoe walks in. We didn’t expect her earlier. Friday or not, party or not, Zoe always stays late at her office. She gives Angie a cheerful smile that disappears from her face as soon as Angie has turned her back. Then she sees us and strides over, every short black hair on her head impeccably in place. Zoe is never flustered or unkempt, no matter how long her day has been.
“Remind me why we came to this again,” Zoe says as soon as she’s at my side. “When we could have gone to that fancy sushi place instead.”
“You guys are acting like this is torture,” I say. “It’s just a housewarming party.”
“It’s just a chance for smug couples to gloat,” Zoe says. “So it is torture.”
I look out at the room, and I have to admit, she has a point. Everyone is coupled up. A fist tightens around my heart. I shouldn’t be so sad. I have my friends, and they’re enough. At least for now.
“Ok, we sound so bitter.” Marianne levels us with an intense look. “We have amazing and fabulous lives, and everyone in here is probably jealous of us.”
I have no doubt that some people might be jealous of Marianne. Every day is new and exciting for her. She works at a coffee shop part time, but the rest of her hours are spent in theaters or playing music or meeting artists. Her life is fabulous, and everyone knows it by the way she speaks with such confidence.
But I know no one is envious of me. I’m the girl who thought she was going to get married and got dumped instead.
I’m not trying to be self-pitying, but it’s the truth.
“Let’s stay for like twenty more minutes, just to be polite, and then go to that wine bar nearby.” Zoe speaks with authority. She’s the planner in our group, always deciding what action to take next.
“That works for me,” I say. I have no desire to watch other couples being so happy for the rest of the night.
Marianne and Beatrice agree.
“I won’t be able to stay out too long though,” Zoe says. “I’ve got loads of work to catch up on.”
“It’s the weekend
!” Beatrice shakes her head at Zoe. We should be used to her non-stop attitude when it comes to her job, but we try to get her to relax sometimes.
“I’ve got to get up early for a rehearsal too,” Marianne says. “I booked a new gig in Wicker Park.”
Beatrice rolls her eyes but doesn’t argue. She subscribes to the work hard, play hard lifestyle. She is successful at her job in sales, but once it’s the weekend, she likes to enjoy herself.
“You probably wanna see Zach tonight anyway, right?” I ask.
Beatrice shrugs. “I could hang out with you, I’m not handcuffed to him like some people here are with their boyfriends.”
I appreciate the offer, but I know she hasn’t seen Zach for a few days, so I shake my head and smile. “I’m tired too, don’t worry about me, I’ll be dead asleep in another two hours.”
We all nod and turn once more to observe the party from our little corner.
I feel Marianne on my right side, and Beatrice on my left, and I see Zoe’s cool brown eyes assessing the room, and I stop pitying myself. When I’m with my friends, everything is better.
When I’m alone, that’s when it gets hard.
Chapter Four
The cool evening air pushes my hair away from my face as I walk down my block, towards my apartment building. Even though the days have warmed up, the nights still get cold.
I can’t wait for summer. I love the hot Chicago sidewalks and the restaurants with crowded patios.
I met Logan in the summer. It was after my first year of teaching. Every teacher will tell you, the first year is tough. I had gotten my masters as soon as I graduated college, I knew I wanted to teach. Everyone told me it wasn’t a practical career, and I would be burned out in five years, but I ignored them.
I didn’t want to teach because I didn’t know what else to do. I wanted to teach because my whole life, I looked up to my teachers. The more I volunteered as a teacher’s assistant and worked programs over the summer, the more confident I was that teaching was for me. I don’t mind the long hours or feeling like you’re underappreciated. I've always been a bit of a workhorse. I enjoy hard work for the sake of having something to do that tires me out by the end of the day. I’ve never needed appreciation or praise to feel good about myself. In fact, I actively try to avoid the spotlight.
