Breaking All the Rules (Searching for Love Book 2)

by Kelly Myers

  And teaching can be rewarding, if you know where to look. No, the big moments of change are few and far between. But if you know how to appreciate the little things – like a student finally understanding a concept you’ve been talking about for ages, or a student who has been quiet all semester opening up in class – then you are able to feel rewarded.

  Teaching is what I’m good at, and it’s what I love. Even so, the first year on the job was overwhelming. I was at Lakeview Middle School, where I’ve remained, and the other teachers were great, but I was so determined to prove myself that I took on a lot. I volunteered to advise a bunch of clubs, and I devised a bunch of new assignments, and I always worked late to make sure I graded papers quickly.

  Once summer hit, my friends begged me to take a little break. I explained to them that summers are not vacations for teachers. We have to take courses and prepare for the year ahead and tutor.

  But things weren’t as hectic, so I allowed my friends to drag me out on the weekend. We spent long hours at the lakefront, and Marianne got us all to try roller skating. Beatrice, the former high school athlete, loved it. I hated my skates and ended up with scraped knees.

  During the nights, Zoe made us go to every hip restaurant or bar or club she could find. I enjoyed the eating out, but the dance clubs were not my favorite.

  I’m not a big dancer, and I hate loud noise and crowds.

  I was hiding in the corner of a club in Wrigleyville, right next to the bathrooms, when I met Logan.

  He saw me, leaning against the wall and frowning into space, and he smiled.

  “You’re the only person here who looks as miserable as I feel,” he said.

  It was quieter near the bathrooms, but even so, he had to lean in for me to hear. His straight sandy hair fell over his pale forehead. I smiled up at him. “I’m not that miserable.”

  Logan wasn’t handsome or muscular, but he was nice. You could just tell from looking at him. His face seemed to fall so naturally in a genial and approachable expression.

  We talked for a while outside the bathroom. I explained that my friends had dragged me out; he had a similar story. We discussed my teaching job and his accounting job.

  When I said I had to get back to my friends or else they would worry, he nodded and didn’t push me to head outside with him or anything sketchy like that.

  Instead, he gave me a bashful smile and asked for my number.

  “I don’t usually do this,” he said.

  I laughed. “Me neither.”

  Instead of putting my number in his phone, I wrote it down on a slip of paper I pulled out of my small purse. It felt old-school.

  Afterwards, all my friends agreed that if they had been asked earlier in the night, who was most likely to meet a guy at the club, none of them would have put money on me.

  Logan texted me the next day. A week after our first date, we were official. We didn’t take it slow. I’m not the type to have a fling or hook up with someone, and neither was Logan.

  Or at least, he wasn’t back then. I guess at some point in the last year of our relationship, he decided he hadn’t been “living” enough. He felt “trapped” in a relationship at a time in his life when he should be free.

  He didn’t cheat on me or anything. Logan is too nice and respectful to do anything like that. Zoe says I have to stop thinking about him with positive terms. She says I need to meditate on all his bad qualities to get over him. I can’t do that. Logan was nice to me.

  The only bad thing he did was not give me any warning signs. All during the last year of our relationship, I thought we were fine. I cringe when I think back to how I bragged about him. Other couples broke up after 2 years, but Logan and I weren’t feeling bored. Sure, the infatuation phase had worn off, but we were still going strong. I told that to everyone. We were settled. All the drama was in the past. I had my person.

  I heave a sigh as I unlock my studio apartment. Maybe, he did show warning signs; I was just too stupid and arrogant to see them.

  My apartment walls feel too close tonight. Normally I don’t mind its size. It has everything I need, and I’ve decorated the walls with pictures and twinkle lights. I have a huge bookshelf squeezed in the corner next to my bed. Most days, my studio feels like a haven. A safe space.

  Not tonight. Maybe it’s the warmer weather or the tell-tale signs that summer is almost here. My students get restless every May, and it can be infectious. Even with weeks still left in the school year, they start to have trouble sitting still in their desks. Their eyes drift away from the board and over to the window.

  It’s hard to not daydream with them.

  Only ever since Logan dumped me, daydreaming isn’t as fun as it used to be.

  When I was with Logan, most of my daydreams revolved around him. I would plan out fun activities for us to do on the weekends, or road trips. We always wanted to drive down to the smoky mountains for hiking.

  I hate to admit this, but I would fantasize about our wedding too. And our dream home. And our amazing children.

  It’s not like I was obsessed or anything. It’s just that when I fall, I fall hard. I had a boyfriend in college, but it only lasted a year. Logan felt like my first adult relationship. It was real with him.

  My friends say that my problem is loyalty. When I was with Logan, I was so loyal to him that I envisioned an entire future. I was so loyal, I couldn’t imagine a life without him.

  Now that he’s gone, our future is dead, and our relationship is dead, but my loyalty isn’t deceased. I can’t help thinking that he was the one who got away. Also, I’m never going to find anyone else like him. And, that I shouldn’t even try to look for someone else.

  I throw my bag down on my small table and head to my dresser drawer. I pull out my striped pajamas and change. I toss my dress into the laundry.

  “There’s nothing wrong with loyalty,” I mumble to myself as I open my fridge.

  I pull out some leftover soup and start to heat it up on my stovetop.

  Loyalty is supposed to be an admirable trait. Why is it causing me so much grief?

  As I eat my soup, I pull a book off my shelf and start to read. My eyes keep drifting off the page.

  Once I start thinking about Logan, I can’t stop. I’ll be perfectly fine for days. I’ll be consumed by my job and my friends. Then, something will remind me of Logan, and that will be it. I’ll dive back into all the pain and regret and angst.

  Today, I was triggered twice: first by my sudden attraction to David Russo, the first time I’ve felt drawn to anyone besides Logan, and then again by that housewarming party.

  It’s not fair though. I want to be able to live my life and see handsome men and socialize with happy couples without being sent on a spiral.

  I remind myself that six months isn’t that long. I’ve even heard people say that it takes half the amount of time you were in a relationship to get over that relationship. And, since Logan and I were together for three years, it might take a year and a half for me to truly move on.

  Ok, I didn’t actually hear that rule, I just read it in a magazine. But, maybe it’s true.

  I shiver. I don’t want to be sad for a whole more year. And, I know for a fact that Zoe or Bea would be over it by now. Even Marianne, who can be pretty dramatic and sensitive, would be out flirting with other guys by now.

  With a shake of my head, I remind myself that I’m not Zoe or Bea or Marianne. I can only be myself, and I’m ok with that.

  I finish my soup and wash the dishes. I’m naturally a neat person, but living in a studio makes me even more tidy. When you have such a small space, you keep it nice.

  I used to keep Logan’s apartment clean too. I spent a lot of time there since it was bigger than mine. And after a while, I started to think of it as my space. We never moved in, but we spent every night together, I would be at his, or he would sleep over at my studio, hence the extra shirts he left behind. I even used to do our laundry together at his apartment building.
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br />   Maybe I was a doormat. That’s why Logan kept me around so long; I cleaned up after him.

  No, that’s not fair to him. He cleaned as well. We were both neat people, another reason we got on so well.

  With nothing else to do on a Friday night, I dig a pint of chocolate chip ice cream out of my freezer and lug my computer to my bed.

  I can’t even count the number of nights I’ve spent like this, curled up with a rom-com and ice cream, mourning my lost relationship.

  I guess I should be embarrassed, but I’m not. At least I know what we had was real. If it hurts this bad to lose him, it must have been real.

  So, what’s one more sad evening of wallowing?

  Chapter Five

  On Sunday morning, I head to Lincoln Park to have brunch with my friends. We don’t gather every Sunday, but we try to.

  I don’t tell them how much I’ve been moping over Logan. My friends would listen, but I know they’re tired of it. Or rather, they’re concerned. They want me to be happy and just move on already.

  Instead, I update them on what’s going on at the school and the funny things my students said this week. Zoe rants about a co-worker that annoys her, and we all tease her for being too judgmental. Beatrice, for once not able to joke, tells us how serious she and Zach are getting. In the past, Bea has downplayed guys, acted like they’re no big deal. But, she can’t pretend Zach isn’t a big deal.

  Marianne vows to write a song dedicated to Bea and Zach, which Bea opposes with vehemence..

  All in all, it’s a perfect brunch, and the ideal thing to lift my spirits. I’m feeling much more alive by the time I head home. I spent most of Saturday lounging in my PJ’s, watching TV and journaling about Logan.

  Filled up with an omelette and two cups of coffee, I have enough energy to get some work done. I reserve Sunday afternoons for grading papers that I need to catch up on.

  I could make things easier by giving less writing assignments. Other English teachers have their students write a few essays each semester, and then assign more reading or other projects. But I think writing is too important. I like to assign essays, journal entries, sometimes even fiction prompts.

  Even if I’m not grading the writing (I feel it’s unfair to grade a journal entry), I still like to read everything they’ve written so I can respond and observe their progress.

  There’s a cafe I like to work in a few blocks from my house, so I gather up the folder with all the papers, and I head out. I’ve already had too much caffeine, so I order an iced chai latte. The coffee shop is filled with cute armchairs, and I settle into my favorite seat in the corner.

  The assignment was for the students to describe the block they lived on. Most of them live in Lakeview, so the blocks all pretty much look the same, but I challenged them to pinpoint with their words what makes their street different. What kind of tree, what smell, what type of feeling.

  I settle in and start to read. Most of the students are great with describing the sights. It’s the most obvious sense to employ. I keep an eye out for the students who pushed themselves to describe the smells and noises.

  I chuckle over one student who, instead of just relying on descriptive language, writes an anecdote about a game of four-square.

  Then, I turn and get to Amy’s paper.

  I lean forward as I read hers. I’ve been eager to look at her work, I’ll admit. I don’t want to change how I treat her because her mother is dead, but now that I know that context, I’m wondering if I’ll see more in her writing or behavior.

  Of course, I’m wary. I don’t want to psycho-analyze her. I’m not a psychiatrist or a therapist. I just feel for her. I can’t imagine what it would be like to lose a mother so young. And, to go through puberty and middle school without a mom’s guidance – it has to be hard. David seems like a great parent, but when I was twelve, I ran to my mom for help with everything. Boys, friends, clothes, make-up. It might be hard for her to talk with her dad about those kinds of things.

  Her essay is good. Amy is a strong writer for her age. She provides a solid description of the trees near her stoop, and she spends a lot of time on her neighbor’s flower garden. She even recounts a typical interaction with Mrs. Tibbins, the said neighbor.

  I set down the paper and smile. I’m glad she lives on such a pretty street with a nice neighbor. Maybe Mrs. Tibbins even bakes her cookies and does other motherly things with her.

  Not that a kind neighbor is much of a real substitute, but I can’t help but hope for the best. It’s my empath side coming out.

  I reflect over Amy’s behavior the past few weeks. She’s only come in seeming glum and withdrawn once or twice, and each little slump lasted about two days.

  I wonder what sets off those moments. If I know what triggers her into a sad spell, I can try and look out for that in the classroom. Maybe it’s when other girls talk about their mothers. I can’t exactly stop students from discussing their parents, but I can at least pay a little more attention to that kind of topic.

  I know it’s not my job to fix Amy, but I always care about my students. It’s part of being a teacher. You spend every day with the same kids, and you learn about their personalities and their passions, and you start to care deeply. I even start referring to them as “my kids,” which Bea says is creepy, but I can’t help it. No matter how difficult a child might be, I grow attached.

  And, Amy is far from difficult. She’s smart and plays well with others. She’s quiet, which is why I didn’t know I was her favorite teacher until David told me, but she’s well-behaved. It’s only the moments of disengagement when she becomes tricky to handle. The other kids pick up on her moods, I can tell.

  I realize I’ve been staring at Amy’s paper for far too long, lost in my thoughts, and I set it aside. Time to move on to the next paper. I like to read everyone’s papers without taking any notes, just to get an idea for the different responses, and then I go back to add notes and give official grades.

  When I’m done with my first read-through, I pause to sip my latte. My thoughts drift back to Amy and specifically her father David.

  I need to email him my reading recommendations for his younger daughter, and I reminisce over how friendly he was on Friday. He kept smiling at me, and he seemed to take everything I said so seriously.

  It doesn’t seem like much, but I’m used to parents being too busy or distracted to actually listen to me. When David was in my classroom, he was completely focused on me.

  I flush as I remember his even face and charming smile. Why was I so attracted to him? I don’t usually get so many butterflies based on someone’s looks.

  Plus he was older. I’ve never been attracted to older guys. To be frank, they intimidate me. Men in their thirties and forties seem so adult and just at a different point in their lives. David, for example, is definitely not in the same phase of life as me. He probably thought I was super young too.

  I’ve always preferred guys who were my own age. Someone I could go through life with, step by step.

  Marianne will occasionally date older guys, usually divorcees or eternal bachelors who are drawn to her vibrant spirit and wild ways, she says they’re better in bed.

  Before I can stop myself, I wonder if David is good in bed.

  I place my hands on my burning cheeks. I should not be thinking about the sex life of a student’s parent.

  It’s not against the rules to date a parent. It happens. Not all the time, but often enough. I’ve never once considered it though. It seems too complicated and strange.

  Plus, you have to consider the feelings of the student. It would be unimaginably awkward for anyone if one of their parents started dating their teacher. And usually, in situations I’ve seen where a teacher dates a parent, it’s after the student has moved on to the next grade.

  It’s pointless for me to even contemplate the nuances, however, since David and I are not even remotely in the realm of dating. I thought he was attractive. His smiles made my knees weak. T
hat’s it.

  He probably thought I was this super young and overly-enthusiastic girl. I bet he thinks I’m right out of college. There’s no way he would consider me in a romantic capacity.

  Then again, there was that moment. I might have imagined it, but it looked like he checked to see if I had anything on my ring finger. And, he verified that I went by “Miss.”

  I shake my head and lean over my papers. So, maybe he was flirting. Due to my age and my general attractiveness, I was probably the prettiest teacher he saw all day. It’s still not a big deal.

  Then again, he didn’t strike me as a huge flirt. He didn’t give off the vibes of a guy who would chat up anything in a skirt.

  What do I know though? I’m not an expert on men, and I’m definitely no authority on older guys.

  I return to my papers and force myself to write notes for half of them before I leave.

  The wind is blowing when I walk home, and the air is heavy, as if it might storm soon. I tip my head back and smile as the breeze pushes my hair away from my face. I like the rain. Nothing is more comforting, in my opinion, then curling up with a good book and a cup of tea while fat raindrops splatter your window.

  On occasion, I even like to walk in the rain. There’s something so romantic and thrilling about accidentally getting caught in the rain. Obviously, if I’m walking to school and the rain soaks through my pants, and then I have to sit in damp clothes all day, it’s not thrilling. But every now and then, an unexpected downpour reminds me of old-fashioned books. Whenever a heroine gets rained on, something exciting happens. She’ll have to take shelter in an abandoned cabin and discover some secret treasure. Or, a suitor will suddenly appear with an umbrella.