Chapter 5 #3
How do I explain that it was not one thing, but a slow build-up of stress and tension deteriorating a thing that used to bring me so much joy?
The years of complaining parents, the expectations and pressure from the administration and the school district, feeling on edge every time an unfamiliar face walks by my classroom, wondering if they have a gun.
The way my nervous system never really recovers from day to day.
My first few years weren’t like this. School was my escape from the broken heart Miles left me with, and it was my safe place for a long time.
But that safe place started feeling less safe with every passing year, and now here I am, wondering if it’s a place I want to go back to at all.
“Teaching isn’t what it used to be,” I say. “My days used to be about the kids and their art, and now it feels like that’s just a small portion of my day and I spend the rest of my time dealing with parents, school administration, and it’s all just…the environment is tense. All the time.”
I finish my rant with a long drink of my margarita.
“Why not do something else?”
I make a noise halfway between a laugh and a scoff. “It’s not that easy.”
“Why not?”
I sigh pointedly, pressing my lips together and giving him a look that says, “Really?”
“No, I’m—I’m not being—I’m genuinely curious. I’m not a teacher; I don’t know why it’s not easy to leave. And if it’s like a financial thing, you can just tell me to mind my own business,” he says.
“I’ll answer, but you’ve now asked me like three—four extra questions if you count accusing me of having a fake smile.”
He holds up his hands in surrender. “Okay, fair. It’s your turn and then when it’s mine again, I’ll ask why it’s hard to leave.”
I need a second to think, so I work on my margarita, which is a little over halfway gone by now. Maybe it’s the alcohol, but I don’t feel quite as eager to leave as I did when I first sat down.
Am I enjoying Miles’s company?
Of course I am. Miles was always easy to be around.
He’s charming and he’s being a good listener.
It’s not a crime to enjoy the conversation.
In fact, this is probably the best turn of events because I’m bound to see him again over the next nine days, and ignoring him would probably be a lot harder than just having a casual conversation.
Plus, I can use this time to satiate the little curiosities nipping at me about him and then go about my life. I’m just getting it out of my system.
“How long ago did you get injured?” I ask.
His body language shifts. He leans back again, averting his eyes and twirling his glass with his fingers. “Nine years. I played for Orlando for two years, got injured in my third year and never really recovered.”
My god. He only played for two years. The thing he worked his whole life for, the only dream he ever had for himself, the only thing he ever wanted…
gone after a few years. It makes my chest ache, as if it happened to me.
Because this is what happens when you share your heart with someone.
His dreams were mine at one point. I was there when he got the phone call with the offer to play for Orlando.
He did cry then. We went and bought a $50 bottle of champagne to pop and drank it too fast. We had wild, drunk sex and neither of us could stop laughing through all of it.
His joy couldn’t be contained, and it spilled over into me. It was our shared joy at his future.
“I can’t be a good hockey player and a good boyfriend.”
“So you’re not going to be my boyfriend?”
“I’m sorry, Abby.”
In the end, he chose that future over me.
And then it was taken from him.
Tears prick the backs of my eyes. I feel sad for him—I can’t help it. And I feel a little sad for me, too, because he left me for something that he doesn’t even have anymore. I’ve always wondered if he regretted leaving me. If whatever success he had in the NHL was worth giving up the love we had.
Now I wonder if he regrets it because of everything he ultimately lost.
“Your turn,” I prompt him.
“If teaching isn’t what it used to be, why not do something else? You did something else before you pursued art education. What was it? In college. You had just switched majors when we met.” He’s snapping his fingers, trying to jog his memory.
“Art. I was just an art major. I had a lot of interests—graphic design, animation, illustration. I chose to teach because it was stable,” I say. It’s not the full picture, but a decent summary.
“Is that why you stay? The stability?”
“It’s one reason. I need health insurance. My migraines— I take daily meds and I have rescue meds and see my neurologist at least once a month, sometimes more. It’s not very tempting to leave behind decent health insurance.”
He seems to understand that at least, thoughtfully nodding as I speak.
“Are you hungry?” he asks.
My stomach growls on cue. I am hungry, but it feels like he’s not just asking if I want to eat. He’s asking if I’ll stay and eat with him.
I should go. I should finish my drink like I said I would and end this little “get to know you” game we’re playing.
He gave his apology and we’ve proven that we can hold a conversation.
I’ve proven to myself that I can hold myself together while talking to my ex.
I got some questions answered and so did he. This dinner is at its natural end.
And yet…
Looking across the table into those familiar eyes, that smile, having a conversation that feels comfortable despite the years of silence between us, the way he’s looking at me…it’s hard to want to leave.
But that’s just the effect Miles has on me. On anyone, really. He’s always been a charmer. A flirt.
I won’t pretend that the weight of his attention isn’t flattering. That those dark eyes don’t draw me in. No one has flirted with me, much less looked at me with interested eyes, in ages. Even at the end of my relationship with Todd, I watched the desire flicker away like a TV set losing signal.
I didn’t recognize it at the time, but in retrospect, the signs were there. Todd lost interest in me slowly, the way a tire loses air, but I couldn’t see the warning light.
My mind and heart may feel skeptical about Miles, but my body doesn’t. Everything inside me pushes against my skin, aching for the relief of someone else’s touch. Of his touch.
An apology conversation and some chatter about teaching and hockey should not have me already a little wet and wanting him, but every time my eyes scan over his shoulders, his biceps, my body betrays me, the alcohol softening all the edges and amplifying my needs.
It doesn’t help that I haven’t been with anyone since Todd. I take care of myself, but it’s not the same as a pair of hands that know how to touch you.
And Miles did.
A decade ago, Miles and I had the kind of sexual chemistry that convinced me it would never be better with anyone else. Unfortunately, it hasn’t been. And if we had that kind of chemistry again…
“Abby?”
Whatever path I was just walking down is a path best left abandoned.
I told Hazel I’d be down for a vacation hook-up; I’ve been feeling a little restless, sexually, but hooking up with Miles would be a bad idea.
At least my brain thinks it’s a bad idea, but the heat pooling under my belly button is telling me a different story.
I am, however, perfectly capable of ignoring those impulses for better judgment.
And the better part of me knows that staying too long in this conversation is playing with fire.
“I am hungry, but I should go. When my drink is done.”
The smile on his face falters for just a second, and then it’s back. Like that flicker of disappointment was never there.
“Is that what you want? To go?”
What I want more than anything is for him to say the only thing he hasn’t said. The only thing I’ve been waiting for him to say since we sat down.
“It’s my turn for a question, right?” I ask.
“Yes…” he says, but skeptically, as if wanting me to address all the questions of his I just ignored, but I have an unanswered question too and my drink is almost gone.
Tempted as I am to stay, keeping my promise to myself about only staying for one drink is important to me.
“Do you regret it? Breaking up with me?”
My cheeks are warm, and I can only bear to look at him through my lashes, head tilted down. Looking him directly in the eyes right now would be too much. I don’t want to read his face before I hear his answer.
My palms are clammy despite the temperature, so I wipe them on my dress.
My awareness narrows, and in the space between my question and his answer, I am only my heartbeat, the slow, rhythmic flutter of the piece of me I keep handing to people who keep handing it back.
The soft pounding pattern booms in my ears, and I almost don’t catch his answer.
“I think it was for the best,” he says.
“What does that mean?”
I need him to explain because I can’t be sure I heard him right, nor was it really an answer to my question.
He shifts in his seat, his eyes drifting to his near-empty glass and the melted ice cubes, now smooth pebbles in watered-down liquor.
“I mean… I could never have been the hockey player I was with a partner. I was distracted thinking about when I’d see you again and how we could make it work. I wasn’t happier without you or anything, but I think the breakup gave us both a better shot at being successful.”
His words hit me like an oncoming train. No soft tuck of a warm blanket here; this is a battering ram to my chest.
“You mean it gave YOU a better shot at being successful,” I say, my words trembling with all the anger rising from somewhere deep inside me.
As most people do after a breakup, I went through phases. Grief and denial and anger and more grief. My anger stage was short-lived, but this was the core of it.
He left me because he couldn’t be successful with me and wanted success more than he wanted me.
And while sometimes that thought made me cry for hours, for a time, it made me rage.
Hazel took me to one of those rage rooms where you put on a face shield and smash plates and wood beams and old technology.
I wasn’t very good at it, but it felt good to get my anger out of my body for a bit.
And now it’s back, a boiling, burning thing. Fire in my bloodstream.
Of course he doesn’t regret leaving me. Of course he sees it as something that was best for him.
What did I think he was going to say? That he’d spent the last eleven years regretting his decision and pining over me?
Oh my god. That is so pathetic.
My eyes burn with the sting of tears. I have to get out of here.
I stand, throwing back the rest of my drink, ignoring the frozen burn in my sinuses.
Miles stands too, reaching his hand out to me, but I twist to the side before he can grab me.
“I didn’t mean it like that, Abby. I mean, you—you would have spent your months and weeks traveling to see me, spending time with me when I was exhausted or just watching my games. Your career is probably as successful as it has been because you didn’t have me weighing you down.”
“Say what you need to make yourself feel better, but I would have always been a great teacher, with or without you. And if I wanted a future without you, I should have been able to choose that, but you did what you always did back then and you decided what was best for you was best for both of us. You chose hockey over me, and guess what, I hear you loud and clear. You’re glad you made that choice. ”
“Abby, no, that’s—that’s not fair. I didn’t—”
“Enjoy your dinner, Miles.”
Without looking back at him, I walk away. Away from the restaurant, away from the man who broke my heart eleven years ago, and away from any chance of him having access to it ever again.