Chapter 3
Becca
Struggling up the driveway, I realize my refusal to make a trip back to the car is going to be my own defeat.
My purse and work bag are thrown around one shoulder, and my other arm is encased with a row of grocery bags. Just as I begin to lose feeling in the grocery bag arm, I realize I forgot to get the keys out of my purse.
Persisting through my stubbornness, I climb the four small steps to the porch and attempt to bend my arm in an unnatural position to get the keys. Thankfully, before any real damage is done, Jimmy opens the door.
“Need some help?” he reaches for the grocery bags.
“Thank you,” I say, shaking some life back into my arm.
I follow him into the kitchen, and we set everything onto the island, grocery bags now hiding my beautiful quartz countertops. The shiny pearl marble, in stark contrast with the black cabinetry, was one of the things that won me over with this house. He walks around for a quick hug and kiss.
“How was work?” he asks, his brown eyes glowing amber under the row of bright LED bulbs hanging above the island.
“It was good actually,” I say as I take my sweater off.
We’ve made it to mid-May in Michigan. The time of year when it feels good most of the day, but when that evening chill hits, you regret letting the midday sun fool you into leaving your jacket behind.
“End of the year is here, and these guys are ready to go. But it’s been a really good group. They’re going to be great teachers.”
“That’s because they have you as a professor.” He says and winks.
“Ugh, why do you insist on calling me that. It sounds so old. I like instructor much better.”
He laughs. “Tomayto-tomahto.”
I watch him as he starts putting the groceries away. One of the many reasons I’m lucky to have him as a husband. His unapologetic support of me, and he puts away groceries without me asking.
I don’t like the word professor, especially when it’s referring to me. But I do like that he loves to brag about me to people.
He loves telling people that his wife is a twenty-nine-year-old college professor, twenty-eight when I started.
But I am only twenty-nine years old, and referring to myself as a professor just sounds too old.
Every time I hear it, I picture myself soft and wrinkly with white hair and an excessively starched suit with squared shoulder pads.
Nonetheless, I know he said it because he is proud of me, and I understood because I am of him as well. We’ve both worked hard to get where we are now, before thirty.
I always wanted more and never wanted to feel like I was settling for anything.
When we got to the point in our relationship where we started talking about our serious life goals, Jimmy agreed with everything, so it made becoming a winning team effortless.
That’s why we were such a great match from the start.
I knew since I was a kid that I wanted to be a teacher.
I graduated from high school in 2009 and started college right away.
He was a year ahead of me, but every chance I got, I took extra classes, even going to school during the summer.
I ended up catching up to him, and we graduated with our bachelor’s degrees together in 2012.
We were only twenty-one and twenty-two, but didn’t stop there.
We continued with grad school and just a year and a half later, graduated together again, with our master’s degrees.
After his BA, he got a job as an assistant manager for a hotel nearby, then, not long after getting his MA, he became the regional manager for the chain, managing multiple locations in the area.
Right after my BA and teaching certification, I taught ninth grade for a few years, but felt unsatisfied right from the start.
Plus, it turns out that teenagers are actually really awful.
I knew my age probably played a part in how some of them treated me, but regardless, I knew I wouldn’t do that forever.
Last year, this opportunity popped up, and I couldn’t pass it up without trying.
I knew it was a stretch given my lack of experience, but the same day as the interview, they called and offered me a spot as one of the instructors in their teacher prep program.
They said something about looking to bring in new, passionate, energetic people into the field to help bring in more teaching candidates.
I knew then that my age actually helped.
I took it with no hesitation. I was so excited for the chance that I didn’t even talk about salary.
Thankfully, it was worth it, and I absolutely fell in love with the job. Some college freshmen weren’t much better than the high schoolers, but all in all, teaching adults how to be good teachers was exactly what I was meant to do, rather than teaching the kids themselves.
In the midst of all this, we got married.
He never technically proposed. Really, I guess we didn’t have much of an engagement at all.
We just started talking about it one day after we celebrated our MAs, which led to planning, which led to picking our rings out together, which led to a small wedding.
And now here we are. Both established and happy in our careers, living in the beautiful home we upgraded to a few years ago.
It’s been almost ten years since we’ve been together now, and married for five of them.
I look over and see his toned body reach effortlessly into the cabinet to grab a granola bar. I have to stand on my tiptoes to reach that cabinet. Luckily for me, I don’t eat granola bars.
“Anyways, professor,” he starts mockingly as he rips open the plastic wrapper. “How’d my mom’s appointment go today?”
“It was fine.” I ignore the second professor comment. “Today wasn’t treatment, just a quick check-in. She probably didn’t even need me there. No new news as of today, but they said no news is good news at the moment.”
“I’m sure she still liked having you.” He slides the garbage can out of the island and throws his wrapper away.
Hidden garbage can. Another gem I love in this kitchen.
“I know you left dinner, but I had a later lunch and wasn’t all that hungry, and now it’s kind of late. Want to get take-out? We can eat that dinner tomorrow?”
If I had known he wouldn’t eat it, I would’ve just saved it for tomorrow and made it fresh. Thankfully, it’s just lasagna, and it should still be good.
“That’s fine,” I say and shuffle over to where we keep the take-out menus and mail. “Hey, did you see what came yesterday?”
He shakes his head, so I hold up the invitation.
“An invite to my ten-year reunion. ‘A Homecoming for the decade,’” I read the headline out loud.
“Homecoming?” his eyebrow arches.
“Yes,” I respond, reading more of the details. “It’s a formal dress theme, in the high school gym this fall—like a homecoming dance.”
“Aren’t we a little old for high school dances?”
“I don’t know, babe; it might be fun. When’s the last time we got to dress up and have a good time? Our wedding? I kind of like the idea. It’s different.”
Thinking back to high school, I always went to dances, but rarely with a date, and we never went to one together, so this could be kind of cute and fun.
“You really want to go? We didn’t go to mine.” He says.
“Maybe. I don’t know. I think it could be fun. Something more interesting than everyone just sitting around at a bar. Yours didn’t sound fun.”
He shrugs. “I guess if you want to, but it really doesn’t matter to me.”
I tuck the invite in my purse. He may not think it sounds fun, but I’m going to drag him there if I have to. As proud of me as he is, I am of us. Shallow or not, it’s my turn to brag. The boy that no one could have in high school chose me, and look where we are now.
We are going to this reunion.