5. Nadia
5
NADIA
He’s back. It wasn’t my imagination. It wasn’t a mirage. It wasn’t a supernatural visit from the ghost of exes past. I hadn’t just made the whole thing up in my head.
Callum Knight was back in Firefly Island.
My palms were damp. My pulse was racing. The room was spinning. I felt lightheaded and dizzy.
In just a few minutes, the room would be filled with twenty, six-year-olds. I tried to get myself under control as I slumped against the back of the door to my classroom. I inhaled slowly through my nose and exhaled through my mouth. I placed one hand over my chest and felt the pounding of my heart beating beneath my palm.
I closed my eyes and remembered the last time I’d seen Callum. It was the day after his father’s funeral, and I’ll never forget the look of pain and betrayal in his deep brown, chestnut eyes. It may have happened a decade earlier, but I still got that sick feeling in the pit of my stomach like it was yesterday. I wanted so badly to reach out to him, to comfort him, to pull him into my arms, and tell him that I loved him and would never hurt him, but I couldn’t do that. I had to hurt him in the moment to save him from being destroyed later.
A week earlier, our lives had been on track for a happily-ever-after. Technically, we were broken up at the time because of something so stupid I couldn’t even remember what it was. But we would have gotten back together. It was what we did. We broke up and got back together. It happened over two dozen times in our relationship that spanned nine plus years. Whenever I got upset, felt insecure, or misunderstood (which happened a lot ), my reaction was to break up with Callum. It was a toxic cycle I couldn’t seem to stop.
Honestly, looking back, I don’t know why or how Callum put up with me. Our breaks never lasted long. Nothing changed except our label. We still talked every day. He still told me he loved me. He never treated me any differently. He was my rock—the never-changing anchor in my life. I was like a toddler throwing a tantrum that he ignored.
So, despite being ‘broken up,’ the plan remained that I would move to Arizona with him immediately after I graduated college. I had one more semester of school to finish, and then I was going to pack up my Honda Civic and drive across the country to Phoenix.
Then the call came. The call that changed everything. The call that would forever set the trajectories of our lives in different directions. Chuck Knight was dead. He suffered an acute coronary embolism, which led to a fatal heart attack. He passed away in his sleep.
I left school and rushed home. Callum flew back from Arizona. The day after the funeral, Jennings Abernathy, Mr. Knight’s lawyer, stopped by the house to go over his longtime friend’s affairs—no pun intended—with Callum and his mom and dropped a nuclear bomb that blew up Callum’s entire life. Chuck left his wife Nora a letter explaining why he’d included Danielle Marsh and her three-year-old daughter Chloe Marsh in his will. It turned out Mr. Knight had fathered Chloe and had not only been supporting her but would continue to do so posthumously.
The day wasn’t done with surprises yet. That evening, I left Callum and his mom to deal with what they’d just learned and walked smack dab into a family secret of my own. When I got home from Callum’s house, I retrieved the mail, which in and of itself was strange. Even when I lived with my mom, I’d only gotten the mail a handful of times when I was waiting to hear back from colleges to find out if I’d been accepted. But for some reason, that day I did. And not only that, I opened a letter addressed to my mother. I had never opened a letter addressed to my mother before and have not done it since. It was a past due hospital bill from a recent stay, which I knew nothing about.
I had to reread it three times before I could comprehend what the information was on the paper. She’d been admitted from the emergency room and stayed two days before being discharged AMA, against medical advice. When I saw how much she owed, it made sense why she’d left. After seeing that, I went to the kitchen and found where she kept her “important paperwork” in the junk drawer and discovered other bills, test results, pamphlets for medical equipment, and home health care. I also found unemployment checks dating back three months, which meant she hadn’t been at work.
It took me a while, but after piecing the information all together like a medical jigsaw puzzle, I concluded that she’d developed COPD, which didn’t surprise me since she smoked two packs a day her entire adult life and had suffered two mini-strokes.
Suddenly everything made sense. When I’d arrived, I’d seen her using a cane, but she told me that she’d sprained her ankle at work. I commented on the fact she’d lost weight; she told me she went on a juice cleanse. I noted that her speech seemed slurred, and she explained it by saying she was out partying and hadn’t slept and told me to mind my own business. I saw prescription bottles in her purse, and she snatched it back from me and said she got a doctor to write her scripts for oxy.
She’d lied to me about abusing drugs, partying, and work, all to cover up the fact that she was sick.
I sat at my mom’s kitchen table and knew what I had to do. She was going to need care, at least part-time. I couldn’t afford it. And my grandfather, who could barely care for himself, much less another person, was not going to be able to do it. I was not going to be able to move to Arizona. I would have to move back to Firefly after graduation, or even sooner, and care for her.
Callum was two years into his MMA career, which was just starting to take off. He had just gone pro, and I knew that, especially with what he’d learned about his dad and the affair, he couldn’t live in Firefly. So instead of us getting back together like we always did, I made absolutely sure we stayed broken up for good.
Tears filled my eyes as someone knocked on the classroom door, which shook against my back. I jumped, startled, then quickly sniffed back my emotion and stood up straight. I took a deep breath and opened it to find Principal Lewis standing in the hallway. He stepped inside the room.
“Hey, just wanted to stop by and let you know that you will be getting a new student today.” Principal Lewis glanced down at his iPad. “His name is Matthew Knight.”
My stomach plummeted to the ground as the rug beneath my feet just got yanked out from under me.
Principal Lewis was new to Firefly Island. He’d only been in town for the past five years, so he had no idea about my history with Callum or the baggage that would come with me teaching his son. Just because we broke up didn’t mean I’d ever stopped loving him. It was the opposite, in fact. In my case, absence made the heart grow much, much, much fonder.
That had not been the case for him. He, on the other hand, was engaged to an Instagram model, with whom he had a child—a child who, apparently, I was going to be teaching. The nausea that rolled through me was worse than New Year’s morning.
“Are you okay?” Principal Lewis reached out and steadied me as I swayed on my feet.
“I’m fine,” I lied.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
That was precisely what I was about to see. This time, instead of seeing my Ghost of Exes Past, I would be seeing the Ghost of the What-Could-Have-Been Future. I knew that Callum had a child and that he was in a serious relationship, but I’d never seen evidence of his family. Out of sheer self-preservation, I’d blocked both him and his fiancée on all social media. I’d also avoided clicking on any sites or headlines that might mention or, God forbid, show a photo of the happy trio.
It was difficult considering Callum’s successful career as a world champion MMA fighter and his partner being a well-known beauty influencer/model with millions of followers over several different social media sites. Outlets from TMZ to Sports Center to E! to Access Hollywood reported on the couple.
I felt like Hugh Grant in Notting Hill when he tells Julia Roberts that there are just too many pictures of her, too many films, and then she tells him that she’s just a girl, standing in front of a boy, asking him to love her. Which, granted, is one of the best scenes in movie history, still it doesn’t make my situation any less daunting.
Besides avoiding media coverage, I’d also managed to sidestep conversations about him with his mom, Buzz, friends, classmates, and meddling townsfolk who loved to slip his name in under the guise of ‘not knowing if I heard’ or ‘in case I missed it.’ What all those people didn’t understand was that I didn’t want to be told anything or have any knowledge of his life. If I wanted the information, I could easily obtain it by typing his name in a search bar.
But I hadn’t. No matter how tempted I was to virtually sneak a peek to find out how he was doing, or listen to his voice in an interview, or watch one of his fights, I always stopped myself. For over a decade, our relationship had been hermetically sealed. It was frozen in time. Perfect. Preserved. I was afraid if I watched anything, saw anything, listened to anything, the seal would be broken. It would be spoiled. Damaged. Ruined.
Even though I knew my way of thinking was delusional, it worked for me. It was why I’d been able to compartmentalize our love and not allow the heartbreak to destroy me. Maybe it wasn’t the healthiest way to deal with the breakup, but Callum and I didn’t have the healthiest relationship, so I’d say it tracked.
Looking back now, it was clear that during our relationship I was in my Taylor Swift Anti-Hero era. As a thirty-two-year-old, I could hold my hands up and say,“ It was me, hi, I was the problem, it was m e.” I thrived off the drama of breaking up just to get back together again. I loved the fighting and then the making up of it all. I mistook the toxic roller coaster of emotions for passion and desire.
Not to play the woe-is-me card, but, in fairness, I never saw any examples of healthy relationships. My mom dated men who treated her like dirt, but because she was attractive, she used her looks to get what she wanted. She had mental health issues that were undiagnosed until the last few years of her life, when I was in charge of taking her to doctor’s appointments. I often wonder if her bipolar 1 had been treated earlier, how different my life, and hers, would have been.
I grew up craving attention and affection, two things that my mother was incapable of offering me. I grew up around instability and drama. I thought I wanted a safe place, a safe partner, but the truth was I couldn’t accept Callum’s love for me. Every time he got too close, it scared me, so I pushed him away. I wanted to be the one to leave. I wanted to be the one to hurt him before he hurt me. I wanted to be in control of the situation.
Right after my mom died, six years ago, I went to a few therapy sessions. I went in with the intention of working through the issues I’d had with my mom but ended up mostly talking about Callum. Dr. Porter’s theory was that because my childhood had been so chaotic with my mom’s mental health issues and the constant revolving door of inappropriate men that came through our lives, breaking up with Callum was my way of trying to assert control. It was done out of self-preservation. I was trying to protect myself, not hurt him.
Whatever my reasons were, Callum didn’t know them at the time. He just accepted and loved me, damaged and broken, flaws and all. And I repaid that love by breaking his heart. Sure, the final time I broke his heart had been for his own good, but, again, he didn’t know that.
Now, I was going to be teaching his son in my class. I would have a daily reminder of what I’d always thought we’d share together. There would be a living, breathing representation of the future that I wanted.
The second bell rang, indicating that kids were going to be flooding the hallways. I took a deep breath and stepped outside and waited for my kids. I could feel my legs shaking beneath me. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to make it through the entire day, much less the next five minutes.
Every morning, I greeted each one of my kids before they came into the classroom at the door. There were six brightly colored circular laminated signs on the wall, each representing a different greeting. Before the students entered the room, they selected the one they wanted by slapping it with their hand. Their options were a handshake, high five, dance, fist bump, wave, or hug.
I never knew the importance of hugs, just that I never had them at home because my mom wasn’t affectionate. Nora, Callum’s mom, was the first adult to hug me, and I remember it made a difference. It made me feel safe. It wasn't until I went to college and studied psychology that I learned the benefits of hugs. They reduce stress, improve sleep, strengthen immune systems, boost self-esteem, and release oxytocin.
Once I found that out, I decided when I became a teacher, I would always make sure my students had access to at least one hug a day. So that’s why I did the at-door greetings. It also guaranteed none of my students would ever go through an entire day feeling ignored. At least one person would see them, and their face would be happy when they did. That was another nugget of information I learned in my psychology classes. Kids develop self-esteem from parents, peers, or authority figures reacting positively when they see them, such as their faces lighting up. Something my mom’s face never did. She always looked irritated when I walked in the room. Like I’d ruined her life, which maybe I had.
I stood in the hall waiting for the double doors to open. My head was ringing, and I felt like it was floating away. This was just another day. This was my job. I was a teacher. I just had to do my job.
My phone buzzed, and I pulled it out from my back pocket. It was a text from Amos.
Amos: A little birdie named Lewis said someone is getting a new student today. How are we feeling about that?
I instantly replied.
Me: Can’t breathe. Might throw up.
Amos: Brown paper bags in the supply closet. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Aim for the trash bin.
Me: Good advice.
That took care of hyperventilating and barfing. Now all I had to worry about was crying or having an existential crisis or a nervous breakdown. Probably just the crying.
He’s just a kid , I told myself. He didn’t represent everything I ever wanted in my life.
It was fine. I was fine. Everything was fine.