Chapter 16 #2
And then there are the emails. Ten of them.
From one mother, who is deeply concerned about my usual Halloween decorations.
For years, I’ve created a display that celebrates how different cultures honor this time of year: the vibrant sugar skulls of Dia de los Muertos from Mexico, the earthy altars of the Gaelic festival Samhain, the candlelit traditions of Ognissanti in Italy, the soul-songs of Pangangaluwa in the Philippines, the vibrant costumes of Día Nacional de la Mascarada in Costa Rica.
It’s beautiful and global and the kids love it.
But this mother wants me to focus more on “American” Halloween traditions. She means pumpkins and candy corn.
That, on top of the constant, humming anxiety of keeping my lupus a secret from the new administration, is wearing me down to a nub.
The stress is a physical weight, settling in my joints, and it’s making me wonder if I should just give up.
Find a new job that’s not teaching, maybe listen to my mother and make art just for the gaze of the rich and famous.
The thought is immediately followed by a wave of exhaustion.
I don’t have the time or the energy to even think about looking for another job.
And on top of that, I don’t want another job.
I love Pine Island and I love being a teacher, even when it’s difficult and exhausting.
“Maya?”
Zachary’s voice is soft, interrupting the frantic spiral of my thoughts. I turn from the water to see him standing a few feet away, his hands tucked into his pockets. The check must be paid.
“I know you're not okay,” he says, before I can even begin to formulate a lie. “So what can I do?”
His directness is disarming. He’s not prying, not demanding an explanation.
He’s just offering. The anger and frustration from the phone call are still simmering inside me, but his simple question cools them slightly.
I don’t want to go home alone. I don’t want to sit in my quiet apartment with nothing but my own churning thoughts for company.
“Will you walk me home?” The question comes out quieter than I intended, more vulnerable.
“Of course,” he says without hesitation.
A comfortable quiet settles between us as we walk away from the dock and through the quiet streets of Pine Island.
The only sounds are our footsteps on the pavement and the distant hum of traffic on the main road.
With every step, I feel the tension in my shoulders begin to recede.
The walk is a soothing balm. I consciously push aside the parent emails, my mother’s demands, the fear of a flare-up.
I put it all in a box and shelve it for the night.
I make myself a silent promise: tomorrow, on Saturday, I will not do any work.
I will not sneak in a few hours of grading in the afternoon or plan lessons for the week ahead. I will give myself one whole day off.
When we arrive at the front steps of our apartment building, the spell of the quiet walk is broken. I turn to face him under the warm glow of the porch light. “Thanks for dinner, Zachary. And for… everything.”
I start to turn toward the door, ready to retreat into my solitude, but he reaches out and catches my wrist. His grip is gentle but firm enough to stop me.
“Maya, wait,” he says. I look from his hand on my wrist to his face.
He looks so earnest, so kind, his brow creased with genuine concern.
“If you were struggling… you'd tell me, right?
I know we're not exactly friends, or…” He hesitates.
“Whatever this is, but I want you to know I'm here. If you need anything.”
His words hit me with the force of a physical blow.
The emotional whiplash of the evening—the easy happiness at the bar, the blinding rage at my mother, the quiet despair on the dock, and now this unexpected, profound kindness—is too much.
My carefully constructed walls crumble. I don’t think. I act.
I step forward, closing the small space between us, and pull him in for a kiss.
For a second, it’s sweet and soft, just a grateful press of lips.
But then he responds, his hand moving from my wrist to the small of my back, pulling me closer.
The kiss deepens, going from sweet to steamy in a heartbeat.
My hands come up to cup his face, my fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck.
It’s everything I remember from our first kiss and more, a dizzying rush of want and need.
But as much as I want this, as much as I want him, a single, clear thought cuts through the haze of desire.
I want him on a night when my head isn't so full. I want him when my mind isn’t a toxic soup of my mother’s voice, my own self-doubt, and the ever-present shadow of my illness.
When I kiss him again—and I know I want there to be an again—I want him, and this chemistry between us, to be the only thing on my mind.
I soften the kiss, pulling back slowly until our foreheads are resting against each other. His breathing is as ragged as mine.
“Zachary,” I whisper, my voice shaky. “I like you. A lot. More than I should probably admit.” I look up, meeting his searching gaze. “But for right now… until I can figure some stuff out… I think we’re better off as friends.”
Before he can respond, I turn and walk into the apartment building without looking back.