I clenched my eyes. “We are not plural. I am a woman with a plan. Not we. I.”
I marched to the bed and yanked my suitcase from underneath. The zipper caught on something…of course it did, and in under thirty seconds, the woman with a plan was a gremlin burrowing through knitwear. Scarves exploded. Socks multiplied like rabbits. My suitcase mouth gaped at me like it knew I was lying to myself.
The problem with packing for Seattle was that Seattle had an annoying way of reminding me it exists. The calendar reminders on my phone were merciless: parent-teacher meetings, admin meetings, to-do lists, spreadsheets.A life so clean and orderly it shone. I’m good at it. Better than good. I like making other people’s chaos behave.
But right now, the only chaos I wanted to wrangle came with a smirk and a flannel. Which was not a classroom I could make behave.
I sat on the edge of the bed and pulled my laptop onto my knees. Emails roared to life. The principal, cheerful and terrifying, had cc’d me on a “quick before year-end alignment.” The wordsquickandalignmentdo heavy lifting in education. They mean lots of meetings and worrying.
I started a reply. I did not send it. My fingers hovered over the keys like they were auditioning for indecision.
This is ridiculous, I told myself. You know how the story goes. You sleep with him. You drive back to Seattle. You come back in a week or two at break. You pretend everything’s fine while your organs dissolve into hot chocolate. It’s not fine. Why isn’t it fine?
Because I couldn’t get him out of my head. And because there would be no future.
There it was. The thesis statement. The defense exhibit.
No future.
I closed the laptop and flopped backward on the bed so dramatically the headboard thunked the wall. Somewhere outside, a truck backfired.
In here, my heart refused to mind its business.
“Why no future?” I asked the ceiling. “State your case.”
Exhibit A: I lived in a city that ate time for breakfast.
Exhibit B: He managed a bar in a town where bells still mattered, and people baked each other muffins for sport.
Exhibit C: Logistics were a thing, and so was rush-hour traffic and long drives.
Counterpoint: people do long-distance all the time.
Counter-counterpoint:Iam people. And I know myself.
I groaned and rolled off the bed, pacing the three whole paces the adorable studio allowed. My sticky note glared at me from the kitchen. I glared back.
Fine. New tactic. Data. Pros/Cons list. Teachers loved a list.
I grabbed another sticky and drew a line down the middle.
Pro Drew
Makes me laugh when I want to bite.
Kisses like he means it and like he’s been memorizing me.
Loyal. He is loyal like gravity.
Smells like cedar and spice and poor decisions I keep trying to make.
Makes this town make sense.
Cons Drew
Flirts like breathing; women with peppermint martinis appear like mushrooms after rain.
Stubborn. Pot meet kettle.
