“A question for a question seems fair.”
“Ladies first.” He leans back again and lifts his glass to indicate that I should open the line of questions.
“Why don’t you play hockey anymore?” I ask.
His smile falters, shadows shifting on his face. His distaste for this topic is not subtle. A passing waiter could read the sudden foul mood radiating off of him.
“Injury,” he says simply. He takes a big gulp of his drink after that. Yesterday, there was some ice in his tone, but today, it’s more neutral. I can’t figure out if he’s okay with the career change or if it still bothers him.
“How long ago was that?” I ask.
“Ah, ah. It’s my turn for a question.” His smile returns, but this time it’s that devilish grin. There’s a flutter in my stomach at that smile. An old reaction to a familiar look.
“Are you still teaching?” he asks.
“I am,” I say, trying to infuse some pride into the two words and adding a smile at the end, just to make it clear how I feel about teaching.
“What is that fake-ass smile?” he asks with a snort.
“What? I am not— It wasn’t fake.”
It might have been a little forced, but it wasn’t fake. I do like teaching. I like my students and my coworkers, who really rallied around me after Todd left. A couple of them came and helped me unpack and decorate my new apartment, and then they made a meal train for the first two weeks I lived by myself and sent me flowers on my birthday in March. If I left my job, I’d be losing my community.
“It was something,” he says, an eyebrow raised in challenge.
“It— I had— This year was hard.”
His brows knit together, and he leans in, elbows on the table again. “Did something happen?”
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.
