A waiter comes by, drops guacamole and a basket of chips in front of us, and refills our waters. I withdraw my hand from Miles’s, smoothing my napkin onto my lap.
“And at this point, I’m not even sure what I’d say to him. I’ve spent almost a decade not having a relationship with him. I’m not sure I know how to have one now.”
I wish I hadn’t taken my hand away, because again, I find myself at a loss for words.
“I don’t know what that feels like exactly, but I do know how it feels to be unsure what to do or how to do it. And that is an uncomfortable place to be,” I say. “Thank you for telling me all that.”
“You asked,” he says and offers me a kind smile.
“And now it’s your turn,” I say.
“I’ll go a little easier on you to start.”
I tip my glass to him in thanks before drinking.
“Are you any closer to deciding on that graphic design program?”
“I thought you said you were asking an easy question,” I say and hide my face in my hands. I can hear him laugh at me.
“I didn’t ask if you decided; I asked if you werecloserto deciding.”
I peek out from between my fingers. “No?” I say, unconfident.
He presses his lips together and nods. “Because you aren’t even thinking about it?”
“I’m thinking about it, like, every day. An unhealthy amount, probably.” I remove my hands from my face and dive into the chips and guac.
“Can I do anything to help you decide?” he asks, leaning in, propping his arms up on the table.
“Decide for me?” I suggest.
“I think you know what I’m gonna say.”
I nod, knowing damn well he would tell me to say yes. If only it were that simple. But my yes to that program would come with so many consequences. Saying goodbye to my coworkers, my community. Giving up all the joys of watching kids fall in love with art and get better over time. Being an art teacher is all I’ve ever known. If I give that up, will I even recognize myself? Will I still know myself? Will I like myself?
The unknowns are almost as overwhelming as the knowns of doing another year of teaching. There simply is not an easy path forward.
And all of this doesn’t account for the fact that I don’t think it’s wise to make decisions while this burned out.
“I’m just…not convinced that a vacation won’t fix me,” I say.
“And has it? You’re what…five days in? Has it fixed you?”
He’s asking a rhetorical question and we both know it. I avoid looking at him by really focusing on the chips and guac. One of my chips breaks in the dip and I fish it out with another chip, taking a big bite to avoid answering.
It hasn’t fixed me—or at least I don’t think it has. Not completely. I do feel more relaxed than I have in a long time. My mind isn’t constantly racing, and I don’t feel so jumpy. I’m sleeping better, too. So maybe it is on the way to fixing me.
But I still feel torn by the decision ahead of me.
“All right, my turn,” I say, and follow my chips and dip with my margarita. He dips his head toward me in acknowledgment. “Why are you still single?” I ask.
He chuckles. “This one might be even harder to answer than the last one. But not for the same reason. It’s because I don’t know.”
I tilt my head to the side, narrowing my eyes at him. He finishes his margarita and looks around for a waiter.
“I don’t buy that,” I say. “You did some therapy. You just talked about your complicated relationship with your dad. Are you really telling me that your emotional maturity stops there?”
He taps his empty glass against the table, shaking the ice around in the cup. “I just…haven’t found anyone that I wanted to be more serious with. Casual relationships are working just fine for me.”
