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More excuses. “You could have asked me for help. Instead, you just ignored it and hoped it would work out peachy by being the typical coach forced into teaching. You were just gonna, what? Bullshit your way through? God, I’m so stupid.”
Beau scratches his chest, looking confused. “Well, now, that’s a bit of a stereotype about coaches, but I guess if the shoe fits. I just don’t get why you’re so mad.”
After everything we discussed at the beginning of this thing we have? after he spent half the summer with me and heard me talk about school plans and preparations, he doesn’t understand why I’m mad?
I’m so mad that I’m gesturing wildly, the way my mom had always said was unladylike.
“Because! You fooled me into thinking you were serious about teaching, but you’re not! Everything is a joke to you. Everything but football is a joke to you!”
He blinks at me and steps back, looking like I just punched him in the gut. “Babe, I do take all of it seriously.”
I want to cry out of frustration at both him and myself. “Not everyone has truckloads of money to fall back on. I care about teaching, and I care about these students. And I care about books! You waltzing in and doing nothing is not showing that you take it seriously.
“But mostly, I’m upset at myself. I suspected all along that you saw this as a cake assignment. An easy class, something to take a back seat to football, just like it always had. You really had me fooled with all that bullshit about the Brontes. Ugh…I have to go now.”
“Mary…”
“Don’t follow me.”
He doesn’t.
I head home, soak in the tub with the world’s most enormous glass of wine, then dump most of it out because I don’t want to deal with a headache at school the next day.
I turn my phone on silent, then lie on my bed and punch my pillow. I follow this up by staring at the wall until it’s time to make dinner.
* * *
I don’t know how long I was asleep because I wake up to the aroma of Italian herbs and seared meat.
What the…
In the kitchen, Micah is wolfing down spaghetti and meatballs.
“Hey, Ma,” he says through a mouthful of spaghetti.
“You cooked?” I ask, still dazed from my nap.
“Nah. Coach drove me home and picked up takeout. There’s some for you, too.”
I peruse the containers of food: pasta, meat sauce, salad, and garlic bread for days.
“Huh. Interesting.”
“Are you guys breaking up? He was acting weird on the drive home. And you look like you just had an anger nap.”
I wince. “I don’t know, honey. We’ve hit a rough patch; that’s all I can tell you right now.”
With a mouthful of Italian food, my precious boy gives me sad puppy eyes. “Then you should talk to him and work it out. He’s a good guy, and you’re stupid in love with him.”
When did my baby become the one to give me advice?
I tug my phone out of my pocket and text Beau.
Me: Assuming you still haven’t read the teacher handbook, you should know there are rules about coaches giving students rides home from school and games.
The three little dots appear in an instant.
Beau: Yeah, I’ve read it. Well, just now, I did. Rides home are allowed, with parent permission. And seeing as I’ve been taking the kid on trips all summer…
