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“I do not need a stretcher,” I say, but I’m still on the ground and I’m not sure the words project enough for the ladies in the office to hear me.
“Oh dear! Phyllis!” Kimberly cries. “It’s Mr. Bailey,” her panicked voice says, and then she’s gone. Our connection has been disabled, and I couldn’t be more grateful.
“Rylee,” I deadpan. “Oh, Rylee Nelson.”
“Yes, Mr. Bailey?” Rylee’s long brown hair trails over one shoulder and floats into the air as she bends over to peer down at me.
“I do not need a stretcher. Let’s make a class rule. We don’t use the intercom unless I say so, okay?” I push up onto one elbow—but that one movement sends my head into a tailspin. Sure, I’d love to jump up and show these kids that I am fine, with only my pride wounded. But I’m not one hundred percent sure that I can.
More kids gather around my desk, stretching their necks to peer down at me.
“But what if you’re like dead?” Teag says.
“Hey,” says Sam. “Good news, Mr. B. Teag’s up.”
“If you’re dead, then you won’t be able to say anything.” A group of kids behind Teag nod in agreement.
“True.” My classroom is officially a merry-go-round. But I fake it. As cool as I possibly can, I say, “If I’m dead, you can call.”
Teag nods, appeased with my answer.
“How about blacked out?” says Aven Parker from the back of the room. “What about then?”
“Right, you might not be deaddead. But you still wouldn’t be able to speak.” Teag points a finger at Aven, giving his friend all the credit for his brilliance.
I am saved from answering his question as nurse Phyllis bursts into my room with a crew of custodial workers.
4
Annie
Ibite on one nail and stare at my computer screen.
What if THE ONE doesn’t exist? When do I decide to settle for option number two?
The author’s added a P.S., one I didn’t mention to Owen. Because this question is ready to kick me while I’m already down.
How do you know your advice works? Have you tried it all?
I love my job. I am good at my job. I take each and every one of these questions to heart. I take them seriously. I fact-check everything. When I got my journalism degree, I considered being a professional fact-checker.
But she isn’t wrong… real, live, personal experience is invaluable.
And I’m giving these people mysecond-rated, researched opinion as I don’t have the personal experience of a long-term relationship.
Maybe that means “the one” doesn’t exist. Maybe it means not everyone has a “one.” I don’t know. For the first time in my two years as an advice columnist, I don’t know where to go for this answer. How do I check this fact? Is it even possible? I’m unsure. I have no words.
I always have words!
With my hands on my keyboard, I flip over my right hand, staring down at the tattoo I had inked into the inside of my wrist the night before college graduation. Maddox had called me fake—all because I didn’t weep when he broke things off with me. I amnotfake.
My bow and arrow remind me of that. I wanted something physical, something visual. Something I could look at every time I write a letter. Something to remind me that my goal is to help others. Straight and narrow.
Words are like arrows. Once loosed, you cannot call them back.I don’t know who he was quoting, but before my gramps died—he always said that.
I want to give people something real. Something that gives them comfort and actual help.
I don’t know how to help this person. I haven’t personally tested all of my advice. I honestly don’t know if there’s one person for each of us—and if there is, will I get that? Maddox Powell has made me completely unsure.
