The Teacher(35)

It really did.

But not as good as it would feel to do all those things.

“I’m sorry that’s been happening to you,” he says. “You don’t deserve to be treated that way. Nobody does. And you should know, there’s nothing wrong with standing up for yourself.”

“It’s kind of hard to stand up for myself when the other person has their own posse.”

I brace myself, waiting for some sort of motivational lecture like I get from every adult, but instead Mr. Bennett just nods. “I’m not gonna lie. Sometimes high school sucks.”

“I’m sure it didn’t suck for you.”

“Hmm. I don’t think you realize what it was like to be a sixteen-year-old boy who enjoyed writing poetry.”

Despite everything, I have to laugh. It’s hard to imagine Mr. Bennett being sixteen years old like me. But there are times he seems very young. I can almost imagine him being a teenager, sitting under that tree outside the school, writing poems.

“What was the first poem you ever wrote?” I ask him.

My face burns slightly, wondering if I asked him a stupid question, but he doesn’t act like he thinks it’s stupid. He purses his lips like he’s thinking about the answer. I give myself permission to look at him, and I notice a little healing cut on his chin from when he must’ve been shaving this morning. A lot of the boys in my class don’t shave yet, and they just have scattered strands of this gross scraggly hair on their chins.

“I wrote a poem when I was six,” he says. “For my mom, for Mother’s Day. She hung it up on the refrigerator, and it was there for years, so I still remember it. Let me think. I love my mom, and I know why. She makes me food so I don’t die.”

“That’s, like, the cutest thing ever,” I squeal.

“I know. I was adorable.” He grins at me. “How about you?”

“I don’t think I wrote anything quite that cute. Anyway, I didn’t become a serious poet until I was in high school.” Now my face feels like it’s on fire. “I didn’t mean to say I’m a poet or anything. I’m not. I just mean that I didn’t start writing poetry seriously until then. Sort of serious.”

“You are a poet though.” The smile drops off his face. “Don’t say you’re not because you absolutely are. More than a lot of adults who claim to be.”

I squeeze my hands between my knees. Sometimes adults say things that are patronizing, but this doesn’t sound like that. He sounds like he truly means it.

I almost feel sad when my house comes into view. I feel like I could talk to Mr. Bennett in the car for the next hour or two. Usually when I’m in the car with my mom, I turn on the radio because talking can get awkward, but I didn’t feel the urge to do that at all with Mr. Bennett.

“Thanks for the ride,” I say as he pulls up to my curb.

“It was my pleasure.”

He throws the car into park, and for a split second, it almost feels like the two of us are on a date and he’s dropping me off at home at the end of the evening. It’s so preposterous, but at the same time, it feels that way. And for a moment, I almost feel like I’m supposed to lean in for a good-night kiss.

But that would be ridiculous.

“Thank you again.” I grab my bag off the floor and open the door to the car. “Really.”

“Any time, Addie.”

As I dart from the Honda to my front door, trying to avoid the raindrops splashing down on me, I find myself smiling like an idiot.



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Chapter Thirty

EVE

“NOW THESE ARE A PERFECT FIT.”

Jay is kneeling beside me, in a back row of Simon’s Shoes, having placed a pair of Calvin Klein green pumps on my feet. We do this sometimes after our session in the storeroom, if she hasn’t called him to come home. We go out to the main part of the store, and he helps me try on shoes. There are already half a dozen boxes on the floor beside me.

“I can’t afford these,” I remind him, although they do admittedly look gorgeous.

“I wish I could buy them for you.” His eyes meet mine. “I wish I could buy all these shoes for you.”

“And I wish I didn’t have to go home to him.”

I blurted that out without thinking, but as the words leave my mouth, I realize how true they are. On my birthday, I was considering recommitting to my marriage, but now I realize that Nate and I can never crawl back to each other. The abyss between us widens every day.

“Why not leave him?” Jay says.

I snort as I kick off the pumps. I like them too much, and it’s frustrating. “And then what? We run off together?”

Even though I say it sarcastically, the truth is that I dream of a happy ending for me and Jay. It will never happen—we both have too many entanglements—but if only we could. In the end, though, I couldn’t do it to Nate. I couldn’t humiliate him that way.

Sometimes I think he would barely miss me though. He came home tonight, dripping wet, and he told me he had taken a walk in the rain to inspire himself. Then he went up to his office on the second floor, and he closed the door. I knocked to tell him I was leaving, but he barely acknowledged me.

As if on cue, Jay’s phone starts ringing. This time while he is talking, I can hear a baby crying in the background. I rest my chin on my hands, trying to push away the stabbing guilt in my chest. No matter what happens with Nate, I need to end things with Jay. Sooner rather than later.