“What?” he asks.
“I said you didn’tneedto give me anything. I haven’t magically stopped wanting our wishes to come true.”
“But none of them will come true on Saturday.”
“Sorry again, dad,” Harper interrupts with a grin. “I’m back, but I showed you the good stuff and I can tell you more later, plus you got to meet Mr. Z, which was really the whole point of this thing, so we can go home now.”
She’s already backing toward the door, tapping the surface of the desks as she moves between two rows. I tuck a wayward piece of hair behind my ear, and Jamie takes a deep breath.
“Goodnight, Mateo. I look forward to seeing you around.”
It’s a lie, perhaps, but it changes nothing about my response. “I look forward to seeing you around, too.”
They’re gone a few seconds later, but it hurts to breathe a lot longer than that. I fall into my desk chair as a loud group tumbles down the hall, and I vaguely register someone yelling hello as they pass my room. I’m grateful nobody cared to get closer to me than that, and maybe nobody else will. I stare at a wall of favorite quotes and posters from teen movie adaptations of classic literature until one more look at the clock makes me wonder how many minutes have passed with no memory of them.
Stragglers will be around for a while, but I can close my door and reorganize the scattered show-and-tell families have admired over the past couple of hours. I’d rather leave it for the morning, but forcing myself out of my chair seems wise, and with as many students as I have, it shouldn’t be that difficult to avoid anything with Harper Sinclair’s name on it.
Shouldn’t be, but is. Self-flagellation is a hell of a thing.
I sigh and kick at the leg of a desk that’s done nothing to me, andI force myself to move on.
Within the next several minutes, I’m mostly done putting my classroom back together, and I'm sitting at my desk again, my glasses on while I pretend to read a couple of in-class essays from earlier in the day. I give up when I'm too ready to escape the professionalism suddenly riddled with responsibility heavy enough to hurt. Then there’s a halfhearted knock on my door before it swings open, and my best friend’s appearance means my time has run out on a couple of things, good and bad.
“Okay, tell me, did you get to meet Jameson Sinclair?” Sophie asks, no real hello necessary when she has more important things on her mind. “I mean, you must’ve. They wouldn’t be here and not see you. Everyone loves you.”
“So I’ve heard,” I say, picking up the stack of essays again just to keep my hands busy and my eyes down.
“You know what? Don’t even tell me yet. It’s tequila time, and you can give me the whole story while we drink. Not that there could bethatmuch of a story when you probably shook his hand, introduced yourself, and smiled at him like he’s any other parent, but still.”
It’s almost funny how she’s managed to be very right and very wrong all at once, but when I take my glasses off and set the papers aside for the night, I don’t comment on Jamie, nor on any of my behavior toward him. Instead, I appreciate how fiercely this woman loves me. It's a certainty that will keep me still when I can't figure out whether I want to run from or toward everything I've just lost. I only hate how abruptly I’m about to turn Sophie's mood upside down. I roll backward in my chair and force myself to stand, my fingers curling around the strap of my messenger bag when I finally look at her.
“I’m not going out, but if you want margaritas, come home withme,” I say. “Spend the night.”
Those last few words get her attention. They’re enough to make Sophie understand a couple of important things and want to know so much more. She's watching me closely, but now that I’ve invited her to stay over, she won’t ask for an explanation here, immediately aware my classroom isn’t the place for anything I’ll tell her tonight. She only pushes my limits when she steps around my desk to hug me, my eyes quickly filling with tears I won’t shed on campus.
The Mexican restaurant we frequent will wait for a night we need stress relief—not a complete overhaul of a future I shouldn't have had time to imagine.
“Okay, let’s get the fuck out of here,” she mumbles against my chest. “It’s been a minute since either of us has cried into a drink.”
I nod as I gently push her away and gesture toward the door. We're parked near each other, but say nothing on the way to our cars, only the clack of her heeled boots and the unintelligible conversations among lingering teachers, parents, and students serving as a distraction. I don't pay attention to the music playing as I drive home, nor do I remember much about how I make it to my apartment complex. I think it's the vibration of my phone that finally brings me back just as I'm unlocking my front door, and I pull it from my pocket only to wish I hadn't.
I miss you already and I really am sorry
I'm close to dropping my phone on the floor just so it's not my problem anymore, but I make it far enough inside to kick off my shoes and hang my bag on the wall and ignore Jamie's text. I consider getting drunk in my untucked button-up and khakis, but I'm sad, not stupid. After another few minutes, I'm in sleep shorts and a t-shirt, my hair pulled into a careless ponytail. I make my way to my tiny kitchen, barefoot and thirsty and a little afraid of what comes next.
My phone stays face down and silent, and I'm stirring a full pitcher when Sophie arrives, letting herself in the same way she's done for years. We live in the same complex, so she's had time to change too, and she tosses a duffel bag toward my room without worrying about how it lands. It's been a while since a sleepover has been this spontaneous, most of them planned for movie nights or the need to bitch after a semester. I should be grateful life hasn't knocked either of us to the ground for a while, but I'm finding it difficult to muster a thank you tonight.
I salt the rims of our glasses and pour. Sophie joins me in the kitchen to take one, hums around her first sip, and takes a deep breath before she speaks.
“What happened?” Even as she asks, I can see her brain sifting through potential answers, and she voices a few of them. "It's not a family emergency, or you'd be with them already. You didn't get fired in the middle of back-to-school night, or I would've heard about it from Miss Vicki before it happened. Honestly, you look a lot like you did when you and Gabe broke up, even if we'd all seen that coming a mile away, but it's also—it's worse than that. You look so muchworse."
"You've always been a hell of a friend, Soph."
"Drink. Talk."
I down half my glass embarrassingly quickly, refill the emptiness I've swallowed, and wander into my living room before I follow through with the rest of Sophie's command. As soon as I've settled onto my couch, she follows to curl into the corner of it, impatient but wise enough to give me the space I need to start my story. After another mouthful of tequila and triple sec, I leave my glass on the coffee table and stay leaning forward, my forearms against my legs to keep me close to upright.
"I met him two weeks ago," I say. "Jameson Sinclair."