by Jo Noelle
On Valentine’s Day, the children decorate a large envelope with more hearts and stickers to use for carrying their Valentine’s cards home. A few students at a time hand out their cards and treats. The students snack on veggies, then the day is over and they head home. Our class party is low-key, but I’m expecting my date tonight with Liam is anything but.
I admit, I’ve been bitter, calling Valentine’s Day “Singles Awareness Day,” but this year is different. I have a serious boyfriend, love of my life, to spend the evening with. A bouquet of pink orchids sits on our table, with pale pink blossoms just above the rim of the vase and greenish pink buds trailing up the upper half of the woody stems. A little card at the bottom of the vase simply reads, “I love you. Liam.”
I slip my blouse over my head and turn back to the mirror. The steel-blue silk is thin enough to drape in a deep V-neck and sway with a little movement, perfect for a romantic date. I’m also wearing dangling silver earrings and the necklace Liam gave me for my birthday.
After seeing a romantic movie, we drive to Liam’s house. Light snow flutters as we leave the theater, the kind of flakes that stick to each other, making giant conglomerate flakes. The wind blows so gently, they swirl and glide instead of falling straight to the ground. They must be coming down faster than it appears because the road is dusted and tire tracks have creased the blacktop with black trails. Not enough for Liam to be nervous about driving, obviously, as he keeps leaning over the console to kiss me.
We enter Liam’s house to the smell of roasted chicken filling the air. A chef stands at the kitchen’s doorway. “Your dinner is ready. Good night.”
“Good night,” Liam answers and leads me to the living room. He unbuttons my coat and slides the collar off my shoulders, then he kisses my neck and the coat falls from my arms. Although his fingers are a little cool, I’m sure that doesn’t cause the explosion of sparkles racing over my skin. I lean toward him, hoping for more, but he’s taken my coat to the closet. He returns with a tray of warm baked brie, crackers, and fruit.
My lips wanted to be engaged in a different activity, but since I’m kind of starving, I sample the appetizer. Apparently, Liam wants to take it slow, so we nibble and talk and kiss—I can take it slow. Moments later, he guides me into the dining room, where a dozen lit candles cast swaying tapered shadows along the table and walls, as if they’re dancing to the low music. The meal is delicious, the company perfect, the mood sultry. Valentine’s magic at its best.
Liam stands. “Sophie, would you dance with me?” His voice is velvet as he offers me his hand, eyes sparkling in the candlelight, lips slightly parted in a soft smile. His expression says he’s sure I’m not refusing this offer, but he’s asking so I can say yes to him.
“Yes.”
We pull each other close and sway together. My nose skims his neck as I breathe in his scent. It isn’t the smell of aftershave—it’s just him, and it’s intoxicating. My arms reach upward to rest on his shoulders. My hands curl around his neck, and my fingers traipse through his hair.
Liam kisses my hair, my cheek, my lips. I love the feel of his arms wrapped tightly around me. Brief moments practically take my breath away. Like when he pulls me even closer just for a moment. Or the sound of his breath near my ear. Or how it feels when he exhales on my skin after a light kiss. Or when he runs the palms of his hands down my back and rests them on the sides of my waist. My skin tingles and warms with each movement.
One song blends into the next without interruption and we continue to dance. After several songs, he looks toward the window and whispers, “I’d better get you home. This is turning into a blizzard.”
“I could stay here,” I sigh, kissing his jaw in a dream-like haze.
Liam takes two smooth, deep breaths, then his arms loosen. They just seem to hang around me. And we aren’t swaying.
It takes me a moment to register he’s letting go. “I didn’t mean … I could stay in a guest room. I just thought …” Liam’s shoulders are rising with silent, deep breaths. His eyes are closed.
My brain tangles more with each rambling. “I wish I hadn’t … You probably think I sleep around. Well, I don’t. I sleep, but alone … Of course sleeping isn’t what we’re talking about, is it?” I release my arms from around his neck, though his arms still lightly circle me. I prop my forearms against his chest and rest my face in my palms. If he had wanted, would I have slept with him? Maybe. My heart races and aches as my lips peck a light kiss against his chest and I push away from him, realizing I would have. “Please, yes. Please take me home.”
Lying in bed, thinking over the disaster that was the end of a very nice date, maybe I didn’t sound as senseless to Liam as I think I sounded. After all, you can’t judge a person for something they say when they really mean it a different way. Right? Well, you can, and usually do. And honestly, I’m not sure how I meant it.
The ride home had been gravely quiet. I didn’t dare open my mouth and Liam didn’t say anything either. Nothing. This might have been my last date with Liam. Sleep comes late and little.
Liam hasn’t been around at all today, not even at recess. While making copies in the office, I mention it casually to the secretary and am told he took the day off to attend to personal business.
After school, Liam comes into my room. “Is it okay if we talk?” he asks, looking quickly at me, then away. He seems upset as he backs up to the cupboards. Maybe he’s just trying to figure out how to start. I hope.
“Sure.”
He’s looking at his feet, and I’m looking at his hands, tightly gripping the counter behind him with white knuckles. “Could we shut the door?”
I lock the door and close it behind me. Then I stand beside Liam against the cupboards. I’m talking before I lean against the counter. “I need you to know I wasn’t asking to sleep with you,” I gush. “It’s not like I think that would be hideous, ’cause it actually sounds amazing.” Oh, crap. “I really can’t say this without making it worse, can I?” Defeated I say, “I’m sorry I ruined a great evening. You should probably know that was my best Valentine’s Day ever, by quite a wide margin. You planned it perfectly. So I understand why you’re mad at me … I ruined it … um, that’s all … well, and … you don’t need to avoid me. It will be okay—well, not right away, but it will … eventually. I’m so sorry.”
Liam is very still and quiet. After a long pause, he detaches himself from the counter and steps in front of me, his arms pulling me to him for a hug. It feels like good-bye. I thought I was prepared for this, but I’m not. My eyes burn with pressure around the edges, and I have to hold my breath not to sob, but I can’t, and it gasps out anyway. I try to move away or turn away, but Liam holds me closer, one hand rubbing my shoulder. I can’t help crying on his shirt, my mascara leaving dark, lacey smudges on his shoulder. Remembering the scent of candles and Liam from our last date, I finally get hold of myself and lean back to look at his face.
“You’re not going to try to leave again, are you?” he asks. I shake my head. “Please stay and talk to me.” I nod.
He begins in barely a whisper. “Last night, I didn’t know what to say. I was thinking about what you asked, and I did take it that you wanted to sleep with me.” I try to wiggle out of his arms again, but Liam continues, “Wait. Please listen to the rest. I have wanted to say this every minute since then, but I didn’t know how. I thought it might come out wrong . . .”
“Like me,” I whisper, dropping my head to his shoulder again.
“I didn’t know what you would think of me if I told you this, so I said nothing. Then nothing got very quiet, and I didn’t know how to start talking again. Sophie, I want you to understand me. I’ve never said this out loud, and I’m scared to say it now.”
This is bad, very bad. This sounds like break-up bad. I glance back at his face. Pretty much all night, I thought about how we would break up. His options seemed to include ignoring me, quitting his job and disappearing from my life or an unemotional �
�It’s not you—it’s me.”
Liam looks like he’s in pain. His brows crease with worry and one hand pushes through his hair from his temple to the back of his head as the other holds me tightly.
My voice is barely a whisper in his ear. “Just say it. Really. I’m a big girl. I’ve had my heart broken before … but this time will be different, because I’m deeply in love with you. I’m sorry if I’m making this harder. I’m not trying to. It just is.”
Nothing before has been like this. A random tear slides down my face. I feel his body in our hug, the warmth of his hands pressing my waist and shoulder. I will miss embracing him. My arms react to my thoughts, and I briefly hug him tighter. I breathe him in, knowing this is my last time to be close to him. I want to remember, to keep a part of him with me. I have to. Soon there will be just hurt and longing in the divide between us. Oh, my gosh, I can’t do that. I don’t know how I could look at him and not want to be near him. Inside, my stomach and chest are twisting and squeezing, my thoughts scrambling. I can’t think beyond the hollow feeling of loneliness stepping in. My breath is deep and fast.
Liam starts talking softly near my ear. “It was a long time ago. Several years, in fact, I was a freshman in high school. You know how I love soccer.”
I nod but feel confused. How is this about soccer?
“I was good enough to play on the varsity team, but a lot younger than the other players. Some of the guys would talk about girls they went out with, and what they could get them to do. It was pretty graphic and very crude. They could have been lying about it all, but it sounded real at the time. The girls were just sex to them or worse—just bodies.”
Does he think I’m like those girls? Another tear escapes.
“I decided then that I’d never hold a girl intimately until I was married. I guess my parents got it right with the sex-and-marriage talk. Well, my mom probably did—I remember that Dad’s contribution included a long-winded lecture about illegitimate children and legal challenges to my trust funds with the word ‘disinherited’ thrown in a couple of times.
“But Mom thought building a life with one person, loving and trusting one person enough to only share intimacy with them, was something I should consider. I did, and I’ve only ever wanted to be that close to one person. It was an easy decision to live with. For a decade. Until last night.” His thumb rubs a small circle under my ear. “It’s a promise I’ve made myself.”
I don’t think I’ve ever heard Liam sound so vulnerable, almost like he’s trying to apologize for not sleeping with me. My own embarrassment subsides. “I wasn’t …”
Liam’s finger rests on the center of my lips, then traces out to the corner leaving behind a warm, tickly sensation. His other arm firmly holds me. His forehead leans against mine. “I know, I know.” Liam’s voice sounds earnest then defeated. “But I had to decide again last night, in a split second. I wanted to be with you. I wanted you to stay, to love me and sleep in my arms, but my decision was to let go, so I wouldn’t take it any further. It was very hard to let go of you, Sophie.” Liam’s arm tightens briefly around me.
Happiness bursts into millions of sparks, lighting me up throughout my chest, racing along my skin, and tingling through my muscles.
“Then when you explained your comment, I was embarrassed, because I’d thought about making love with you. I’m so sorry. I want you to trust me.” His hand holds the side of my face as he touches his cheek to mine. “I love you. I can’t lose you. Please forgive me.”
My whole body sags in relief and I lean against him. Two more tears escape as I close my eyes in thought. Both of his arms hold me again. “I want you to trust me, too. You can tell me anything and know I’ll love you. I’m glad you told me.” I hug him, pressing my cheek to his. “I thought we were breaking up.” I kiss his cheek. “I thought you might not love me.” He kisses mine. “I want to know everything about you, and I don’t want you to feel like you have to change who you are to be with me.” I look into his eyes, my finger tracing his ear. “I don’t need to forgive you—in a weird way, it feels like a compliment.” His arms tighten around me, and his lips turn into a relieved smile. “I think your mom got it right too.”
February 16, 2008
Newbie Blog:
Which Hat Am I Wearing Now?
Being a teacher borders on having a multiple personality disorder. After the students left the room yesterday, I sat at my desk. Just sat. The room was so heavy with quiet I didn’t want to disturb it. I sat at my desk and tried not to move, but I thought back on the last fifteen minutes of the day.
“Let’s make a big circle so everyone can sit together. Scoot back a bit. Make it bigger.” (social director)
“JP, would you move closer to Addy so Cashel can sit down?” “Addy, sit by Cashel.” “Thanks, JP.” (arbitrator)
“What could you do better next time, Erin?” (counselor)
“Zain, that needs a Band-Aid. Come over here. It doesn’t look too bad. It will be okay.” (nurse)
“No. You cannot get out of your seat yet, Erin.” (warden)
“Because I said so.” (mom)
“Erin and Zain, please come talk with me for a minute. You need to say sorry.” (mediator)
This happens all day, every day, all week, and it looks like all year. I’m crazy-busy flipping hats, not even noticing the time flying by, then suddenly the students are gone, taking the noise with them, leaving me with just myself.
Okay, I was feeling a little bit guilty and a lot sorry for Kyra over the Licki incident when she asked me if I wanted to buy some Girl Scout cookies.
“Of course. Can I show the order form to my roommate and see if she wants some, too?”
“Yes.” She smiles at me with her whole face.
“I’ll bring it back to you in a couple of days.”
After work, I hit up Liam to order a couple of boxes. When I ask Mina to order, she calls Stev. He offers to show it around his office at work, so we fax him a copy of the cookie brochure and order form. By Wednesday, I’ve combined everyone’s orders, and the grand total is forty-six boxes of cookies. It doesn’t bring Licki’s tail back, but it eases my guilt.
I return the order to Kyra on Thursday morning. At recess, Kyra brings Mindi up to talk to me before they leave the room.
Mindi begins. “I’m a Girl Scout too.”
Oh no.
“Would you order some cookies from me?”
Does she expect equal treatment? Duh, yes. I really should have thought this through. I mentally pen a question in my brain. Is this something I can do for all twenty-five students in my class? Brilliant.
Too late. “Sure. Can I give it back to you on Monday?” She nods and hands me her order envelope, then skips off to recess. I really can’t order forty-six boxes of cookies on my own, so I head down the hall to see if some of the teachers want some. I find they have all purchased from students in their classes (young teachers) or have a policy of not purchasing from students (veteran teachers). I decide to fax a copy to the real estate office, hoping some of the agents would like to buy.
I’ve been so busy after work and on the weekends with real estate appointments, I haven’t had a date with Liam since Valentine’s Day. And I’d kind of like a do-over. He’s coming over tomorrow to watch a movie. I guess that counts. I thought maybe next week, I’d have a little more personal time—until I went to our partnership meeting this morning. I’m booked all week with parent/teacher conferences on two evenings and listing appointments on the others.
Thirteen boxes of Thin Mints. That’s the number of cookies I have to purchase to make sure the same number of cookies are ordered from each student through my efforts. When I deliver the cookie order back to Mindi, she smiles and runs to her backpack to put the envelope inside, then she runs back to me and hugs me.
Too many times over the last six weeks, I’m only reminded which day it is by the dates I write on the bottom of the listing contracts. It has been a blur from working all day
to doing listing appointments all night, every night, sometimes two. It has been productive though—four listings last week, and we submit at least one offer each week. We also have a closing for one of the offers we turned in at the beginning of December, with another one coming up in a few days. At least being this tired is beginning to pay off.
And by the way, while writing a listing contract tonight, I am reminded that tomorrow night and Wednesday night are parent/teacher conferences. Woohoo.
Ms. Proste is my first appointment, Chad’s mom. She enters the room practically bubbling and sits across the table from me. Her face typifies the phrase “The cat that ate the canary”.
The way this parent/teacher conference thing works is that I have samples of my students’ current work in reading, writing, math, and art. We talk about the progress their children are making and compare these samples to the samples I have from the beginning of the year. Then I let the parents know what our class will be doing for the rest of the year. Each conference lasts about ten minutes.
As she sits down, I pull out the folder with Chad’s name on it, and she pulls one out of her briefcase with my name on it, “Sophie Kanakaredes—First Grade.”
“Would you like to go first?” I ask, obviously curious.
“I thought you might like to see some of these,” she says, laying the papers between us and scooting her chair close to mine. “This was the first one he made.” The paper is a simple story with a drawing of a person and several brown squares. Letters are randomly scribbled on the page. “Chad told me it says, ‘I like school.’” I smile, and she moves this one to the bottom of the stack. The next one has two people on it and some high-frequency words we were learning at the time, “me” and “is.” “This one says, ‘Me teacher is nice.’”