Dunkin and Donuts

by Lyons, Daralyse

  Principal Hane cocks a finger at me then beckons me over to her.

  “When Ronnie gets here, leave the class with her and come to my office.” It is an order, not a request, and, ten minutes later, I obey—shuffling dejectedly down the hallway to the principal’s office as if I’m an unruly student about to be given detention.

  But, Principal Hane’s punishment is much worse than that.

  “Shayla.” She leans back in her desk chair and looks at me appraisingly. “I’m sure you know what this is about.”

  I say nothing. There’s nothing to say.

  “Several of our parents saw the news and recognized you. I received emails.”

  “Can I explain?” I ask.

  “Frankly, no explanation will suffice. Shayla, you are an extremely gifted teacher and the students all love you. That said, your lack of professionalism and propensity to embarrass yourself make you a poor fit for this school. While we would love for you to finish out the remainder of this year, I have offered your position to another candidate for next year. Your services will not be required in the fall.”

  I can feel my lower lip beginning to quiver, but I refuse to give Principal Hard Ass the satisfaction of seeing me cry. Instead, I plaster on my bravest smile.

  “Thank you for the opportunity to teach here,” I say. “I’ve really enjoyed my work.”

  “Should you require a letter of recommendation, we’ll be happy to furnish one. Have a good day Ms. Ross.”

  And, with that, I am dismissed. Principal Hane stands, letting me know I’ve exhausted my welcome. We shake hands. Eyes downcast, awash in self-pity, I make the trek back to my classroom where Ronnie is teaching the kids about gravity. When I enter, she looks at me guiltily and I know with certainty that she is the teacher who will be replacing me in the fall. But, for once, I have the good sense to keep my mouth closed.

  Chapter Fifty

  It’s bittersweet, this trip to the Please Touch Museum. Highly ironic isn’t it that the school has just informed me that they won’t be hiring me back next fall and twenty-eight wide-eyed kindergarteners are looking at me as if I am a Disney princess? With worship in their eyes, not only for me, but for their surroundings, the kids run from room to room, marveling at the exhibits.

  “Ms. Ross, come see me…”

  “Ms. Ross, look at this…”

  “They have the coolest…”

  I allow myself to ooohhhh and aaahhhh as if I too were viewing the world through a five-year-old’s eyes. Luckily, Ronnie is out today. I deliberately planned the field trip on a day when she’d been scheduled to go to a special training ostensibly so that it’d be easier for me to have parent volunteers for the field trip rather than having to get a substitute teacher’s aide to cover for Ronnie in the classroom.

  In reality, I simply didn’t want to socialize with my replacement outside the classroom. It hurts. I don’t blame Ronnie for agreeing to take on next year’s kindergarten class. I’d have done the same thing if I were in her shoes. Only, it’s hard to be around her right now.

  Jessica interrupts my reverie by grabbing my hand and leading me over to the Wonderland exhibit.

  “Look at the mirrors, Ms. Ross.”

  The little girl stands me in front of a funhouse mirror that makes me look about three feet taller and ten pounds lighter. I like the effect.

  “Now, you look like that lady who came to visit you at school that day. The pretty one with the blond hair.”

  “What lady?” I ask.

  As far as I know, no lady has ever visited me at school, aside from the occasional parent for a parent-teacher conference or to discuss an issue with their child.

  “That pretty lady!” she is exasperated. “You know, the one who called you by your first name. The one with the pretty pink dress.”

  I wrack my brain.

  “She looks like you, only she’s skinnier and prettier.”

  Ouch! Well, kids sure are honest. I’ll give them that.

  “Hey, Angelica!” Jessica shouts at her friend. “What’s the name of that pretty lady in the pink dress who came to school one day to see Mr. Ross?”

  “Oh, silly, that’s her mommy,” Angelica shouts back—remembering what I have forgotten.

  Apparently, according to Jessica, my fifty-five year old mother is prettier than I am. Thinner, I knew about. Prettier too, I guess. But, it’s a kick in the teeth to hear it said out loud.

  I remember now. My mom came in one day for show and tell with her porcelain doll collection from her childhood and showed them to the entire class. The girls had fallen in love with my mother in her pretty pink dress, looking a lot like a doll herself. And my Dad had come in too—bringing with him a model train set he got during childhood and showing all the kids how to make the train run along the track and reading the book The Little Engine That Could, showing them the value of perseverance in the face of adversity.

  I’d been teaching the kids a lesson about the importance of play in our lives and how what we do as children shapes who we become as adults, sort of like a career day in reverse—rather than looking forward to who they might become, I tried to show them the importance of who they are now.

  As I look around the Please Touch Museum, watching my kids marvel at their surroundings, I am curious as to the people they will become. My optimism about their futures is not long-lived, however, as I take stock of the boys in the corner.

  “Tommy, stop picking your nose,” I say. “And, Andy, get your hand out of your pants.”

  Chapter Fifty-One

  When the phone call comes, in the middle of the night, we are both fast asleep, me nestled in the crook of Dunkin’s arm. He sits bolt upright and I knock my head on his headboard.

  “Ouch,” I say.

  “Sorry,” he scampers over me to answer the phone. “Hello… Yes… Thank you. Is she okay? Can I see her? But…Yes. What’s the address?” Dunkin grabs a piece of paper and scribbles frantically. When he hangs up, there are tears in his eyes.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “It’s Marlene. She’s been in an accident. She’s at the hospital. I have to go and see her.”

  “Omigod, let me get dressed,” I climb out of bed, my eyes roving the floor for my discarded jeans.

  “No. Don’t,” Dunkin says. “They’ll only let family see her. Not even. The only reason I might get in is because I’m a physician.”

  “Is it bad?”

  “She’s in a coma. They don’t know the extent of the damage or if she’ll wake up. Yes, it’s bad.”

  I pull him in for a hug, but he is distracted, mentally taking inventory of his options. I see the wheels in his head churning furiously.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?”

  “No, thanks. I mean yes, I’m sure.”

  “I could sit in the waiting room and just be there for moral support.”

  “Just stay here, get up tomorrow, and go to work. I’ll call you tomorrow and let you know what’s going on. Promise.”

  Then, almost as an afterthought, he says, “But I love you for offering.”

  He’s gone before I even have time to get up, brush my teeth, and kiss him goodbye. I lay back down in the now-empty bed, still warm from our bodies, and feel awash in trepidation. It’s nearly 5 am before I finally get back to sleep and, an hour later, the alarm is going off to wake me for another day at work.

  As I go through the day, I try not to think about Marlene. No news is good news, right?

  At 11:00 p.m., I text Dunkin, Thinking of you. How is she?

  It is four hours later before I get a reply. Nothing to report. My parents are en-route from London. Will be in touch…

  Can I do anything? Can I be with you?

  No, thanks. I’m ok
ay.

  I love you, I write.

  I love you too, is his reply.

  But, for some inexplicable reason, the words seem devoid of meaning. If he loves me, why doesn’t he want me with him? If I love him, why am I making it about me? I remind myself that his sister, not mine, is lying in a hospital bed right now and that my job as girlfriend is to do what Dunkin needs. Easier said than done. I’m anxious for news, but, also, don’t want to bother him.

  The school day over, I head home to wait, pace my apartment, watch TV, eat candy, and try not to obsess about Marlene and Dunkin and what may or may not be happening.

  I call him before bed and leave a message when his voicemail answers, “Hey… It’s me. I just called to let you know I love you. I’m here when you need me. I’m gonna keep my phone on all night. Call me if you can. I’ll be here.”

  He doesn’t call. At 3:30 a.m. I get a text message.

  Sorry, it’s been crazy. Seeing my little sister like this is heartbreaking. Nothing new to report. My parents are here. I love you. Didn’t want to wake you.

  I text him back immediately. I’m awake. Wanna talk?

  No, thanks. Go back to bed. Love you.

  Love you too.

  I go back to bed, but not immediately to sleep. Why is Dunkin shutting me out? What is happening? Marlene is my friend. Dunkin is my boyfriend. Has something changed? Is he breaking up with me?

  That’s silly, I tell myself. Dunkin and I have never been more in love. He’s just going through a crisis. Stop making it about you. I wake up earlier than usual and go to Dunkin Donuts where I buy a dozen donuts and four large coffees. Then, I drive to the hospital. I’ll stop off on my way to work with beverages and breakfast for Dunkin and his folks. Even if I can’t get in to see Marlena, I can at least be there for my boyfriend. Maybe, he’s too proud to tell me he needs my support. And that’s okay. I plan to be there for him—whether he asks for my help or not.

  When I arrive at the hospital, I recognize Dunkin’s Land Rover in the parking lot. I feel oddly reassured by his presence. He’s here. I’m here. Everything’s going to be okay. At the receptionist desk, I ask to see Marlene Wilks.

  “She’s in the ICU,” a nurse tells me and points.

  I make my way down a long corridor, unobtrusively pass through a set of heavy swinging metal doors and stop dead in my tracks when I see Dunkin through the glass holding a woman unknown to me as they cry together. They are hugging and kissing, comforting one another. She is holding him tightly. His arms wrap around her slender form. My heart stops. I cannot see her face, am almost positive that I recognize Bethany, his ex-wife. The woman has the same slender build and beautiful, flawless blond hair and the way he holds her seems… familiar. I guess that’s why he told me not to come. He must’ve known that Bethany would be arriving with his parents. He must have wanted her support, not mine. Is he still in love with her? Has this crisis with his sister made him decide he wants his ex-wife back? I don’t stick around to find out. I toss three of the coffees and all but two of the donuts in the nearest garbage can then turn and walk away with nothing but my cup of coffee and two Boston Crèmes to hold onto.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  “I didn’t confront Dunkin about the woman at the hospital because his sister is in a coma,” I remind Brice.

  It’s after work and he’s met me at Starbucks to caffeinate and conversate.

  “Yeah, well, just because Marlene is unconscious doesn’t mean you should be too. I was an idiot with Robin and the man cheated on me, again and again. I knew Dunkin was too good to be true. They always are.”

  He had not known Dunkin was too good to be true. Brice has always been our biggest relationship cheerleader. He’s just bitter. “You’re just being bitter,” I point out.

  “I may be bitter, but your boyfriend was sucking face with his ex-wife this morning. You have to do something about that.”

  “I’m not going to do anything right now,” I say, unsuccessfully trying to will myself not to cry as my eyes tear up. “I’m going to wait ‘til this is over then end things,” I sniff.

  I don’t want to end things. I’m head-over-heels in love with Dunkin. But, last year, I inadvertently had an affair with a married man—I didn’t know he was married at the time—and, if I hadn’t already believed the old adage “once a cheater, always a cheater,” my experiences with Chuck taught me that infidelity isn’t something I’m willing to overlook. I deserve someone who will be faithful to me.

  “Do you think he’s actually done anything with her?” Brice asks. “If he hasn’t, will you stay with him?”

  I shake my head. “I doubt it. If he’d told me she was coming or wanted me at the hospital or saw fit to include me in this in any way or not to include her, I’d be okay. But, not wanting my support and wanting Bethany’s… That’s indicative of something. Don’t you think?”

  Brice nods. I want him to disagree with me and he doesn’t. Because we both know that Dunkin and I are over.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  When I pull into my driveway, Dunkin is waiting for me. I wonder if he’s here to break up with me—officially. As I trudge up the driveway, I can’t stop the waves of emotions from coming over me. Love—love for this man who made me feel so alive, so safe, so connected. Lust—frankly, he is sexy as hell. Pity—he looks sleep-deprived and forlorn and I can’t help but worry about Marlene. Jealousy—why Bethany? Why not me? Betrayal—how long has he been keeping her on the sidelines? How long have I been in the dark? Hurt—this heavy, shattering sensation in my heart. And anger. Above all else, I am angry at him for deceiving me and angry at myself for trusting him.

  “I called you,” he says. “Finally.”

  I look down at my cell phone. There is a missed call from Dunkin from 45 minutes ago.

  “I was having coffee. I didn’t hear the phone ring. You didn’t have to come over. I’d have called you back—eventually.”

  “No. I wanted to see you. I wanted to talk.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. These past couple days, I’ve kept you at arm’s length. I know I have. I know I’ve been distant and I’m sorry for that. But, there’s a reason…” his voice trails off.

  “I know,” I say. “I know the reason. You don’t have to tell me. I stopped off at the hospital this morning and I saw you with her and I got it. I understood.”

  “You did? You do?”

  “I think so.”

  “Shayla, I just love her so much. She means everything to me. It would be devastating to lose her. But, now, she’s back. Everything’s going to be okay. I think I took her for granted. I took you for granted too. I’m just so happy. I love her so much.”

  “More than me, I guess.”

  “It’s not a competition.”

  “Fine, Dunkin,” I say. “Don’t bother to explain anymore. I understand all I need to. It’s over. We’re over. I’m happy you’re so happy. Now, please, just leave.”

  Dunkin stares at me, uncomprehendingly, as if baffled by my inability or unwillingness or whatever to share him with his ex-wife, as if he doesn’t understand my anger.

  “You’re being unreasonable. Are you sure? I’m sorry I didn’t let you in. I’m sorry I couldn’t let you see me vulnerable and afraid. I understand you feeling hurt and shut out, but Shayla I love you.”

  “Well, you can’t love me and her simultaneously. That’s not okay with me.”

  “But, I love you both. Why is that wrong?”

  “You have to end it. It’s her or me,” I demand.

  I hate myself for giving him an ultimatum. Even though he’s coming clean about his feelings for Bethany, I’ll never be able to trust him again. I feel like an idiot, but I want him to want me. I want him to pick me.

  “Shayla, I can’t choose. That’s prepo
sterous. And you asking me to is unreasonable.”

  “Fine, I’m being unreasonable,” I say. “I’m the bad guy. Well, then, looks like you dodged a bullet because you and I are over, done, finished. You don’t have to deal with unreasonable me ever again. Goodbye. It’s been nice knowing you.”

  “This is weird. You’re being so irrational. So jealous.”

  Irrational! He’s calling me irrational! If he wants to see irrational, I will give him irrational.

  “Wait here,” I tell him, going inside and storming upstairs.

  Even though we mostly spend our time at his place, these last eight or nine months, Dunkin has stayed over at my apartment several dozen times, leaving little things—a coffee mug, a toothbrush, a few pairs of sweatpants, a few books, some t-shirts, a ratty old sweatshirt, jeans and a razor. I start with the coffee mug. From the second floor of my apartment, I hurl it out the window at him. It hits the driveway and shatters into hundreds of tiny little fragments. Next, I send his clothes flying.

  “Call me irrational!” I screech. “You broke my heart you cheating son of a bitch. Go back to your ex-wife and leave me alone. I hate you.”

  I am in the process of throwing books at him when Dunkin shouts up, “Wait, what? Stop throwing things at me for a minute. What are you talking about? I’ve never cheated on you and why on earth would I go back to my ex-wife?”

  That gives me pause. I stop hurling.

  “That woman. You brought her to the hospital. I saw the two of you. How long have you been cheating on me with her? You kissed her and I saw you.”

  “Shayla, that’s my sister’s girlfriend. Desiree. The one she met at paintball. The one who happens to have been born in France. You know, where people kiss each other hello. She was devastated because the love of her life was in a coma and was possibly going to die. So I held her. So what? I barely know the woman and she’s in love with my sister, not to mention the fact that she’s gay.”