She tipped her head to the side, her lips twisted as if she didn’t like my response. Then, “Okay. Can I have a snack when we get home?”
I chuckled. “We can definitely get you a snack.”
* * *
“Where is my door holder?”I called at the back entrance to the playground. A student waved his arms, darted forward. “Thank you, Emmanuel. All right, let’s remember our walking feet as we go outside.”
While the class filed past me, the gym teacher jogged over. He was a younger guy, probably late twenties, and filling in for the regular gym teacher who was recovering from a jet ski accident. It was always the gym teachers getting into accidents with their toys. You never saw an art teacher with her arm in a sling after going wild with the oil paints.
“Hey, Miss Z,” he called, the whistle around his neck bouncing as he approached. “How are we doing today?”
“We had a great morning, Mr. Gagne,” I said, pitching my voice in the way all teachers did when gently warning their students to keep it together. “We practiced taking turns with materials and staying inside our body bubbles. I’m sure we’re going to keep doing that during gym.”
“I’m sure we will. Go ahead and sit on your squares.” He stationed himself beside me, his feet spread and his arms crossed over his chest as he watched the kids wandering around the numbered grid painted onto the pavement. To me, he said, “You’re coming out with us for happy hour, right?”
I didn’t remember Mr. Gagne’s first name but I knew he coached lacrosse and a few other high school sports and covered for gym teachers across the school district as needed. He also came with the familiarity of someone who considered all of his acquaintances to be close friends.
“I haven’t thought much past dismissal,” I said with a laugh. It was the straight truth. Things were going well but the first weeks of school were a flat-out sprint. Most days, I walked into the house, face-planted on the closest soft surface I could find, and slept for ten solid hours.
“A bunch of us are circling up for drinks,” he said. “Are you in?”
I’d never met a happy hour I didn’t like and there once was a time when I was the teacher rallying everyone for a Friday afternoon gathering, but I could only manage mild enthusiasm for this one. Mostly because I wanted to flop down on my bed and stay there for the next twenty-four hours but also because Mr. Gagne seemed like the kind of guy who used the wordsbrewskiesandbruhin ordinary conversations and I knew I couldn’t hang with the brewskies and bros crowd for long. Especially when sportsball was involved. We weren’t meant to be companions. It went against my nature.
“—and some of the foreign language teachers are coming too,” he said. “Good people. You’ll like them. I’m putting you on my list, all right? You can catch a ride with me and Valdosta. She coaches girls’ volleyball.”
“Where does everyone go for happy hour?” I asked, trying to come up with a bar in the area and failing. There was a semi-famous oyster bar in town but that wasn’t a bar in the happy hour sense. And it was much too posh for a teacher outing. “Are there bars in town? I don’t know any.”
He laughed. “Nah, we go a couple of towns over. Better that way. No chance of running into parents.” He blew his whistle, instructed the students to do ten jumping jacks. “Come on,” he teased. “We don’t bite. Promise.”
Even though I’d curated a list of reasons as to why this wasn’t the best choice for me and I could taste the regret on my tongue, I found myself saying, “Okay. When are you heading out?”
* * *
In case anyone was wondering,regret tasted like cheap gin and Sprite masquerading as tonic.
Regret started out sweet in cloying, unpleasant ways and the gin burned the back of my throat. And then regret was bitter, as I attempted to cover up that sweetness with vodka and cranberry juice, but the saccharine lingered.
Worse than that poor excuse for a cocktail were my surroundings. Low ceilings, dark walls, and a constant cloud of beer-scented humidity made this bar feel like an armpit of the underworld. Even worse than that, Gagne and Valdosta and all the other people I’d met tonight left while I was in the restroom.
I circled the bar twice, passing the now-empty table where a dozen or so teachers had been gathered for the past few hours and pausing at each shadowed booth and axe-throwing lane. I ducked into both bathrooms and checked the parking lot. Gagne’s Honda was nowhere to be found.
Everyone was gone and they’d forgotten about me.
I refused to consider the possibility that they’d intentionally left me there. I couldn’t do that. Not while gin and vodka made my thoughts slow and squishy.
I plopped myself down at the bar, resting my arms on the surface for a second before noticing it was sticky. The bartender approached and set a coaster in front of me. He was cute in a skinny guy, long beard kind of way. “What’ll it be?”
Motioning to the table littered with beer pitchers, glasses, and decimated plates of chicken wings, I asked, “Do you know where that group went?”
He shot a quick glance over my shoulder and shook his head. “I just got here a few minutes ago.”
“No worries,” I replied, though I had many worries. “Could I get a vodka cranberry?”
I didn’t need another drink. I didn’t need the last two but the conversation had been flowing and it was easy enough to order another round, and then another. Though the group wasn’t exactly my speed—heavy on the brewskies, bros, and sportsball, as I’d predicted—it was fun being with people and sharing in the struggles of back-to-school.
Tears stung my eyes as I thought about talking and laughing with the group all night only for them to pay the tab and walk out while I was away from the table. Of all the ridiculous things that had happened to me in bathrooms in the past month, from the pee-listening lady to Noah learning the topography of my ass, this one hit the hardest. I didn’t want to cry over casual acquaintances but I knew I’d never let this happen to any casual acquaintance of mine.
The bartender set the drink in front of me but I didn’t touch it. Instead, I pulled out my phone and logged into a car service app. I ended up opening and closing the app five times, assuming this sticky little corner of hell didn’t have the best internet service, before realizing the shortage of cars on my screen wasn’t a glitch.
