He’s silent, rubbing my bare arms with his hands, and he thankfully doesn’t ask if he’s proved himself to me. “I think I understand now why you were so upset with me when you first started,” he finally says. “And also just a minute ago, when I asked you to go to open houses.” He sighs, his big chest expanding and shrinking. “I’m sorry that all happened to you. That sounds really hard, and you didn’t deserve it, but I’m so proud of you for taking control of it all, on your own terms. You’re an incredibly strong woman.”
He doesn’t say anything else, but that’s okay, because what he said was perfect. Because I am learning that he is perfect. “Thanks,” I say, and I let a tear escape this time.
“I always had issues with control,” he tells me.
“You don’t need to share anything, Oliver; this isn’t the suffering Olympics?—”
“Hush,” he says, nipping at my ear. “I want to share this with you. I also want you to know why I was such a dick when I first met you.”
“Fine,” I grumble.
“I’ve always felt the need to fix things. On my own terms. I hate feeling out of control. Ever since I was a kid. If my parents would come home and argue, I’d cook dinner or do the laundry or whatever until early in the morning. Just wanting everything to be okay.”
I pictured little Oliver folding shirts and matching socks until two in the morning.
“It’s actually how I ended up at PS 2,” he continues. “My dad got really sick. Prostate cancer.”
I freeze.
He notices and squeezes me tight. “He’s fine now. Cancer-free. But at the time, he was in and out of the hospital for his treatments. I was working in Brownsville, but I was taking the train over to Clinton Hill to help my dad get to his appointments.” He pauses, thinking. “I genuinely loved that Brownsville school. It was my baby. But the commute got to be too much. So I made a few phone calls to people I knew in this district and got myself the position at 2.” He laughs without humor. “I still don’t know if my family wanted or even needed that. I just did it.”
I understand. “Because you wanted to feel in control. You wanted to fix it.”
“Yes,” he says simply.
We sit in silence for a few minutes, digesting.
“I’m sorry I made you feel out of control,” I tell him.
“I’m extremely happy you made me feel out of control,” he responds softly. “I’m sorry I tried to control you.”
“I like when you control me in bed,” I say, snuggling my ass into his bare dick, until I feel it respond.
“And on the couch,” he says, collaring my throat with one hand and gripping my breast with the other.
“Yes,” I say simply.
I realize, later that night, after he’s fallen asleep next to me and I watch the rise and fall of his chest, the strong lines of his handsome face sharp even when slack with sleep, that maybe my anxieties and worries and self-destructive behaviors haven’t presented themselves because of what this man is to me. Someone who’s passing all the subconscious tests I’ve been throwing at him, passing with flying colors. Perfect.
THIRTY-ONE
Georgia
“No,Max, that nose is not a slingshot—give it to me immediately… Donotmake me revoke Rudolph privileges, so help me, Goddess?—”
“I don’twantto be Rudolph, I want to beSanta?—”
“I’ll be Rudolph,” Kyrie pipes up.
“You can’t be Rudolph. You’reDasher?—”
It’s our last dress rehearsal before our holiday performance, and I’m about ready to rip my hair out and throw myself from the rafters of our auditorium.
We tried to make it easy on ourselves this year, the other third grade teachers and I. Instead of an elaborate interpretation of the Nutcracker, each class would sing one holiday related singalong on stage. Three minutes each class, max.
Chaya and Emmanuel (well, just Emmanuel now, since Chaya had her baby a few days ago) are doing the Dreidel Song, each student wearing a dreidel made from cardboard boxes hot glued together. Their performance involves a lot of spinning in place.
Tamika’s class is doing Happy Kwanzaa, with the parentsof a child in her class donating tons of traditional garb for the students to wear.
