Work was back-to-back today. Four inspections, two oil changes, a tire rotation, and a new set of brakes. I’m wiped by the time I get back to the apartment, but for my sanity, I have to get a quick workout in. I strip off my work clothes and throw on a pair of gym shorts.
The one pocket of available space I have in this cell of a room is designated for my “equipment.” Really, it's just a bench, a set of dumbbells, and a pull-up bar hooked to the back of the bathroom door, but it does the job and it beats paying for a gym membership.
I bang out a quick workout and a few dozen pushups. By the time I’m done, my whole body’s exhausted and covered in sweat, so I toss my shorts and boxers into the pile of laundry in the corner and start the shower. As the water falls down my aching back, my mind drifts back to Claire. I’m embarrassed, and confused, by how often this has happened lately, and even more so since she came by this week.
For as long as I can remember I haven’t fixated on a woman like this. I am singular almost to a fault. Nobody but me knows this, but I haven’t been with a woman in a very long time. Not a relationship, not a date, not even a fucking one-night stand. I’ve always considered any interaction too much of a risk. Putting yourself — heart, body, or mind — in someone else’s hands means willingly exposing yourself to pain.
But despite all of that, there’s something about our brief interactions that threatens to consume me. I don’t even know this girl and yet I find my breathing ragged just thinking about her. Her walnut-colored hair and the way she looks through me with her golden eyes. Hell, even the way she rambles pulls me in. I want to interrupt her train of thought, pull her close, and brush my palm down her flushed pink cheeks. Use my thumb to trace the freckles that tiptoe over her tanned skin and sweep it across her full fucking lips. My God those lips.
Suddenly any cravings that I buried a long time ago threaten to surface as I remember what her mouth looked like sucking that straw or releasing that single breath that drove me wild. My body pulses at just the thought and I’m overwhelmed with the need to taste her. I try to shake her off. To push her out of my mind and forget about her. But as I’m standing here, the water turns cool, and still I can’t get her out of my head.
12
Claire
Iwakeup emotionally hungover from dinner with my parents. I don’t know why I’m surprised. It’s the same story every time work comes up. Mom acts as if I am God’s gift to the world of education and Dad — well, his daughter went to a real school and got a real degree. She’s a teacher, didn’t you hear?
It’s exhausting.
I said one time in eighth grade that I might want to go into education and my fate was sealed. Mom signed me up to volunteer in the church nursery and to be a junior counselor at Vacation Bible School. Dad took me to every college fair, grabbing brochures and course catalogs from all of the schools known for their education program. Then, every May when it came time to choose classes for the next year, they’d both sit over my shoulder and prompt me to remember the path to teaching!
Ninth grade - Child Development I
Tenth grade - Child Development II
Eleventh grade - Public Speaking
Twelfth grade, forget about it. I was in every advanced placement class they offered so that I could test out of my general education classes and focus on teaching courses.
It was completely draining.
Sometimes I wonder if their excitement was why, after a while, it all started to feel more like a chore than a passion. Like maybe they breathed so much life into my career that they started sucking all of the oxygen from me. They were supportive but suffocating, encouragingbut unreasonable. Whatever the case, somewhere around year three at Jefferson, no matter how much I loved helping students, the thrill of it all started to fade.
This is why, when Principal Andrews told me at my yearly review that she was doing away with my classes next fall, instead of being upset, I somehow felt…relieved. I remember my shoulders physically relaxing after she said,“I’m really sorry, Claire. There’s just no need for yourposition."
Now, the problem lies in what happens next and how do I break my parents’ hearts?
“I can’t believe you’re spending yet another Friday night in the dusty library.” Chloe scrunches up her face midchew like she smells rotten trash rather than the fresh meatball sub she’s scarfing down at my desk.
“Says the girl who is spending her Friday afternoon wiping sauce from her face with the back of her hand…unsuccessfully I might add.” I shove my laptop in my bag along with my planner, workbook, and notecards.
“It’s from Enzo’s! And it’s so good.” She closes her eyes savoring her latest bite.
I pause where I’m at."What else is on your to-do list, Claire?"
“Enzo’s.” I say it aloud unintentionally.
“Yep! Great food. And the short king behind the counter looked equally delicious if I do say so myself.” She winks at me, wrapping up her now empty sub paper.
“You’d think a mannequin looked delicious if it had a penis and handed you a sandwich.”
Shrugging, she agrees. “You’re probably right.” We both laugh. Chloe seems to be on a mission lately to find a boyfriend."Not a husband, but a boyfriend."Her words, not mine. That recently has meant flooding herphone with these new dating apps and enjoying free meals with whoever she matches.
I check the clock – 7:05 pm.
“I’m just saying,” she turns to me, this time more seriously. “It’s okay for you to go out every once in a while. I mean, when was the last time you spent a Friday night doing something fun.”
“Tutoring Zach isn’tnotfun,” I say.
