“Like a boyfriend?” she asks, rather stunned by my idea.
“Yes. A boyfriend. Arealone.”
“Don’t be insane! There’s no way!”
“Why not? You have so much to offer! Brains, beauty, sassiness—boys like that.”
“Don’t you think if boys liked what I had to offer they would have asked me out already? Who cares if I’m smart or sassy if I can’t even get a guy's number!”
I study her for a second then redirect. “Well, if that’s not an option, then maybe we can find a different solution that focuses on you.”
She looks at me with a shrug, like, “What about me?”
“What will finding a solution do foryou?”
She slouches down in the chair and leans her head back on the wall. With a big sigh she says, “Hide my heartbreak.”
She starts to tear up, her anxiety building up again. I get up and sit beside her, bringing her in for a hug. As soon as I do, she lets it all out.
The tears of her first heartbreak, right here in my office at three thirty in the afternoon.
And for a moment, as she hugged me back, I didn’t feel truly alone. We were all hurting from something or someone, reeling from the emotional roller coaster of life. Sarah’s reactions may seem over the top to any other adult, but to me, it felt like a mirror image of the feelings I’ve been bottling up lately.
If Sarah’s teenage hormones are the natural cause of her emotional reactions, then what was causing mine? Why do I feel the instinct to break something anytime I let myself feel anything but put together? I couldn’t use the excuse of teenage hormones for my actions.
The feeling of abandonment is a trigger for me. And the fact that my fight-or-flight response seems to be very fickle lately could also be at fault. But the real reason for my lack of control—the one I’ve been reluctant to admit to anyone, even myself—I’m hurt.
And lately it seems the only way I’m letting myself get over the hurt is by getting angry.
Love is a complex thing. It intertwines itself deep within our hearts. It’s a sacrificial and intentional choice to put someone above yourself. It’s a messy and beautiful choice to love someone—and when you feel that love in return, the feeling penetrates deep within you, filling you with desire and hope for a future filled with that love.
But when that love breaks you . . . getting angry feels like the only way to survive it.
Wiping the corners of my eyes I ask Sarah, “What do you say we let some of this anger out, huh?”
She wipes her own tears and stares at me. “Okay . . .” Her voice full of concern.
We leave my office and make our way to the opposite side of the school.
Emma is standing at her high top desk, talking to Steven on the phone. “Well, honey, I thought it would be nice to have you home for dinner tonight.”
He was bailing on dinneragain.
That was the third family dinner he’s had scheduling conflicts with and I couldn’t help but assume it was because I was in attendance. Ever since the Halloween discussion, Steven had been very standoff-ish. I wish I could say I didn’t blame him, maybe I did act a little psychotic and irrational when I sped off in his wife’s car.
It’s not like I went on a rampage across the city. I just went for drinks and dairy-free ice cream with Kate. Then I slept with Dolly Parton, her Golden Retriever, on her couch. Being out all night may have sent Steven over the edge, but I will die on the hill of justification.
Yes, he is guilty by association. But I have no intention of addressing this with the person responsible. So being angry at Steven is the next best thing. Plus, my actions were very mild compared to what I really wanted to do, which was shove Dr. Steven’s face in the toilet and give him a good ole fashion swirlie . . . but I took the high road, emptying his gas tank along the way.
“No, I understand it’s been busy, I’m sorry. We just miss you,” Emma whispers before noticing Sarah and I in the doorway. “I’ll talk to you later, I love you.”
Hanging the phone up, I see her go from gloomy wife to cheerful teacher in a millisecond. “Hi ladies! What can I do for you guys?”
I rush to her and give her a big hug, quick as to not make Sarah feel awkward, but hoping to remind her I see her and am here for her. She squeezes tight.
“We want to smash some things,” I say with a big grin, wiggling my eyebrows.
“Wait, what? We’re doing what now?” Sarah interjects. “Ms. Jones, I don’t want to—”
