“Very well, then.” I tug at the collar of my shirt, desperate for cool air. “Do you think you’ll be okay the rest of the day?”
“Yes, yes. I’m great.” She gazes down at the line of paintbrushes stacked in cups, tracing her fingers along the bristles. “Thank you for taking the time. I’m sure it wasn’t easy leaving your husband.”
“It’s no problem,” I reassure her.
“How is he doing?” she asks as we make our way down the hall.
“He’s good. Small improvements here and there, but he seems optimistic.”
“And you? Are you optimistic?”
“Yes,” I answer too fast, likely not sounding believable. “I think so.”
“I couldn’t imagine,” she whispers as we step into the breakroom. “This must be so hard on you too. I know it’s not my place, and you have a great support system, but…” She fidgets with the gold ring on her thumb, twisting it over and over. “If you ever need someone to talk to, I’m here.”
“Thank you.” I smile as she squeezes my elbow.
“I hope he gets them back.”
“Me too,” I say quietly, but it sounds more like a question. Like I’m asking myself.
Do I want his memory to come back?
The kids need their dad, all of him. And Steven needs all of himself back. But last night rushes through me, a fervor that tingles all the way to my toes. The memory of his dark skin against our gray sheets. The weight of his callused hands, familiar and claiming, reminding me who we are to each other. I felt alive for the first time in years. I finally felt like I was with my husband the way I was meant to be, the way I was made to be. We’re having fun again. But will this blissful bubble pop when everything comes back? And if it does…will we still find our way back to each other?
I open my mouth to share all of this, feeling obligated to share them with someone. But Mackenzie doesn’t say anything else as she smiles, leaving me to sift through it on my own.
I type out a text to Dr. Belo as the harsh reality looms over me—a dark cloud of confliction, conflicted on my hopes, conflicted on my marriage, and clearly conflicted on my morality.
What kind of person would want their husband’s memory to stay lost? What kind of monster am I?Monster.It’s a quick stab to my heart as my text swooshes away.
Me: I think we should talk soon.
Dr. Belo: Without Steven?
Me: Definitely without him.
Dr. Belo: I’ll see you at 4.
“Principal Jones,” a timid voice calls from the hallway.
I turn to find Sarah Kim hovering there, glancing at me and then quickly down the hall, like she’s afraid of being caught. She tugs at the sleeves of her trademark checkered cardigan, the fabric nearly swallowing her hands, and beneath it she’s wearing a t-shirt printed with the full numerical value of pi.
I smile, extra grateful for this quirky teenager and the much-needed distraction she usually brings.
“Hello, Ms. Kim.”
Once I’m within arm’s reach, she grabs my sleeve and tugs me toward the lockers. “Did you see this?” she hisses, thrusting her phone into my hand.
On the screen is a photo of a grade report.
She watches me closely, a tense line carving itself into her forehead, panic glazing her eyes. I study the image again and spot the number in the topcorner—3.95. Her GPA. No longer a perfect 4.0, but still nowhere near enough to knock her out of her valedictorian spot.
“Can you believe this?” she whimpers, covering her face with a hand.
“How did this happen?”
“Geer,” she growls the name, nostrils flaring. If smoke could come out of her ears right now, it would. “He did this.”
