It’s not a big deal. Just drinks at the bar where I work. Something different—if you don’t count that non-date that I had with Gabriel where I realized I’d already kissed him by “accident.” But it’s enough to get me back out there. Back into having conversations with men that revolve around a future, one that I’m trying to rebuild here in Connecticut.
I'm not nervous exactly. More like curious. Like I'm trying on a version of myself I haven't worn in a long time, and I want tosee if it still fits.
The broom catches on something under the reading corner, and I crouch down to find a construction paper heart that must have slid under the bookshelf during the chaos of the party. It's covered in stickers and saysMY TEACHERin large, deliberate crayon letters with a backwards E.
I sit back on my heels and look at it for a second longer than necessary.
Two years ago, I couldn't be in a classroom without feeling like the air had been punched out of me. Every child's laugh was a reminder of what I couldn't have. I used to sit in my car for ten minutes before school convincing myself to go inside. I’d text my mom telling her how much I regretted getting my degree in education.
The worst days were when they'd talk about their families, the casual, total unselfconsciousness of it, the‘my daddy makes pancakes,andmy mom smells like roses’moments that would hit me somewhere behind the sternum and stay there all day. Or show and tell. Those were rough too.
And now I have a student who made me a valentine with a backwards letter E, and it makes me feel lucky instead of hollow.
I tuck it into my bag.
I’ve just started on my desk when a soft knock sounds at the door. I glance up as a woman peeks her head inside, her hand resting on the shoulder of one of my students who left earlier.
“Hi, Ms. Martinez?”
I set the broom aside and smile, already excited to gush about her daughter Everly because she’s one of my favorite kids in my new class. Bright, always asking thoughtful questions and so eager to learn. What more could you ask for in a kindergartener?
“Come in!” I call setting down the bottle of spray. “Hi! You must be Everly’s mom.”
I step forward, extending my hand. She takes it with a firm shake, her green eyes warm and kind. She’s beautiful—dark blonde hair, the same sweet face as her daughter and a casual pair of jeans and a fitted top that shows off her chest.
“Yes, I am.” She smiles. “How are you settling in with your new class?”
“Really well.” I nod. “I’m enjoying the students this year. And acclimating to Brookhaven.”
“That’s great. It’s such a close-knit community and I know the children in Everly’s class have all been good to her.”
I smile. “How can I help you?”
Amber shifts her weight slightly. "I actually came in because I wanted to ask if we could set up some time next week. I have some concerns about her reading, and I'd love your input on what I can be doing at home to help her."
"Of course," I say. "I'll send you my office hours tonight. She's doing well, genuinely, but there are a few things we can work on together and I'm happy to talk through it."
"That's a relief to hear." She exhales. "We just moved back a few months ago and I've been worried about disrupting her. She's adaptable but I still feel guilty."
“She’s doing wonderful, really,” I reassure her as Everly twirls around the empty classroom, lost in her own little world as she dances to a song that she’s singing. “Where did you move from?”
“New York City,” she says. “My husband still works long hours there, so he commutes, but I wanted to come back. I love it here. I never thought I’d miss it this much.” She tilts her head. “What about you? Where are you from originally?”
“I grew up in Atlanta but moved to New York City as fast as Icould,” I joke. “That’s where I was before Brookhaven.”
She laughs. “So, what brought you to settle in Brookhaven?”
I hesitate for half a second before going with the truth. “Long story… got divorced. Couldn’t afford rent in the city anymore. My roommate was getting married, so I had to find something new. My grandma lives here, so I always had fond memories of visiting, but living with her didn’t end up working out. I ended up moving in with a friend who just took over as owner of the bar I work at. Pretty house right around the lake.”
“Oh?” She tilts her head. “What bar?”
“Brookhaven Brews.”
She nods, recognition flickering across her face. “Natasha Carpenter.”
I look up. "You know her?"
"Yeah." A small, careful pause. "Her cousin is my ex-husband. We were married for a while." She says it with the practiced neutrality of someone who has made peace with a thing and has learned to state it plainly. "I actually reached out to him recently about some contracting work on the house my husband and I just bought here. He still does renovations, right?"
