He settles into his chair across from me. “That’s a story. I thought you were a teacher?”
“I am. Kindergarten,” I tell him, forcing a smile. “Just got back into it. But on weeknights and weekends, I pick up occasional shifts here. Helps fill in the gaps in my income. Pays off some debt.”
He nods, thoughtful, as we wait for our server. And I force myself to stay in this moment. To be present. To stop thinking about Gabriel. And to ignore the fact that I can still feel himinsideme.
“Ah, I see. I get that. Paying off debt is always a good thing.”
He says it easily, like he actually does understand. And maybe he does. I consider asking if he’s in debt too—how deep, how bad, what for, all the questions I’d want to know on a first date before proceeding to a second—but I bite my tongue. I don’t know if I care enough yet to ask him.
The server swings by, all chipper efficiency, one of my coworkers that I don’t know all that well, and we rattle off our drink orders. Chris, whose name I finally remember, is already set on food, which works for me. I don’t exactly have an appetite when I’ve got a bucket of Gabriel’s cum slowly leaking out of me, making a disaster of my thong and dress, but I know I should eat since I haven’t since the Valentine’s Day party at school.
At least I know the menu like the back of my hand, so there’s no decision paralysis.
When the server leaves, we’re back to our awkward little dance of small talk that all first dates must experience.
“So, tell me more about teaching kindergarteners. You said you just got back into it?”
I nod, shifting in my seat. It’s a big mistake, because the movement only causes a fresh gush of cum to slip out and into my sad, completely ruined, underwear.
“I love it,” I say, trying to ground myself in the conversation again.Don’t think about the geyser between your thighs. “I love the children. Love their joy for learning and love teaching. I taught years ago but had to take a break due to... life circumstances.”
Chris takes a sip of his drink, waiting for me to elaborate. Iwasn’t going to open with my divorce, but I suppose it’s important for him to understand where I’m coming from. I take a deep breath and then release it slowly.
“I was married for a few years,” I tell him, studying his face carefully for any negative reaction. Nothing so far. “My husband cheated on me. Went through a nasty divorce when I found out he got his mistress pregnant while still married to me.”
His hand is on mine before I even register the movement. It’s warm. Solid. A little unexpected but not horrible.
“Damn.” His voice is soft and genuine. “I’m so sorry.”
It’s the appropriate response. The normal response when someone unloads information like this. And yet, my mind instantly flicks back to Gabriel’s response when I told him about my husband cheating and getting his mistress pregnant.
“I’m not going to tell you sorry because I’m not sure if I’m sorry yet. Sounds like you dodged a bullet.”
I almost laugh at the difference. I just offer Chris a small, polite smile and leave my hand where it is, though it suddenly feels like it’s burning a hole into the table.
“Thanks. Yeah, so that had me putting teaching on pause for a bit. Amongst other things.”
Crippling anxiety while navigating infertility; blood draws looking for explanations and getting nothing.
But this is a first date. I’ll save the rest of my trauma dumping for the second. If he gets a second.
“I’m so grateful to put that chapter of my life behind me and start fresh.”
Chris nods thoughtfully, and for a moment, I wonder if he’s mentally calculating whether a year post-divorce is long enough for me to be back out here. But then he says—
“Mine was one month ago.”
I blink.
“This is the first date I’ve gone on since things were finalized,” he continues with a nervous chuckle.
Damn.
One month is fresh. I know where I was one month after my divorce, and it wasn’t here. It wasn’t this. And it wasn’t doing what Gabriel and I just did on the floor of his living room.
One month out of my divorce I was barely functional, wondering if I’d ever be okay again. It was crying in the shower and avoiding mirrors because the bags under my eyes were so dark I looked like a vampire. It was tequila straight from the bottle and swearing off men entirely. It was taking extra PI gigs just to feel something other than sadness over the life I thought I knew and redirecting my anger and frustration into vengeance for other women who’ve been hurt.
Maybe everyone processes divorce differently. And perhaps his wasn’t as... messy as mine was. But one month still feels too soon to know what you want.
