“Oh, Lance,” she says, reading between the lines. “You’re kidding me.”
“I put money in his account today. I don’t know what’s going on with him, but fuck, Mariah. How does a kid go hungry in this country in this day and age?”
“Believe it or not, that’s one reason I bake a lot and bring it in.”
“I thought that was just for me?” I pout.
Her giggle winds the knot even tighter. “Sorry.” She heads toward the door, the clock threatening to tip as the bell rings. “If I can help, let me know. I’d love to.”
There’s no reply from me because nothing I could say would be well-received. I’ve managed not to blow it so far today. Keeping my mouth shut now would probably be wise.
Except, I’m not wise.
“I have things you can help with …”
She laughs, steps into the hall and disappears as the bell rings. My class begins to fill as students file in. They murmur their hellos and I ask them about their weekend on auto-pilot, all the while replaying mine in my head.
The tardy bell is set to ring when Stacy comes waltzing in. “Hey, Mr. Gibson,” she sing-songs.
“Better get to your seat before that bell rings.”
“I have something for you.”
Dropping my pen, I look up to see a red cupcake in a yellow liner sitting in the palm of her hand. “Ms. Malarkey sent this down for you.”
“Thank you,” I say, taking it from her.
“Mr. Gibson?”
“Yeah?”
Looking up at my student, I see a look of pure glee. She leans towards me and whispers, “You two would have gorgeous babies.”
“And you’re tardy,” I say, motioning toward her seat as the bell buzzes overhead.
The cupcake goes on the corner of my desk and Stacy’s comment gets filed away to a part of my brain I don’t want to revisit.
Sixteen
Mariah
“How’s it going this week?” Whitney asks. She joins me at the trunk of my car and takes in all the desserts lined up. “It kills me you make all this and give it away.” Swiping up a banana cupcake with peanut butter icing, she shrugs. “I’m keeping one.”
“Fine,” I laugh. “That can be your payment for helping me deliver them.”
“You could at least buy me dinner.”
“You could do this out of the kindness of your heart too,” I note, handing her a tray.
“All my kindness got soaked up by a screaming three-year-old at around two this morning in the emergency room,” she says, wincing. “I think I’ll abstain from sex.”
I give her a look, lifting a tray of lemon bars from the trunk and closing it.
“For like two days,” she adds with a laugh. “So, how did it go with Lance?”
We meander through the garden at the back of the nursing home. A few residents are outside, some in wheelchairs, enjoying the pretty day. The door to the game room opens into the expansive outdoor area.
I love coming here to bring baked goodies and books and sometimes slippers or lip balms. It makes me feel connected to humanity in a very peaceful way.
“It’s not going badly,” I admit. “It’s not so different from before, really. He still drives me crazy, makes lewd comments, only now he works in a lot of vague references to conversations we’ve had.”
“I love your love,” she sighs happily.
“You’re insane.”
“I’m not nearly as crazy as you are. You just don’t see it.”
I see it, but I’m not about to admit that to her. I am crazy. Ridiculously so. I haven’t been able to get off in days because the easiness of fantasizing about Lance is now too messy. Every day, every smirk, every lick of icing off his lips makes me want to freaking scream. All four afternoons this week when he didn’t make a call in my presence, when I didn’t even see his phone, made me giddy.
Tempering myself, writing notes on my desk like ‘truth’ and ‘wisdom’ don’t even help keep my spirits at a sane level. It’s going to come crashing down on me one of these days because leopards don’t change their spots and neither do guys like Lance.
I haven’t deleted the app off my phone in case he messages me at night. I want him to, even if I don’t necessarily want to see the string of those messages. Every evening when I climb in bed and scroll through social media, I have a little pep talk with myself. Tomorrow could be the day when everything goes back to normal. When the fun with me is over, and he moves on to someone new. I should prepare for that. I try. It’s occurred to me that this will be like a death—you can’t ever really prepare for it until the other person is gone.
“Ah, it’s Mariah,” Gretchen says from her wheelchair by the aloe vera plant. “What did you bring us today, honey?”