TaylorKennedy leaps from her seat, darts towards me, and hugs me tightly. Her tear-stained cheeks wet my cheek and t-shirt. Jackson drops to his knees on my other side to join the celebration. We hug, then laugh as we all wipe our tears without speaking a word.I break the silence when I can take it no more. “We need to eat before our food gets cold,” I announce.As he returns to his chair, Jackson mumbles, “Too much oohy-gooey for Taylor.”He knows me too well. It’s as if he sees into my inner-most thoughts. I rarely cry. I feel deeply, never wearing my emotions on my sleeves. Displays of affection are not my thing.Kennedy fans her face, trying to calm her tears. Jackson and I tip our wine glasses towards each other's before taking a sip. For a few minutes, we enjoy our luke-warm Mexican rice and scrumptious chicken enchiladas.I see the wheels turning as Jackson attempts to eat. Unable to take it any longer, I prompt Jackson, “Just say it.”“Does this mean you plan to teach and mov
TaylorKennedy opens her notebook, flips a few pages, then begins. She states, “These are the notes I made for our phone call we planned for tonight. Since you’re here and will live with us, some items may need tweaking. My appointment with Dr. Matthews is on Tuesday. At that time, we’ll need to discuss our timeline and Taylor’s appointment with Dr. Matthews. All of this will depend on the method the doctor decides works best to harvest her eggs,” Kennedy informs. Jackson, sensing my question, says, “Dr. Matthews is the fertility specialist they referred us to. I already endured my visit to prove my boys are strong swimmers.” To this I laugh, nearly spewing wine everywhere. Mental note: refrain from sipping wine during our future delicate conversations. Jackson’s cheeks redden with embarrassment. I assume we will have many embarrassing conversations in the months to come.“Our planning and decisions will begin on Tuesday night,” Kennedy continues. She shares the items we will discuss
TaylorI wake to the bright light because of the blinds I forgot to close and the smell of breakfast drifting from the kitchen. I’m not a morning person, but the smells are enticing me from my cozy bed. I quickly pee, wash my face and hands, run a brush through my hair, then pad slowly to a kitchen island barstool.Kennedy stands dressed for the day at the stove. I smell bacon and see her flip an omelet as I nibble on the fresh fruit in the center of the island.“Good Morning,” I mumble in greeting to Kennedy’s back.“Good Morning,” she returns, turning with a smile. She fetches a bowl of yogurt to join the fruit. “Bacon will be ready in a minute. You can make some toast with peanut butter.” Kennedy points towards a loaf of bread and peanut butter next to the toaster. She remembers I do not eat eggs.We eat in silence. I make quick work of my peanut butter toast and five strips of bacon. I place some yogurt in a small bowl, then sprinkle with banana slices and grapes. Kennedy nibbles o
TaylorI begin telling Kennedy my story from the moment I exited the airplane from my visit here last week.As I walk through the terminal, my thoughts jump from work, to household chores, to phone calls I need to make. I wish I were still in Kansas City, not returning to face my new single status in life. With the ringing of my cell phone, I drop my carry-on to rummage through my handbag. I just turned my iPhone on. Why is it at the bottom of my purse? Wallet. Gum. Brush. Compact. Finally, I grab my phone. The screen reveals Grace, John’s mother, on the ID. I should have known. I went through all the trouble to find my phone in a busy airport and it’s someone I don’t care to speak to.I gather up my suitcase and head toward the exit. While walking, loud laughter catches my attention. A group of four frat boys stand in the airport bar and enjoy the flirting of the blonde female bartender.Bartender! I told Jorge I would stop by his bar on my way home. Since I met his sister while in KC
Taylor Still Retelling StoryThe waitress returns with our beers, we place our meal orders and request two more beers. Quickly we return our attention to each other. He asks about my trip. I tell him more about Jackson and Kennedy. I talk about the long talks, the neighborhood party, and meeting his sister. As the waitress delivers the bill and clears the table, I realize I talked about me the entire meal. I’m caught off guard by the sadness quickly washing over me. It’s time for me to return home. Alone.“I don’t want to be alone.” The words jump out of my mouth before I restrain them. My hands leap to cover my mouth. This isn’t me; I’m not this woman. I can’t even blame it on too many drinks. I don’t do one-night stands with strangers.Placing his hand around my wrist, Jorge pulls my right hand from my face. “My place is nearby.” There is no smile on his face, as I allow my eyes to meet his. His look is serious. I try to decipher his intentions.As much as I want to keep the evening
Taylor Continues Retelling Her StoryI search Jorge’s face for clues as John continues his profane-laced tirade in the hallway. Official assistance? Domestic dispute? I inhale a deep calming breath, but before I can ask Jorge about the call, we hear a neighbor announce to John he has phoned the police. John spews profanities and threats before we hear the neighbor slam his door closed.Staring into his chocolate eyes, I will Jorge to speak. My erratic breathing seems too loud, and words fail me. I can’t explain John’s actions. I tuck my trembling hands into my shorts pockets. I need to know who was on his phone. I search their brown depths for a clue.“Please.” I beg, my voice faint and quivering.Jorge closes the bathroom door before locking it. He pulls me snug to his chest.“My roommate Jake is on the Chicago PD. He is on duty and headed here now.” I suck in a sharp breath. “The man outside your door is not about to calm down and leave until you let him in.” Jorge raises my chin to
Taylor Continues Retelling Her StoryI wave them off as I head to the kitchen for another water. Jorge approaches as I finish a long refreshing drink from the bottle.“Can they search your apartment?” Acknowledging the question forming upon my lips, he continues, “They want to search for drugs that John may have hidden here. They believe he may have a stash and that is why he is so frantic about entering the apartment.” Placing a finger upon my lips to silence me, he finishes, “They will not hold you responsible if they find drugs. They only want to remove them to keep you safe.”I can’t speak. The mere mention that drugs might hide in my presence upsets me. I witness the destruction they reek on the students and their families every day at school. Congenital disabilities, learning disabilities, homelessness, foster care, and addiction to drugs affect many of my middle school students. The thought of such a vile substance in my apartment cripples me. I simply nod in agreement to the se
TaylorI meet Jorge’s eyes. In them I see his worry John physically abused me. “No, I feared he might, but he never crossed that line.” I reach for his hand, grasping it between my two, and I continue, “I returned from a trip to Washington D.C. with my students. I found women in bed with him. The apartment was a disaster. Drugs, used condoms, and trash were everywhere. That’s when I threw him out and changed the locks.” Jorge squeezes my hands. “We were over the minute I moved us to Chicago. He found work in a bar. He partied too much. He stayed out, sometimes overnight. We were two roommates, nothing more. It wasn’t a healthy relationship. I did what I had to, to protect myself. I should have found the strength to end it years ago. I just couldn’t bear the thought of being alone.”“But you were alone,” Jorge points out. “You cut ties with friends; you never went out, you worked, and cowered at home alone.”Ouch! The truth hurts.“I thought he was finally out of my life.” I whisper.“