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JIMMY

When I returned to school on Monday, I was still thinking about the day I’d spent with TJ over the weekend. We’d slipped effortlessly back into companionship, chatting amiably and holding hands, making it feel like a date. But when I might have hoped for a kiss at the end, TJ had given me an awkward side hug with a “see ya later,” and then we’d gotten into our cars and headed in separate directions.

Still, we’d kept up the conversation via text the rest of the weekend, my pulse jumping every time my phone buzzed with a notification. It reminded me of those early days when TJ and I dated in college, when everything had been new and exciting. When I experienced the joy of being wanted for the first time.

I wasn’t sure I’d been wanted that way since.

That thought had sent me down a shame spiral, resulting in eating an entire pint of Ben & Jerry’s while watching Money Pit.

In the week and a half since I’d broken up with Steven, I’d done a lot of soul-searching, trying to pinpoint what it was that had kept me with him for so long. The confidence I’d gained while dating TJ had helped me learn to stand up for myself. I’d learned to push back with Sammy when he was being an overprotective big brother and even Mandy and Drea when they got a little overenthusiastic with their advice. I’d learned to tell men no when getting hit on in bars, and I’d gotten better at advocating for myself when other contentious situations arose. I’d become more confident in my sense of style as well, wearing eyeliner on occasion and adding items to my wardrobe that were a little trendier than joggers and basketball shorts.

And then, I’d met Steven. He’d been different from the few other guys I’d dated and, more importantly, different from TJ. As a hairdresser, he’d presented a polished and sophisticated image. One that I found intimidating but also…intriguing. He’d flirted with me endlessly at that first hair appointment when I’d been liberated from my curls, and then at the end of the appointment, he’d asked me out. Feeling bold after being given a new look, I’d said yes, and we’d gone out the next day.

He’d wined and dined me, charming me with his effortless conversation, then kissed me on the cheek at the end of the night. I’d thought him a gentleman.

The manipulations started not long after that, though I hadn’t been able to see it at the time. He’d started small, chipping away at the confidence I’d built little by little. He’d ask my opinion on where we should eat, then make judgy little comments about the food, the ambiance, or the decor. If we ate in, he’d say things like, “Thanks for cooking, babe. I’m surprised you actually know how to make this.” He started criticizing my style. “You’re not wearing that are you?” or “These jeans look so much better on you. They make you look like you actually have an ass.” He’d introduce me to people as his “nerdy little librarian,” as if he were my savior for rescuing me from the sin of being smart.

I started trying to anticipate those things, convincing myself that my happiness was tied to his. Everything was done with a What Would Steven Do lens. Only I was wrong every time. If I thought he might like X , he invariably preferred Y . And eventually, I quit trying at all.

He moved in with me just a month after we started dating. He told me it would make things easier since he was already spending so much time with me. As a teacher, he knew I sometimes struggled with my bills and refused to ask for help from my brother. Wouldn’t it be so much easier if we pooled our resources and split rent and utilities? It just made more sense, he’d said.

I’d had my doubts, but that first month, it really had been nice to split the bills and have someone to come home to each evening. That was the one and only month he paid his fair share. After that, he told me he was saving so he could open his own salon. Never mind that he spent plenty of money on designer clothes and nights out with his friends.

And on and on it went. I could look back and point to so many little moments when I’d given up my autonomy. When I’d accepted criticism or blame or mistreatment until, eventually, it had just become a daily part of my existence, and I didn’t recognize who I was anymore.

I’d spent the last week and a half trying to figure that out. Who was Jimmy Clark? And who did he want to be? I thought I’d been making progress.

And then I’d spent a beautiful early fall day with the man who’d once been my everything, and it reminded me of just how far I’d veered off the path. Could I find my way back?

“Hey, Jimmy. Do you have any videos I can show to Mrs. Robertson’s afternoon drama classes?” I looked up from my computer at the circulation desk, trying to refocus on the present after being completely lost in my thoughts. Our assistant principal, Mr. Dennison, was standing in front of me, brows raised in question. I rose and walked toward the back, where we kept a selection of videos for teachers to check out. “I thought Mrs. Robertson had a sub lined up for while she’s on maternity leave?” I pulled three videos I knew Annette had shown in the past and handed them to Mr. Dennison.

“Thanks. She did have one lined up. Mr. Salas was coming out of retirement to be her sub. Unfortunately, he fell off a ladder cleaning his gutters yesterday and is no longer available.”

“Oh no! Is he okay?” Mr. Salas had been the drama teacher when I was in school. I never had him, but he’d always seemed like a nice guy.

“He will be. But he broke his leg in two places and needs surgery. I’ll catch you later. Thanks for these.” He was out the door and headed down the hall before I could respond.

Linda, my library aide, came bustling in a few minutes later. She dropped her kids off at the elementary school every day before reporting to the middle school, where she assisted me throughout the day. She was a sassy, no-nonsense woman in her thirties with a fantastic sense of humor. We got along great.

“Did you hear about Mr. Salas?”

“Miranda just told me when I came through the office. Poor guy. And poor Mrs. Robertson. I’m sure she’s stressed about who’s going to be covering her classes. Doughnut?” She offered a pastry bag to me and I reached inside and snagged a plain glazed. “Didn’t you tell me your Broadway friend was back in town? Maybe he could sub.”

I had no idea if TJ would be interested in something like that, but he had been a theater education major. It couldn’t hurt to ask. I pulled out my phone and shot him a text.