Page 3 of On My Side (Quiblings #3)

Ren

Playlist: mirrorball | Taylor Swift

Quiblings group chat

Leo

reeeeennnnnnnnnn

Leo

mom’s complaining you didn’t stop by on wednesday like you usually do.

Leo

stop being such an overachiever and making the rest of us look bad.

Nic

you know what? hell yeah. sunday dinner when you can make it should be enough to make her happy, but nooooo you and kat have to be perfect, local children without boundaries who will do anything for our parents so when we can’t it makes us look like assholes.

Kat

sorry for being a good daughter eyeroll emoji millie sure isn’t going to come through for them, and if ren can’t, who’s going to? me.

Millie

get fucked. middle finger emoji

Kat

sucks being name dropped for no reason, doesn’t it?

Nic

trust me, there’s a reason.

Jo

how the hell do you people still sound loud in text messages?

Nic

hey! noise complaints are my thing.

Alex

she’s right, it’s 4am in la and you woke me up with your incessant yapping.

Leo

listen i didn’t mean to start a whole thing. I just need you to know i’m home for the summer and if she sighs and stares wistfully out the window saying, “ren is such a good boy” whenever i tell her i’m busy and can’t do something for her, i’m going to lose it.

Izzy

and if he’s in jail, our twinny connection is going to fritz and i’ll lose it, too.

Ren

sorry. i’ll talk to her about not comparing us.

Leo

no don’t do THAT.

Leo

then she’ll know i’m a snitch.

Alex

what’s he supposed to do?

Leo

stop being goddamn PERFECT.

Read by Ren

I open the door to Port of Call, the local bar, and am immediately enveloped in the smell of sweat, booze, and deep-fried something. In other words, a perfect recipe for celebrating the last day of school.

When I graduated high school, my dad took me to Ireland, and he ordered me a Guinness.

He called it my first “Irish Legal Drink,” and I gagged at my first sip while he laughed at me.

On my twenty-first birthday, he took me to Port of Call and bought me another pint of Guinness, smirking as he handed it to me.

I know he expected me to choke my way through it, and it was the most satisfying thing to watch the smile slide off his face when I drank it effortlessly.

I think about that every time I come into Port Alcohol—as it's known among the locals—how my dad somehow thought I hadn’t been drinking in college.

Teachers are scattered in clusters at tables throughout the bar, but I grab a barstool and order a Guinness like I always do. The end of the school year is bittersweet, filled with contrasting emotions of relief and sadness. I love my job, even though it isn’t what I always wanted to do.

When I started college, I planned to major in piano performance, but halfway through my first semester, a classmate mentioned they were double majoring in music education and performance.

On a whim, I decided to as well, since I’d enjoyed teaching piano lessons during the summer.

Learning about music education was illuminating, and I wanted to create the same magic it felt like my own teachers did when I was a kid.

Now I get to bring students joy through music and be a safe person for them. Of course, it’s not always magical or fulfilling. There are the days a student throws up while playing a recorder, or one mentions something about their home life that prompts mandated reporting.

There’s also the occasional mom who thinks her flirting is subtle. It never is.

It’s always overt and obvious and makes me uncomfortable.

Comments like, “the things I’d do if I had you for a night,” make it clear they want quick and casual, but I found out the hard way that sex without love isn’t something I can do.

I’m demisexual, and I need an emotional connection to be attracted to someone, and a deep, meaningful relationship is necessary for me to enjoy sex with a partner.

My last sexual relationship was last year with Taylor, a former fourth grade teacher at the school.

While I thought it was more than that, it was casual for her, because we never clarified our expectations.

When we realized we wanted different things, it ended.

My heart was broken, and I was a mess. I refuse to get into that kind of relationship again because I know it’ll hurt me.

Besides, it’s not like I’m lonely or need a relationship.

I have my family, my cat, my friends, and my best friend since middle school, Will, who moved home recently.

“Renny!” I glance up in time to see my friend, Jocelynn, wrapping me in a hug. She’s the classmate who convinced me to double major, and we’ve been friends ever since. Ever since we both ended up in the Port Haven school system, we always meet for celebratory drinks after the last day of school.

“Jossy!” I say teasingly, hugging her back.

“It’s been too damn long.” In addition to being the high school band director, Jocelynn actually uses her performance degree by moonlighting as a concert pianist. If she’s not at school, she’s playing a show, even more so during the summer.

I saw her play at Carnegie Hall last year, and I’m not too proud to admit I sobbed watching her performance.

“ Way too long,” she agrees, stepping away and looking me up and down. “Did you get taller? Do you have a girlfriend yet?”

I roll my eyes. “Okay, Nonna. No, I don’t have a girlfriend.”

She grins and hops onto a barstool. “Did you hear who’s pregnant?”

My eyes widen, and I lean further in. This is one of my favorite things about Jocelynn, she knows all of the good town gossip. The things she’s told me further solidify my rule to not date a student’s parent. “No, who?”

“Me!” she shrieks.

“Oh! Wow! And that’s good?” I say awkwardly, reeling from the noise.

“I can’t get pregnant unless I spend thousands of dollars, so yeah, it’s a good thing.” She playfully pokes at my bicep.

Warren, Jocelyn’s husband, was in Kat’s class at Port Haven High School.

He came out as transgender their junior year of high school, which caused quite the scandal.

He went on to go to medical school and suddenly everyone loves him and genders him correctly.

I wish every trans person in town got the respect Warren does.

I’ve had to fight with parents and the principal about referring to my students by their correct pronouns and names.

“Right,” I say sheepishly, rubbing at where she poked me. “Congratulations! That’s amazing!”

She beams up at me. “Thank you, Warren and I are thrilled. He’s so excited to be a dad.”

There’s a strange sinking feeling in my chest. When Taylor and I had been…

well, whatever the hell we were, I’d pictured a life with her.

A life where we got married and had kids, and I thought that life was within reach.

I know there’s plenty of time for me to be a dad and start a family, but it feels like I’m still grieving the life that never existed anywhere but my mind.

As a result, it’s always weird when someone mentions fatherhood.

“He’s going to be a great dad,” I tell her earnestly. “When are you due?”

She absentmindedly rubs circles on her belly. She’s not showing yet, but she already looks maternal. It’s adorable. “I’m twelve weeks along, so baby Santiago-Conley will make their grand entrance around December 22nd. Could be a Christmas baby, isn’t that wild?”

“Wild,” I agree. “I’m so happy for you and Warren, Joss. This is such great news.”

She smiles at her belly. “Thanks, we’re thrilled. I’ve already talked to my principal and with the timing, they’ve offered to have the assistant band director step up so I can take the entire semester off. I’m not gonna lie, it’s tempting.”

“You should do it,” I encourage.

“Honestly, we’d be fine financially if I don’t work a semester.”

I don’t tell her, but I’m also at a point in my career with 4Play where, if I wanted to, I could stop teaching and still live comfortably.

I don’t want to, however, and I can’t see her stopping completely, but I think a break would be good for her, which is what I tell her.

“Yeah… but enough about me. When do you start private lessons?”

Barry, the bartender, brings me my Guinness and takes Jocelynn’s order. I take a sip before answering. “I’m not doing lessons this summer.”

I feel Jocelynn’s eyes boring holes into the side of my head. “Yes, you are.”

I lower the bottle and raise a brow. “Um, no I’m not?”

“Yes, you are because I told a student you’d be taking her on this summer when I leave!” she throws her hands up in apparent exasperation.

I freeze mid-sip. “Why would you tell a student that?”

“Because I assumed you’d say yes!” She throws her hands in the air again. At this point, she should keep her hands up there. “You always say yes!”

I do. It’s a fatal flaw that has led to burnout and more than one depressive episode.

“Wait, what do you mean, when you leave?” I ask in confusion.

“I’m auditioning for philharmonics full-time this summer! And I only felt comfortable leaving her knowing you’d take her on…”

“But you didn’t know I’d take her on. You assumed I’d take her on. That’s not the same thing.”

“Tomato, tomahto. Please, Ren. Just this one student. She’s really special, and I think you two would work together even better than she and I do.

She’s a rising sophomore and unbelievably talented and dedicated to the craft.

” She bats her eyelashes and pouts as she clasps her hands beneath her chin. “Pleeeeeeease? For me?”

I want to say no. I don’t want to teach lessons, but I always have a hard time saying no to my people. My therapist calls it people-pleasing; I call it peace-keeping. People-keeping, even. If I say yes, if I put my head down and do what’s asked of me, I won’t disappoint anyone.

“She’s autistic,” Jocelyn hurriedly continues. “And music is her thing , you know? She calls it her special interest. She needs someone who validates and encourages her but also pushes her to her full potential. I think that’s you.”

Shit. Jocelyn doesn’t know my older sister, Nic, was diagnosed with autism last year, so this hits close to home.

I’m imagining my sister as a high schooler: cranky, freckle-faced, and curly-haired. She told me it never felt like she quite belonged in the world, like if she were a robot, she was missing a mechanism that everyone else had.

I wish someone had believed in her the way she deserved before she was in her late twenties.

I sigh. “When is it?”

Jocelynn squeals and claps excitedly. “You’re the best! I told her she deserved a two week break, as long as she practices consistently, so you’re scheduled Saturday the twenty-fifth at ten a.m.”

I pull out my phone and open my calendar, making sure it won’t double book me. “Where?”

“The SandPiper Inn.”

I look at her blankly. “Where’s that?”

“It’s the inn on the other end of the seawall.”

My brows raise. “I thought that place closed.”

“Nope. Piper’s mom owns it, and Piper uses the baby grand in the lobby. That’s her name, by the way. Piper. And she’s great—funny and sarcastic as hell. You’re gonna love her.”

I frantically type in the information as she gives it to me. Piper, rising sophomore, autistic, adult owns the inn I didn’t know existed.

“Did you talk to her adult about payment?” I ask, eyes on my phone.

Jocelynn snickers. “You’re such an elementary teacher. Her adult . She lives with her mom, and I did tell her to tell her adult to expect that discussion with you. But I’m sure Ms. Hinton won’t give you any trouble.”

“I can’t promise the whole summer.” My therapist made me promise to set better boundaries, to pay attention to what will energize and make my life better, versus what I’m pressured to do to make other people happy. “But I’ll meet with her on the twenty-fifth, and we’ll go from there.”

“You’re the best.” Jocelyn leans forward and squeezes my forearm. “Next Guinness is on me.”

And there it is. That warm, fuzzy feeling whenever I know I’ve made someone happy, made things better.

My therapist is going to be pissed.