The consensus among the female teachers was that she was too conventional, too small-minded, and too ordinary to be a good match for him—mostly because he was the opposite of all those things.
Frankly, I agreed—but I also knew my opinion was based largely on one short interaction, when, awkwardly trying to make chitchat at a school function, I’d said to her, “Admissions! That must be tough! How do you make all those agonizing decisions?”
And she just blinked at me and said, “It’s just whoever has the most money.”
Then, reading my shocked expression, she shifted to a laugh and said, “I’m kidding.”
But was she, though?
Nobody was sure she deserved him.
Of course … it didn’t follow that I did.
I couldn’t even say hi to him in the elevator.
Anyway, it was not five minutes after I’d heard the moving-in-together news—from a librarian who’d heard it from a math teacher who’d heard it from the school nurse—that, as I was making my way outside to gulp some fresh air … he asked me to cat-sit.
I’d just rounded the corner of the hallway, and there he was. Wearing a tie with dachshunds all over it.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey,” I said, panicking at the way he’d … just materialized.
Then, of all things, he said, “I’ve heard you’re a cat person.”
A cat person? Nope. But, not wanting to kill the conversation, I shrugged and said, “I’m more of a dog person, actually.”
He blinked at me.
“I mean,” I went on, feeling like I’d said the wrong thing. “I’m not opposed to cats…”
“Don’t you have a bunch of them?”
“Um. Nope.”
He frowned.
“I don’t have any cats,” I added, just to be clear. “At all.”
“Huh. Somebody told me you had like three cats.”
Wow. The only thing he knew about me … and it was wrong. Or maybe he thought I was somebody else entirely.
He looked as disappointed as I felt.
I reminded myself to breathe.
“I don’t dislike cats,” I said then, to cheer him up. “I don’t wish them harm or anything. I’m just … neutral.”
He nodded. “Got it.” Then he started to turn away.
“Wait!” I said. “Why?”
He paused. “I’m looking for a cat sitter. For the weekend. Just one night, actually.”
And then, truly, without even considering how pathetic it would be for me to be cleaning the litter boxes of my true love while he was off on a romantic weekend with his new live-in girlfriend, I said, “I’ll do it.”
“Really?”
“Sure. No problem at all.”
Next thing I knew, there I was in his apartment, snooping—and doing unspeakable things with his kitchen tongs.
So what was I looking for, exactly, as I tong-flipped those pages in that notebook? What could I possibly have been hoping to find? Some note-to-self that he didn’t really want to be with the woman he’d just decided to live with? Some daydream doodle of a face that looked remarkably like mine? Some secret code only I could break that spelled out H-E-L-P M-E?
Ridiculous.
Anyway, there was nothing like that.
There were grocery lists. Reminders. A half-written letter to his mom. A circled note to get his baby niece a one-year birthday present, with the words “baby biker jacket” scratched out and replaced with: “Something cool.” Doodles (mostly 3-D boxes), and to-do lists, and a whole bunch of tally marks on the cardboard of the back cover. Nothing special, or memorable, or even private. The normal detritus of a perfectly not unhappy life that had nothing at all to do with me.
And that’s when, flipping the pages back into position, a very important word came into my head: “Enough.”
I heard it almost as clearly as if I’d said it out loud. And then I did say it out loud.
“Enough.”
Then I shook my head. I couldn’t keep living like this—stealing glances, brushing past him in the hallways, sitting near—but not too near—his table at lunch, pausing to watch him leading kindergarten dance parties on the playground. Yearning.
Enough.
I had to shut it down. He’d chosen somebody else. It was time to move on.
And even though I did not always, or even often, follow the life advice I gave myself—on that day I did. I put the tongs back in the drawer, walked out, locked the door, drove straight home, and got on the Web to start looking for a new job.
Anyway, that was how I’d ended up in Texas, of all places—though that was how almost everybody wound up in Texas: love or money.
I’d come to this island by chance, but I’d found a real home here, way down at the