Author's Note:
It seems my plans to post a Valentine's Day story on, y'know, Valentine's Day have gone awry. Between craziness at work, travels, and a nasty bout of norovirus, this story has been a bit delayed. It's short and sweet, but I hope you'll still enjoy it. I turned thirty-five last October and am still coming to terms with that, so I wanted to explore a related theme. For those awaiting a Quite Contrary update, never fear: I'm working on part four as well. This story just wanted to come out in the meantime and I decided to indulge it. As always, all characters engaging in sexual activity are over the age of eighteen.
***
Much Ado About Forty
"Happy birthday, Mr. McQuarrie!"
Forcing myself not to grimace, I pasted a smile on my face. "Thanks, Jacob. How did you even know that was today?"
He shrugged, apparently unwilling to reveal his sources. "I have my ways."
I had to chuckle at that. The gossip grapevine at Milford High School was nothing if not robust. It was nice of my students to take note of my birthday, even if I desperately wanted to pretend it wasn't happening.
I wasn't exactly thrilled at the prospect of turning forty. It felt a bit like something inside me - youth, maybe hope - was dying. The fact that my birthday happened to also be Valentine's Day certainly didn't help since being hopelessly single was what bothered me most about the milestone. If I'd had a wife and kids with whom to share the day, I might even have celebrated it.
But nope, that just wasn't how life had gone for me.
I'd joined the marines right out of high school, just as the Iraq War was kicking off. I'd been young and dumb, thinking I was going to make a huge difference and keep the world safe from terrorists. After twelve years of service and multiple combat tours in both Iraq and Afghanistan, all I really had to show for it were some weird-looking scars, a few commendations, the rank of gunnery sergeant, the ability to belt System of a Down's "B.Y.O.B." at karaoke parties with much more angst than necessary, and entirely too many dead friends.
From there, I'd focused nearly all of my energy on going back to school and getting a bachelor's degree in history and a master's in education. I'd dated, to be sure, but being a solid decade older than my classmates had put somewhat of a damper on my social life. By the time I'd graduated and could focus on my personal life again, I'd been in my mid-thirties and it had seemed that most of the women my age who were interested in getting married and starting families had already done so. I'd had no problem finding dates and casual relationships, but they'd all wanted different things than I did when all was said and done. Devoting my attention to my career instead, I'd worked as a long-term substitute for a while before finding a permanent position as a history teacher at a school I loved, where I'd been for two years.
That left me where I was: happy with my work, lonely in my personal life, and turning forty. Hooray.
The sound of the bell snapped me out of my sulking. My students were good kids and didn't deserve my grouchiness, so I boxed my feelings away and smiled at the class.
"Morning, everyone!" I greeted them cheerfully. "I know this is your last period before lunch
and
it's Valentine's Day, so you're all probably a bit antsy, but if you bear with me for the next hour and pay attention, I promise I'll make it worth your while by being as interesting as humanly possible."
There were some assorted chuckles around the room at that. In fairness to my students, they'd all chosen to be there. While I taught regular American history courses as well, their class was a senior-year elective focused on the post-Cold War period and they were all genuinely interested in the material.
Clearing my mind of birthday-related negativity, I launched into my lesson on the Second Battle of Fallujah in 2004, the bloodiest battle of the Iraq War. I tried to keep things as objective and neutral as possible despite the fact that I'd actually fought in that battle as a nineteen-year-old during my first combat tour. It felt strange to be retelling those events to a classroom full of kids barely younger than I'd been at the time.
I made it about halfway through the lesson before the inevitable happened.
"Mr. Mack," Jacob piped up, employing the nickname many of my students used for me. "You used to be in the marines, right?"
"Yes, I was," I answered.
"Were you in Fallujah?"
I sighed, unwilling to lie to my students. "Yes."
Whispers and murmurs briefly broke out across the classroom.
"What was it like?" a girl in the second row asked.
"You must have fascinating stories, Mr. Mack," the boy next to her added.
"You kill anybody?" a student named Sam in the back of the room chimed in.
Holding up a hand to stem the onslaught of inquiries, I answered the three that had been posed in turn. "It was awful, I do have some stories about it, and
super
inappropriate question, Sam."
"Sorry, Mr. McQuarrie," the boy in question mumbled, staring sheepishly down at his notebook.
My expression softened. I couldn't fault my students for their interest and certainly didn't want to stifle their intellectual curiosity, so I decided to propose a way forward that would keep them engaged. "Tell you guys what: if you let me finish the lesson without peppering me with personal questions, I'll save the last ten minutes of class for an 'ask me anything' session on my time in the marines. How's that sound?"
There were nods and murmurs of assent.
Smiling despite myself, I got back to my lesson. The class remained engaged for the rest of the period and, thankfully, didn't get
too
personal with their queries at the end. The only question I didn't answer was whether I regretted the time I'd spent in the military; the bell signaling the end of the period bailed me out of that one.
I thought about that question a lot as I walked to the teachers' lounge and sat down at a free table to each my lunch. Did I regret the twelve years I'd spent in the marines? I honestly wasn't sure. I'd made friends who remained as close to me as brothers and built up skills that were serving me well in the civilian world, but I couldn't help but wonder what my life would be like if I'd gone to college right after high school or even just left the corps sooner than I had.
A melodic voice put a stop to my budding existential crisis.
"Happy birthday, Matt!"
Holly Larson, the English teacher whose classroom was two doors down from mine, took a seat next to me.
"Thanks, Holly." I couldn't help the smile that spread across my face. It was like an involuntary reflex whenever I saw her.
I'd met Holly on my first day working at Milford High and had developed a crush on her by the second. She was engaging and nurturing with her students and could make a lesson on the most boring book in the universe fascinating by her sheer magnetism. She was incredibly smart, the sort of person who would read almost absurdly dense and inscrutable literature in her personal time for shits and giggles. I'd once seen her borrowing
War and Peace
from the library for what she'd described with absolute sincerity as some "pleasure reading" over a long weekend.
She was also hands-down the most gorgeous woman I'd ever met. Her chestnut hair fell in waves just past her shoulders and her brown eyes held specks of copper that sparkled with a warmth matching that of her personality. She was taller than average for a woman, perhaps about five-foot-seven, but still a solid six inches shorter than me. I'd heard her refer to herself as "gawky" before, but to me, she was perfect.
I was head over heels in love with her, but she was only thirty and I knew she'd likely never be interested in a man so much older than her.
"How's your senior elective going?" she asked me before taking a bite of her sandwich.
"It's going alright, thanks," I replied, pushing my leftover pasta around absently with my fork. "It's a bit weird to be teaching them about stuff I actually lived through, but they seem to appreciate that I'll answer their questions about it honestly."
She nodded approvingly. "Good for you for handling it that way. It'll give them a unique and valuable perspective."
