My Mother's New Husband Is My First Love

Rue

“We now present the bride and groom!”

Cheers erupt around me, mixing in with the soft violin music that drifts around the elegantly decorated club.

Above, fairy lights twinkle as the overhead lights dim, and a single spotlight rests on the double doors that are opening.

I swallow and hold my breath as my heart races and stings with an emotion I never thought that I would be feeling. Not when today was a happy day. A glorious occasion and something that the lovely bride worked so hard to achieve. And even though I’m jealous, my heart is aching, and I wish I could leave and pretend that today never happened, I remain in place and watch as the woman in question and her new groom enter.

They both look perfect together, she with her tall, lean figure and curly blonde hair that cascades down her body like a golden waterfall and her sparkling blue eyes that show exactly how happy she is. And he, with messy salt and pepper locks that scatter about the top of his clean-shaven tan face and dark, black-hole eyes that just suck you in.

They’re dressed to the nines in their wedding attire: a beautiful white dress with sequins that sparkle like stars in the light as she moves and a black suit that is tailored to show off his muscular figure.

Their lips are twisted into smiles, showing just how happy they are to be united, and yet, when his gaze shifts to mine, I see something there.

What was it?

Unease?

Confusion?

Or was it something else that he is fighting to make sure I can’t see? I wasn’t sure, but as our eyes meet, I feel my heart squeeze painfully and a knot begin to form in my throat, suffocating me while I try my damndest to keep a smile on my face.

You see, the woman getting married is my mother, and the one that she is marrying is a man who opened up my eyes to the world of love and the pain it brought along with it when the one you love wouldn’t and couldn’t be with you.

Everyone has a first love.

Some meet that person who they instantly click with and feel butterflies with, while others slowly fall in love as time passes.

I was no exception to this, and because I wasn’t an exception, my first love came while I was still in high school.

I was eighteen at the time, and I didn’t really fit in, so I never had the chance to fall in love.

Instead, I was bullied, mocked, and ostracized by my classmates. Boys and girls, they all made sure to make my life a living hell because I was chubby, short, wore glasses, and couldn’t quite control my wild blonde hair, so it sat crazily around my head.

I was a textbook nerd and freak, and just like in those stories you read about high school and the outcast, I suffered those things too.

But it was because I was treated the way that I was that I fell in love to begin with.

It all started one rainy afternoon when my classmates decided to lock me out on the soccer pitch after gym.

I was the last one out there because I was in charge of making sure the equipment was put away.

Of course, another student was supposed to help me, but they insisted that they had something else to do.

Since I was used to being alone, I didn’t think much of it and just decided to do it myself even if it was sprinkling.

I figured I would get it done before the sprinkle turned into a steady rain and even a downpour, but I was horribly mistaken.

It took longer than expected, and by the time I finished, I was soaked.

All I wanted to do was go inside and get changed and then head to my next class, but when I went to open the doors leading into the school, I found them locked.

At first, I thought that maybe someone locked them accidentally, but when a few girls popped their heads around and started laughing, I knew that it was intentional and that unless someone realized that I was missing, I would be stuck there freezing and soaked to the bone.

I remember banging on the door when they disappeared and screaming for someone to open up and let me in, but no student who passed even bothered looking my way.

After what felt like an eternity banging on that door, I finally gave up and just sat down, pulling my knees against me and then burying my head.

I was filled with so much self-loathing and hatred because of the way others treated me that I didn’t hear the doors behind me open, and when a jacket came to rest across my shoulders, I looked up and found myself staring into two dark pools that I recognized instantly as the eyes of my homeroom teacher, Mr. Owens.

“What are you doing out here?” He asked me as I just stared, wondering how he even found me. “You’re soaked.”

“The doors closed while I was cleaning up after gym.” I lied, not wanting him to pity me. “And no one has come by to open them.”

At the time I remember him staring at me like he didn’t believe my story, but I didn’t dare to tell him the truth. Even I knew that if I got the girls who did this to me in trouble, I would suffer something insanely worse.

“Right,” he finally said, holding out a hand. “Well, now that someone has come, why don’t you get up?”

“Oh, right.”

Feeling my cheeks heat, I jumped up and then followed Mr. Owens in.

I think my brain went on autopilot after that because I don’t quite remember changing into dry clothes and then following him to his classroom, where he made me have a seat while he busied himself making hot chocolate.

“Drink this,” he told me, passing me the steaming mug. “I’m sure that you’re freezing.”

“I’m fine,” I lied but took the cup anyway, and when it started to warm my hands, I could feel it also warming my heart.

Even if he was just a teacher and this was his job, he was the only person to show me such kindness aside from my mother. And because of that, I felt myself falling in love instantly.

After that, my gaze followed him everywhere as he taught his lessons. And when I saw him in the halls, I found myself wondering where exactly he was going.

There were even times when I saw him chatting and laughing with beautiful teachers that I felt jealous and wished that I could be them too, but in the end, I knew that my one-sided love would never come to fruition.

How could it when I was a student and he was my teacher?

It was taboo, forbidden, and something that could cost him greatly, and yet, I wished more than anything that somehow he would fall in love with me too.