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Five

Present

F lash gives me the most pathetic please-don’t-go face I’ve ever witnessed.

I give him a quick pet between the ears and remind him I’ll be home shortly.

It’s only a dinner date, but the poor dog doesn’t understand that when I leave the house it’s not for eternity.

And he’s well versed in showing me just how pissed off and anxious my leaving him at home makes him in the form of household trash chewed and strewn all over the place upon my return.

But tonight, I stuck the trash cans on tables so the little devil can’t leave me any surprises. I’m already dreading this date. But when Aubry Clark sets you up on a blind date, you simply don’t say no.

You slap a smile on your face and graciously agree because she has a heart of gold.

All my NEL girls do.

I wonder how much longer I can hold out. It’s hard enough keeping the questions from flying at work. I don’t know what the next move is or the one after that.

I’m out of my element, flying by the seat of my pants. How much longer will it be before I feel like myself again? When will the fear of being caught subside?

It’s been months now.

So when Aubry force-fed a blind date down my throat, I said yes—too readily—in hopes of keeping her and Nora from asking me what was wrong.

You have to give to get. Be willing to lose—except the only thing I have left to lose now is my livelihood and reputation.

Losing my career poses a real problem: lack of income. The thought of starting over somewhere new, as something else, in a lackluster job—terrifies me. My entire life has been spent working up to the prestige and reputation that I have. I covet the work I do. The help I’m able to provide.

I check my face and hair in the mirror next to the front door, wipe the smudge of lipstick from my front tooth, and decide this is as good as it gets. My heart’s not in it anyway.

I don’t want to date anyone else.

I clutch the strap of my purse and square my shoulders as I head out the door.

You’re probably wondering why I’m writing this all down.

Shame and dread are formidable adversaries.

Once you carry them with you, they become an ever-present dull ache that pounds mercilessly inside you. I’ve carried my devils my whole life it seems, but you—you don’t deserve those same demons.

I hope to slay them for you. To give you a reprieve. You deserve it.

If my words can accomplish that, then I can go on a happy man. I can accept my fate with grace.

I check my reflection in the window of the restaurant before stepping inside. My fingers nervously smooth down the front of my dress, as if the act might somehow armor me for the evening ahead.

It won’t.

The hostess, a young woman with a tight bun and crisp black uniform, guides me to a secluded corner table. There he is—Sam.

Middle-aged, handsome in a department-store-catalog-conventional kind of way. His button-down shirt is meticulously ironed, each crease sharp enough to cut, and he wears a polite smile that stops just short of lighting up his eyes.

He stands when he sees me, adjusting his glasses. “Robin?”

“That’s me,” I say, forcing a smile as I slide into my seat.

Sam launches into small talk with the ease of someone who’s rehearsed it a thousand times.

He mentions the unseasonably warm weather, details his tedious daily commute, and shares a tidbit about his golden retriever, Billy, whose antics seem to be the highlight of his anecdotes.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m a dog person. I love Flash.

But I don’t make my dog my entire personality.

I sip my water, nodding at intervals that feel appropriate, but my thoughts wander. My mind drifts. I wonder if he’s ever done anything reckless in his life. If he’s ever touched the edge of chaos and liked it. Something tells me no.

“I don’t really drink,” he says, as I glance at the wine list. “I like to keep a clear head.”

Of course, he doesn’t. I stifle the sigh longing to erupt.

I order a glass anyway. He tells me about his job—some kind of finance, something stable, something utterly soul-crushing to listen to. I make the occasional sound of acknowledgment, twirling the stem of my wineglass between my fingers.

The last portion of the letter I read before I left taints my date. Accept his fate with grace, my ass.

“You’re quiet,” Sam observes, smiling like that’s charming.

I glance up at him, really seeing him now.

He’s perfectly fine. Safe. Predictable. He’ll never break my heart. Never make my blood run hot. Never drive me to madness with a single glance.

I take another sip of wine and summon a polite smile. “Tell me more about Billy.”