Page 215 of Things We Left Behind

Kurt Michaels was smart, charming, and handsome. He told dad jokes and wore sexy cardigans and hot nerd glasses. Total dad material. Unlikesome otherswho were just “daddy” material.

He held my hand. He opened doors for me. He listened carefully. He took an interest in things that were important to me, like Mary Louise’s case. And on our previous two dates, I had never once felt the need to fake an emergency or climb out a bathroom window. Also, he bore a striking resemblance to Michael B. Jordan.

But this was our third date, and I was having heart palpitations over the idea of sex. Not the good kind either. It wasn’t that I assumed Kurt was going to be bad in bed. I’d scoped out his dance moves from the Christmas concert video on the school’s Facebookpage. The man knew how hips worked. Plus, we’d shared two perfectly pleasant kisses at the end of each previous date.

But I knew deep down—­in the vagina region—­that Lucian Rollins had ruined me. And I wasn’t mentally ready to accept just how badly.

Kurt’s dark, smooth hand reached across the table and squeezed mine. I jumped.

“Sloane,” he said expectantly.

“What?” I tried to remember if he’d asked me a question.

“I get the feeling that you’re somewhere else. Possibly with someone else?”

I winced, my single-­girl-­on-­a-­hot-­date facade crumbling like a toy block tower. “It’s not exactly like that. I really like you,” I insisted.

“I’m pretty likable,” he agreed amicably.

“You’d make a great husband and father. And you don’t have any obvious red flags or impossible-­to-­overcome emotional baggage.”

He flashed me one of those sexy smiles. “What can I say? I’m a catch. Why don’t you skip ahead to the ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ part?”

I groaned and stared at the half-­eaten cup of rocky road. “I know everyone says this, but in this case, it’s true. It really isn’t you. It’s all me.”

He cocked his head like the hella-­good listener he was. “You have feelings for someone else,” he stated.

“How did you—­never mind. It’s notthosekinds of feelings. More like I’m filled with rage and annoyance and frustration toward someone else. But also, seriously, how did you know?”

He blew out a breath. “I’m getting over someone else too. Or trying. She wasn’t ready for a relationship. So I’m attempting to move on.”

“Same, dude,” I admitted, slumping in my chair with relief. “Except I don’t want to get over him. I want to exorcise him. If never seeing him again isn’t an option, then I want to figure out a way to feel nothing.”

“That sounds like there are some very strong feelings still in play,” Kurt observed.

“Homicidal feelings,” I insisted. “He’s all wrong for me. He wants nothing I want. Hell, he doesn’t even want me. And I don’t even want him. We just have this physical connection that… And I shouldn’t be talking about this on a date with another man.”

He shrugged. “Maybe you just need some kind of closure before you can move on.”

“Believe me. I got all the closure any normal, sane person would need. But there’s this dumb sliver of idiotic romantic in me that wonders how a physical attraction can be so powerful, so good, when the rest is just hot garbage.” I winced. “Sorry. Tell me about your situation before I humiliate myself further.”

Kurt grimaced. “You might feel homicidal towardmeif I tell you.”

I perked up. “Trust me. You can’t be any worse than I am.”

“You’re going to regret saying that,” he predicted.

He looked so earnest and concerned.

“This is going nowhere between us, right?” I confirmed.

“Unfortunately, that’s how it appears,” he agreed.

“Okay then. This should make you feel better. I ran into the guy I was seeing on our first date at Honky Tonk. He stupidly asked me to come back to his place, even though he made it clear he wanted nothing to do with me besides sex. Like a hormonal tramp, I stupidly let him get too close, ran a couple of bases with him in the hallway on our date, then told him to never speak to me again.”

He leaned back in his chair. “That actually does make me feel better.”

My eyebrows shot up. “Really? Lay it on me. It can’t be worse than my confession.” Feeling relieved and unburdened, I shoved a heaping spoonful of ice cream into my mouth.