Breathe.

The word has become a mantra for me. While deep in my gut I know nothing is wrong, and that a bad dream or a sound outside likely is what woke me, I still sit up and peer around my darkened room. My heart hammers a familiar race, and my skin prickles with fear and anticipation. Holding my breath, I wait to hear something over the pounding of my heartbeats—a creak, a voice, a footstep … anything that will warrant my current state of anxiety.

Several moments pass before I take a deep breath and release my comforter from the white-knuckle grip I had on it.

Night is always the worst for my anxiety. Either because scientists are right and sunlight really does produce endorphins to suppress fears and anxiousness, or because there is nothing to contest the loud voices in my head.

I look out the window, seeing the sky is at its darkest point, telling me morning won’t be far off. I don’t look at my alarm clock for the confirmation because it will only remind me of all the things I can accomplish before the day technically begins, and I need more sleep for a crucial presentation that will influence my career path in the morning.

Settling back into my mountain of pillows, I fidget until I find a comfortable spot and attempt to clear my thoughts. The darkness, however, has other plans, bringing forth a rush of shadowed images and whispers of sounds. They tickle my senses and fears and have me halfway across my bedroom before I’m able to consider reasoning.

I open my son’s bedroom door and our dog, Shakespeare, lifts her head as I tiptoe past her. Hayden is buried amid an army of stuffed animals, ones he shoves into my closet whenever he has a friend over. There are so many it takes me several minutes to clear a place for me to lie with him.

The bed dips with my added weight, but Hayden only curls closer to me, providing me with the exact thing I am seeking—assurance. I am not looking for protection or company; I just need to reassure myself that the one who makes my heart beat is truly safe. That there weren’t traces of peanuts in anything he ate today, that someone didn’t climb up and crawl inside his second-story bedroom window, or that any of the other hundred things my imagination can conjure up within a split second happened. Softly, I kiss his forehead, and just like that, I’m able to breathe again.

As expected, morning comes too soon. My eyelids are heavy, my neck is stiff, and I’m annoyed that once again I allowed my irrational fears to control my actions. The combination is making even talking on the phone to my best friend, Rachel, a task.

“I need coffee to be poured intravenously today—or just straight caffeine. Think that exists?” I ask.

Rachel laughs softly. “I think that’s called an energy drink. But I’m pretty sure what you need is sleep. Were you up all night working on your proposal for work? Are you sure you want that big account, Ella? I mean, you have so much going on.”

I know my best friend isn’t trying to convince me to avoid the opportunity that could alter my career. She encourages and supports me more than anyone.

Still, I construe her words as doubt. “I’m okay. I’m just not ready for it to be Monday.”

“You and the rest of the world, babe.”

My sleep-deprived mind is only looking for a little compassion, and while I know it’s my sensitivity making this conversation seem obnoxious, I don’t have the patience this morning to rationalize it all.

“Patrick wants to take Hayden to baseball practice tonight.” Rachel groans at the mention of my ex. “Mind if I come by during it and look through your closet for something to wear this weekend? I don’t want to go to his practice and have it be like last time where Hayden struggled to know who to talk to or look at.”

“Of course,” she says. “Wait! Don’t you have a date today? I forgot all about it!”

I wish she would—maybe then I could get away with not going.

“What are you going to wear?” she asks, her voice raised like we’re discussing something far more exciting than another first date.

“Well, I have to dress for work since I have to be in the office today, so I’m wearing a pantsuit.”

“Ella.” Rachel states my name with enough venom to make it sound like an obscenity. “You really need to stop having dates on your lunch break.”

“Why? It works perfectly. This way I don’t have to arrange a babysitter, and it’s easy to cut them short if necessary. Besides, if he’s expecting a sundress and pearls, he needs to change his profile to seek out women who don’t work.”

“Couldn’t you wear a skirt though? What about that hot gray pencil skirt with the slit up the back?”

“I’m pretty sure you borrowed that hot skirt a few weeks ago.”

Silence confirms she’s trying to remember. “When you come over tonight, we’ll find it. You should wear it on date two with this guy. I have a good feeling about him.”

“You should. You’re the one who’s been talking to him.”

“Someone has to make sure you’re optimizing your chances of finding a guy while on that dating website.”

I choose to ignore her, tired of hearing this same line from her and my mom. “I have to go, but I’ll see you this afternoon.” I drop a juice box into Hayden’s lunch box and seal it shut with a pop.

“Okay, text me after your date! I want to hear how it goes!”

“I’ll try, but today’s kind of busy.”

“You handle millions of dollars and dozens of clients. I’m sure you can find a way. Or, maybe you could try taking a break for once.”

“I’ll message you,” I concede.

She laughs triumphantly. “Kiss Hayden for me.”

“I always do.”

“Why do they always honk?” Hayden grumbles.

I glance up into my rearview mirror at the train of cars behind us and then to my nine-year-old son in the backseat, and try to sound convincing when I tell him it’s only about safety. Because it’s not. It’s so not. Any parent, grandparent, guardian, or unsuspecting friend who has been coerced into dropping off a child at school knows that those people who honk are just late for work or in a hurry. Unfortunately, with that single blow, an entire chorus of car horns fills the air, adding to my already prickly mood.

“Can we do a movie night tonight?” Hayden asks, his tone still verging on whiny.

“Dude, it’s Monday. You’ve got baseball.” I wish my words didn’t make him look so defeated.

My rosy-mom-glasses aside, Hayden is a decent player, and prior to a month ago, he loved the game. He won’t tell me what’s changed his opinion, and I hate that nearly as much as I do that something, or someone, is ruining it for him.

“I’ll tell you what,” I turn to face him as the traffic in front of us remains at a standstill, “after practice we can go to dinner. Your pick.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“I know you aren’t now, but you will be after practice!” Neither excitement nor acceptance appear in Hayden’s bright blue eyes which are the same piercing shade of aquamarine as they were the day he was born. Four separate nurses assured me his eye color would change but my instincts told me differently. It wouldn’t have mattered, but sometimes, I really get a thrill out of proving people wrong, just like I did on that day amid a long labor. One that I faced alone just a month after graduating high school at eighteen. While my birthing plan had simply been to ensure he arrived safely, I was really opposed to the idea of a cesarean, so when the doctor mentioned it would likely happen, his disbelief unburied some hidden strength within me that allowed me to successfully give birth four hours later. With just a glance, the entire room fell in love with Hayden, laughing at his cone-shaped head and springy curls stuck to his scalp, his wide eyes that took in the entire room without a single sign of terror.

Maybe Hayden knew he was being born into a broken home or that I barely knew how to take care of myself at the time. Perhaps the doctor and nurses were right and he was quiet and calm from exhaustion following a long labor, but Hayden was the happiest and most content newborn that night, barely crying, eager to latch, and even slept soundly beside me in his small clear crib at the hospital.

The next day, I went home with a false sense of bravado. Although I had asked the nurses about every hiccup, deep breath, diaper, and the coloring of his skin, in those brief moments of packing up the car, I felt ready to be a mom.

Hayden made me question it as he wailed the entire hour home and then several more times over the next two years when he wouldn’t sleep an entire night, barely ever surpassing the two-hour mark.

Through sleep deprivation and eye masks for the heavy bags that shaded my young face, and more giggles and kisses than imaginable, I learned to navigate my way through being a single mom on a very low income. Somehow, I also managed to take courses at a community college. It took me seven years to gain my four-year degree, something I was intent on accomplishing regardless of how slow the pace I had to do it.

I’m still learning to be a mom, and I still don’t get enough sleep, and I haven’t watched anything above a PG rating since I was eighteen. My house is often littered with laundry I have to sniff to see if it’s clean, and my fridge sometimes looks like a science experiment gone wrong. But I wouldn’t change a thing, not a single one.

Beep!

Except maybe school drop-off and pick-up lines. Those could use an overhaul.

“Remember what a pack of polar bears is called?”

“A celebration,” Hayden mumbles.

“And how many polar bears do scientists believe are in the wild?”

“It ranges between twenty and thirty thousand. Come on, Mom, I know this stuff.”

I slowly release my foot from the brake to roll forward. “You do, and you’re going to do awesome on your report today.”

He sighs, sounding less like my loving, sweet son with each inch that we roll closer to the doors of his grade school, and I hate it. It makes me want to call both of us in sick, stop by the pastry shop with the cheese danish Hayden loves so much, get into our jammies, and watch hours of the cartoons I can barely stand but gladly do just to get extra cuddles.

I’m about to suggest we do it when he unfastens his seat belt and informs me I need to move up so he can get out.

“Your dad will be at practice today, but if you need anything, call. Okay?”

He mutters an agreement before swinging open the door and climbing out.

His growing up elicits the most bittersweet feeling imaginable. I miss the days when I was his only hero. When everything I did was amazing and wonderful. But watching his personality and sense of humor develop and blossom gives me so much pride, and I’m grateful to see he’s beginning to trust and rely on himself more.

Taking a long swig of my morning coffee, I watch as he approaches the school, his thumbs tucked into the straps of his backpack and his dishwater-blond hair cropped short so no one knows how curly it is. And, as he disappears through the doors, I feel the same pang that always hits with his absence.

I pull away from the school as a car behind me impatiently honks, and while concerns of Hayden’s sour mood toward both school and baseball are filling my thoughts, I’m relieved to be out of the mile-long line, even if it is to head to work.

The uneasiness doesn’t lessen when I step through the doors of Wild Waves, the marketing agency I work for; instead, it’s intensified as I begin mentally rehearsing my presentation that will kick off this morning.

Idle conversations about the weekend and failed attempts at productivity are buzzing around me, making me wish I hadn’t refilled my coffee before coming in so I would have a valid excuse to leave for a few moments. How, after three years, I haven’t learned that nothing at Wild Waves is ever on time is my own shame.

“Good morning, team!” Mr. Hakes stands at the front of the long conference table wearing a black pin-striped suit and bright blue polo shirt.

We’re a successful marketing company, yet we’re in dire need of two makeovers here: one, our name, and the other, our boss’s wardrobe.

“Ella, why don’t you get things kicked off with the Weile account?”

There are few things I despise more than standing in front of people and trying to engage with them. If I weren’t able to work from home three days a week while receiving full benefits, three weeks of vacation, and complete flexibility when Hayden calls, I’d probably hate my job solely because of these moments. But I can’t because in addition to the previous perks, this job allows me to work just five miles from the house I can afford by working here, where my son has a yard and a dog to make up at least half of the American Dream.

Gathering the packets I spent weeks perfecting, I stand and split the stack into two to be circulated around the room. Clarence watches me through narrowed eyes. He’s been working here for twenty years, and doesn’t attempt to mask his contempt for me being point of the largest account Wild Waves has recently garnered interest from. Pulling my shoulders back in attempt to deflect his silent oppositions of my role, ranging from being one of the youngest employees to the most inexperienced to not having received my degree from a prestigious Ivy League school like he did. While Clarence might choose to be oblivious of my talents, I know why I’ve been given this opportunity. I get shit done. Period.

With my shoulders still squared, I smile. Confidence and warmth are essential traits for my position, but especially this morning when doubt is filling the room. I can’t appear too friendly though, or they won’t take me seriously, focus of any sign of hesitancy; yet, I also can’t come across too assertive or I will be seen as conceited, brash, and even more incompetent. It’s a fine line.

I’ve learned not to wait for reciprocated smiles, rather begin my presentation and attempt to show them all the commitment and dedication I’ve poured into this project like all of my previous ones.

As I continue speaking, many show signs of interest, intrigued with the new methods of marketing I’m proposing, and some of the older ones which have gone forgotten for years.

Mr. Hakes claps as I conclude the question and answer period. “Well done, Ella.” He beams proudly. “This is the kind of creativity and ingenuity that sets us apart, leaving clients and competitors to believing we’re a bunch of suits in New York, rather than North Carolina.” As he laughs, others join. It’s not easy and genuine as much as out of obligation, but there has always been a sense of pride at Wild Waves where everyone was hand chosen by Mr. Hakes.

“Let’s get out there and continue proving we’re the ones they’re all striving to be like.”

The short walk to my small office feels entirely too long because I’m anxious to begin the next steps, which is creating the presentation for the client now that I have Mr. Hakes’ support.

Before diving into things, I double-check my phone to ensure I don’t have any missed calls from the school—or from Patrick whose most consistent characteristic is his lack of follow-through. My relief with finding no updates ends abruptly by the harsh reminder from my alarm, telling me I need to leave for my date.

I grab a manila folder from my briefcase and quickly scan over the profile belonging to the man I’m supposed to meet, stopping at the listed profession beneath his picture.

“A dentist?” Disbelief sharpens my tone. “She knows how much I hate going to the dentist.”

“Ella?”

A strained smile pulls my lips higher than intended as I try to hide my surprise by my boss’s presence.

Mr. Hakes is old enough to be my grandfather, yet has a charm that makes him seem timeless. Being mentored by him leaves a similar impression to when I first went to Disney World as a child: I forgot about expectations and who I was supposed to be, and my imagination began to wander freely, wonderfully. I attribute much of my professional success to his guidance and inspiration, especially when I know he took a risk by hiring me opposed to a more qualified candidate.

Smiling kindly, he taps the packet of information I shared at the meeting with a strong hand that doesn’t reveal his age. “You did a really good job today. This might be your best work yet, and that’s saying a lot.”

My smile climbs higher. “Well, that means a lot.”

“You’ve got the dedication and talent to go places. Keep up the good work, Ella.”

With a firm nod that means even more than the smile he gave me at the meeting—because it shows his confidence in me—he turns, leaving the strong scent of his aftershave in my office.

I don’t have the time to consider the significance of his approval though, because I’m taking a final look at the face I’m going to be meeting.

Finding Mr. Right and getting married is at the bottom of my priority list.

The very bottom.

Yet the closer my approach to thirty becomes, the more intent everyone around me has become to me finding him. Thus, for holidays and birthdays, rather than receiving something fun and indulgent, or even practical and possibly useless, my parents buy me subscriptions to online dating sites and speed-dating events. They even got me a ticket to a singles cruise once.

I leave the file with my date’s information in the top drawer of my desk and head out into the early heat of a North Carolina spring day where I get into my car and make the short drive to the restaurant noted on my calendar.

Before asking the hostess if my date has arrived, I stand near the doors and look around. I prefer to get my initial impressions out of the way so I can think clearly through the introductions.

“Brandon. Brandon. Brandon,” I mutter, peering around the small café, looking for a match. “Are you Brandon? You’re certainly a liar if so.” I study the only dark-haired man sitting alone, noting that he’s at least ten years older than his picture. Upon starting online dating, I quickly learned that is not uncommon.

“He might be, but I think you’re looking for me.”

Startled, I turn around, my cheeks reddening as I come face-to-face with the man perfectly matching his picture.

“Hi,” I croak. The hoarse unevenness of my voice makes me cringe and my cheeks to burn brighter.

He chuckles, like he finds my nerves endearing, or maybe since he’s a dentist, he just enjoys inflicting discomfort. “You must be Ella.” His teeth are bright and perfectly square. It’s hard to look away from his grin to notice the rest of him.

“It’s nice to meet you.” I offer my hand. Some first dates want to hug while others try to be European and kiss cheeks, and occasionally I’ll run across men who don’t know what to do, thus creating a strange and uncomfortable dance of limbs that requires a good ten minutes of recovery time where conversation becomes brutally uncomfortable and forced. I don’t have ten minutes to waste because I need to leave in forty minutes for work.

“This place looks great,” I tell him.

“Well, let’s get a table. Their food’s amazing.”

I appreciate that he doesn’t try to touch me or offer his arm. It’s easier when those obligations aren’t presented and we’re allowed to see if there really could be any natural chemistry.

The hostess seats us by a large window where Brandon makes the request to sit in the bench seat, offering me the chair. Within a second, I realize what appeared to be chivalrous was anything but as the sun blinds me and makes my blouse feel like a parka.

Strike one.

Our server approaches within seconds, used to the lunchtime rush with customers needing to get back to the office on time. We listen to the specials, and then Brandon asks for tonic water while I order an iced tea.

“So, you’re in advertising. Is that right?”

Keeping my eyes on the menu for a second, I question what date I am for Brandon as I replay his routine question that lacks any genuine interest. When I look up, he’s going through his cell phone.

Strike two.

“Yeah, I work at Wild Waves, over on Third.”

“Yes,” he states automatically.

My eyebrows rise with question. “Sorry?”

“You said yeah, but it should be yes.” Slowly, he looks up from his phone, his lips tipped upward with hesitancy. “Sorry, old habit. I had this teacher in elementary school who drilled it into me to never say yeah.”

I force another smile, feeling like it’s become a mandatory dress code for the day. “Good grammar is an excellent quality. Thankfully, I have really great editors who sound like they might have gone to school with you.”

He laughs and the creases by his eyes reveal he’s older than I am. His age doesn’t bother me, but the fact that I should be interested in his past and the experiences that gained those lines does bother me. I should be asking questions about him to keep the conversation running smoothly and to give this a fair shot. Yet the idea of doing either is more painful than the shoes I mistakenly wore today.

I take a deep breath and push the smile that I’ve been struggling to maintain firmly back into place. “How did you get into dentistry?”

“My father’s a dentist, and so are my brother and my sister. I guess you could say we’re a family of dentists.”

“I bet you guys have some nice Christmas cards.”

His brow furrows. “Sorry?”

“You know, with all your nice teeth.”

Sadly, it’s not my worst attempt at grasping for conversation. Brandon’s rounded eyes tell me it’s nearing the top of his, however.

“Here you are.” Our server breaks the strained awkwardness by delivering our drinks with a smile that exudes pity. It leaves me briefly wondering how apparent it is that I’m on a first date that seems to be heading in a direction that will have me insisting on paying my half to make it less formal.

“Are you guys ready to order?”

I glance back at the brief menu, considering what will be both fast and easy to eat while trying to hold a discussion.

“You should order the mussels. They’re amazing,” Brandon says.

“I was thinking of trying the manicotti.”

“No, you definitely want the mussels over the manicotti.”

“I don’t … actually … like seafood.”

His eyebrows nearly get lost in his hairline, making me feel nearly guilty for my admission. “Then you haven’t had good seafood. Trust me, these will change your mind!”

“I’m sure they’re delicious—”

“You aren’t a vegetarian, are you?” Judgment is louder than his actual words, and for a few seconds I consider lying and saying I am. “You know, your body needs protein. It’s what our ancestors ate.”

“You really think cavemen ate mussels?” I don’t think either of us can clearly decipher if I’m joking.

“Really, you need to try these.”

“Really, I won’t eat them.”

“At all?”

“I don’t like seafood.” This time, my words are punctuated with finality.

“But maybe—”

“I’ll have the manicotti with the roasted red pepper sauce,” I say, turning to the server.

“I’ve never tried that. It might not be good. I’ve only tried their seafood.”

My uniformed smile is becoming too tight and restrictive. “That’s all right. I’m willing to take the risk.”

“You might hate it.”

“I might love it.”

“You really should try incorporating seafood into your diet. It’s so good for you.”

“So are Brussels sprouts, but I can’t convince my taste buds to like them either.”

He looks up, his lips set in a frown.

Strike three.

I sit through the rest of lunch with my eyes squinted due to the bright sun, likely ruining my makeup, but don’t complain. Instead, I work to avoid anything that will lead to a deeper conversation than the required yes or no answers.

Hopefully out there somewhere is a woman who will inspire Brandon not to be so … him. But I have no interest in that role, so when the check finally arrives, I’m quick to pull out my credit card and instruct the server to charge me for my half.

The rest of the afternoon passes quickly with updating statistics and numbers to ensure all the information due to be presented to the account owners in a few weeks is current and accurate. With Hayden at practice, the idea of staying late and getting some additional work done runs through my mind, but Rachel will only find my absence as another reason for me to consider taking a few steps back with my fast-paced career, so I pack up and head to her house.

“Can I borrow those?” Rachel asks as I kick off my shoes.

“What?”

“Your shoes.”

I glance back at the offending leather that has rubbed at least three raw spots on each of my feet. “I might give them to you.”

“If you wore something besides flip-flops on the days you work from home, you might learn to love heels.”

“I don’t want to be told what I should be eating, wearing, or trying.” I collapse on the couch, the unforgiving material of my work clothes constricting with the maneuvers they weren’t created to support.

Rachel follows, lounging on the small love seat beside the couch I’m fully occupying. “Was he really that bad? I mean, some guys think it’s romantic to order for women.”

My eyes widen with disbelief. I called her as promised and gave her a play-by-play of how badly the date had been. “That went out of style in the sixties along with Donna Reed!” I cry. “He was a dud. A dud minus in fact. Trust me.”

“I don’t understand why you insist on paying when you hate the dates.” Rachel toys with the corner of a throw pillow.

“I go Dutch,” I clarify. “And I do it because I want to make it clear I have no interest.”

She giggles. “It probably makes them more interested.”

“Thankfully, it hasn’t yet.”

Rachel extends a jean-clad leg and softly kicks me. While her pants are likely as restrictive as mine, I’m jealous she’s wearing denim.

“Any dates this weekend?” she asks.

I sigh, working to remember the calendar I stared at in an attempt to memorize the rest of this week. “One.”

“A good one?”

“It’s another one you chose.”

“The veterinarian?”

I nod. “The one and only.”

“Are you excited? He’s cute!” She looks toward the front window. “Speaking of cute, the new neighbor is really attractive. And did you see his friend? Maybe…”

“No.” I swiftly shake my head. “Not a chance.”

“Well, it looks like fate is saying otherwise.” Rachel stretches her neck in the direction of the front door.

Turning, I see the men in question making their way toward Rachel’s porch. “I’m going to raid your closet! Tell me when they’re gone!” Not having the energy or patience to deal with more unwanted men, I disappear upstairs.