I’m expecting Coen to ask me for more. To dig into the how and why this town hates me so much that they literally hold no respect for me. I need him to ask me since volunteering the information is too difficult. I don’t even know where to begin. At least when a question is asked, I can focus on that specific piece of the puzzle.

“What is all of this?” he asks instead, looking over the new mess I’ve made in my living room.

“Memories.”

“They look painful.”

“Sometimes I wonder if your heart can ever love someone again,” I admit. “I mean, can you ever really stop loving someone when your heart essentially molds itself to another person’s? Is that even possible?” It’s a rhetorical question that reveals more than I initially intended. But when I look up, Coen isn’t looking at me but the image I have cradled in my lap.

My gaze falls to the picture of Patrick and me sitting on a bench in Virginia. “There was this jazz band playing near us. Some small festival was in town.” I shake my head to rid the details that are sidetracking me from the story. “I wanted to dance, but he hated dancing, so he pulled me down beside him and buried his head against my chest, and we just sat there in this moment of perfection. I never wanted that moment to end.”

“But you wanted to dance.” His tone taints the memory.

“But look at this moment. Even as a cynic, you can clearly see how happy we were.”

“But you wanted to dance.” Coen enunciates the words like I need him to explain it to me again.

Shaking my head, I glower at him. “You’re missing the point!”

“You’re missing the point. All you wanted was a dance, and he couldn’t even give you that.”

Rearing my head back, I stare at him. Rage fills me. Embarrassment heats me. Resentment taunts me. “What do you want me to say? Do you want me to admit that he didn’t really care? That he didn’t choose me? That he never had chosen me because all along he was with another woman, and I was too blind and stupid to see or even care? Because there it is. We had fun. I was a good time. There was no commitment, no checking in, no phone calls every night before bed to see how the day had been or what my plans were. I didn’t receive flowers on my birthday, or a special weekend for Valentine’s Day, and I was okay with that. I felt special and content because he was Patrick Webb, and he worshiped me while we were together. He listened to every word I spoke like they might blow away if he didn’t catch them fast enough. He made me laugh so hard I couldn’t remember what it felt like to be anxious. And while half of this town thinks I tried to trick him and steal him away from his wife, that was never the intention. I didn’t know he was married. I was too dumb and caught up in all that was him to think his vanishing acts were because he already had a family. I was young and thought that’s just what adults did.”

“So why did you move here then?”

“I moved here to make the ultimate sacrifice for him. I was giving up my life, my friends, my family, school, all to be close to him and have our baby. I stayed because…” My gaze drifts back over evidence of our affair. “…I wanted him to choose me,” I admit. “I really thought he would initially. Then, I met her … his wife … and I knew there wasn’t a chance, but it was too late. I had to stay because if I ran away with my tail tucked between my legs, I knew I would never forgive myself.”

Coen’s questions are clear as his forehead creases and his eyes slant.

“He did it all willingly, not me. My child deserved a father and support, and so did I. I don’t want to care about him. I don’t want to remember the way he made me feel like I was worth everything and then nothing. I don’t want to deal with him at all, but I do, and it isn’t for me.”

It’s for Hayden. I don’t say the words aloud, not wanting sympathy or pity because I have thrown myself a gazillion pity parties, and the only thing they ever have accomplished is making me realize how stupid I was for not having questioned more when I should have, and coming to the same conclusion that while I hate what Patrick did, he still gave me Hayden. I would never even for a second wish to take that back.

Coen remains still and silent for several minutes, and I wonder what he’s thinking. What he’s thinking of me. Finally, he shakes his head, and his brown eyes focus on me. “I can’t believe you’ve put up with this shit for so many years.”

I shrug. “It was harder when I cared.”

Coen stares at me, and I stare back, proving to him how little I care.

He takes a deep breath through his nose, and while I can tell he wants to discuss this further, going into the bowels of the whys, he grabs a handful of old pictures and places them back into the box. His move is borderline hasty, but he doesn’t try to harm or destroy them, knowing that isn’t his place.

“He never deserved to take so much from you,” he says, swiping more pictures that he adds to the box. “He still doesn’t.”

I take another long look at the photo I’m holding, and for the first time notice the wistful look in my eye is not directed toward Patrick, but the people dancing. I hold the picture up and tear it in two before tossing both halves into the box.

Coen watches me from where he’s gathering the last of the stuff that is laid out on the couch, but he doesn’t say a word.

“I’m hungry,” I say, changing the subject.

“That’s because we never went to breakfast.”

Guilt has me scrunching my face. “Sorry about that. I was kind of in bitch mode after this morning.”

“I can’t imagine why.” Coen folds the corners of the box to secure it. “Want to go get something or order something in?”

“I can make something,” I offer.

He looks at me. “Not tonight. You need to let things be simple and easy tonight.”

I don’t mind cooking. In fact, I prefer it most of the time, especially with Hayden’s allergies, but the idea of having a sink full of dishes, and the time and energy to both think of something and make it is becoming less appealing by the second.

“Can we order in? I don’t really feel like putting pants on.”

“Sure. But you can go out like that if you want.”

“My reputation’s bad enough. I really don’t need to fuel the fire.” I stand from the floor and head over to the kitchen cabinet where we keep a file of menus from the best takeout places in town. “We have Chinese, Mexican, Italian, pizza, Korean, Thai, American-Chinese, more pizza, and more pizza.” I hand Coen the folder to look them over. “Take your pick.”

“You decide,” he says, not reaching for the file.

“That’s okay. I would actually prefer you to. I feel like I’ve made too many decisions today, and it would help me to just have one be made for me.”

“I think that’s already happened too much in your life,” he says but accepts the folder.

I know his words aren’t meant to hurt or judge me in a negative manner, but I feel a wave of shame wash over me for the first time in years.

“Who has the best pizza?” he asks, holding up several menus.

“Depends. What kind do you want?”

Coen’s brown eyes look up from one of the menus. “I’m Italian.”

“I’m not, so I don’t know what that means.”

He laughs, and I do too, and with the pictures all neatly packed up with every other trace of evidence of my night, I don’t feel the same gloom that had been hanging over me like a heavy fog before Coen arrived and nearly gave me a heart attack.

I devote weekend mornings to Hayden. It’s our time to snuggle on the couch and watch cartoons or a movie, and weekends that I don’t have him I spend the time wishing I did.

I devote my Saturday morning to cleaning, washing and folding laundry, scrubbing bathrooms, creating a grocery list, vacuuming and mopping, and then get showered and dressed, and brave the grocery store. By the time I’ve finished putting away the groceries it’s already late afternoon, and it’s begun raining, making the air outside so thick and heavy that it’s difficult to breathe and more difficult to want to move.

I sprawl out on the area rug in the family room, debating my options for the evening, when my phone beeps with a text.

My stomach twists. I had forgotten all about Outdoorsyman, and feel guilty for both making him wait and not following up on my end of the bargain when I had committed to making an effort.

Annoyed, I wander over to my laptop that I’ve spent way too much time with over the past week, and boot it up. I minimize my work email window that I sort via my phone as emails come in, and pull open the dating site. There aren’t any new messages from Outdoorsyman, but there are a dozen new messages that I open cautiously, waiting to scroll down before I know if any pictures have been attached.

The first one is from ÉclairMaestro. Intrigued, I scroll through his profile and learn he’s a chef, something that piques my interest and makes me want to learn more. He’s well-traveled, speaks French, has a friendly smile, and gentle eyes. His message is brief:

I think back to my date with Lars—the veterinarian—and how he took my thoughts of Shakespeare the writer being a woman.

I pause, considering what Coen had told me when I asked him to choose where we ate. He had read the entire menu aloud, pausing after each one to read my expression. When I told him to also pick the pizza, he glared at me before rustling his cell phone out of his pocket and ordering two different pizzas, one with red sauce filled with meats, and a BBQ chicken pizza that he never touched which I devoured.

The next inbox message has already been read. I open it and see how long the thread is, discovering Rachel has been replying on my behalf again, and see that I have a date scheduled for tomorrow afternoon.

With irritation coursing through me, I grab my phone and text Rachel.

I scowl at my phone for several minutes.

I hadn’t ignored her; I just knew it would be better if I didn’t answer while Coen was over. I didn’t know how to explain to her that he and I were spending more time together, and since I had been having a rough day, I didn’t want to make an excuse for him to leave. Usually after talking about Patrick with someone, I have the desire to avoid them, knowing they’ll think less of me, wonder why I would think it was okay to have any kind of relationship with someone who was fourteen years my senior. But this morning I don’t feel the need to avoid Coen. I don’t even regret telling him.

“Sabotage?” I mutter. “Really?”

I don’t reply back to her, not knowing if I’m being extra sensitive or if her sarcasm is riding the bitchy line like I’m interpreting it to.

I ignore Rachel but don’t reply to Outdoorsyman, electing to head downstairs and focus on compiling more facts and statistics needed for the Weile account, where things make sense even if I have to triple-check everything.

Hours pass before Shakespeare breaks my concentration with the need to go outside. It’s still too hot out, even with the sun down, so I stay inside while she roams around the yard. My thoughts wander to Coen, knowing he’s at work today and all night. He’s been over the past two nights, and I hate admitting to myself that it’s become a short routine that I’ve enjoyed far too much. It’s good that he has to work tonight because otherwise, I think I would be considering asking him to come over again or taking him up on teaching me how to play pool.

My phone beeps, and I’m hoping it’s Hayden again. We generally talk twice a day, once in the morning and once before he goes to bed, but I caved and bought him a cell phone that doesn’t have “smart” in the title so he can use it to call or text me whenever he needs to.

I laugh so loudly, Shakespeare turns from where she’s sniffing one of our blueberry bushes to see if she’s missing out on something.

I close the window to find the app he mentioned, and go through downloading it before I reply back to him with confirmation that I have.

I send him my email address, and it’s only seconds before the game prompts me to play.

We are a dozen games in, him winning by one because I keep getting sports questions that I don’t have a single clue on, when he texts me again.

My thumb hovers over the screen, considering how to respond. Do I tell him to be safe? Good luck? Is that too personal? Do I sound like more than just a friend? I consider if it were Rachel who was going and what I would tell her before I send a reply that I don’t know if he’ll be able to see.

And so I do.