“He came by your house?”

I stop emptying the dishwasher, shifting my phone to the other ear, and focus on Rachel. Not on her words, but her tone. “Yeah, but it was just to check on Hayden,” I assure her. I don’t know why we’re even talking about Coen, or how he came up. Between me avoiding her to manage my feelings toward the situation, and her being busy with moving her store’s location, I haven’t spoken to her all weekend.

“How’d he know where you live?”

Is that defensiveness I hear?

“I have no idea,” I admit, my thoughts too focused on why my best friend seems upset rather than wondering how he did find our house.

“So he just came to say hi?”

It’s envy.

“No, no. Nothing like that. He just stopped by to see how Hayden was feeling, and while he was here I burned some bacon and set off the smoke alarms. Did you know you’re supposed to check your smoke alarms every week?” I resume emptying the dishwasher, placing the glasses into the cupboard as I share my newly learned fact.

“What?”

“Yes. Every. Week.”

“Why?”

“In case the batteries go out.”

“But they start beeping when the batteries start dying.”

“That’s what I said!” I cry, placing the final clean dish away and closing the dishwasher.

“Was that all that happened?” Rachel’s tone has returned to nearly solemn, wiping clear the smile that had been forming on my face.

“Yes. Just a Good Samaritan call.” Images of Coen filter through my mind like a collage, running in the order of the hours we spent together. His smile had grown by the time he offered to grill us dinner. I’d been reluctant, but Hayden agreed before I could consider making an excuse.

“He likes you,” Rachel says, interrupting my mental recounts.

Slumping to the couch, I kick my feet up onto the coffee table. “He’s a firefighter, Rach,” I remind her because that alone is enough to keep me away from any guy regardless of what he looks like, or if he can teach my son how to throw a curveball or check to make sure we’re safe, or even grill the best burger of my life and be attentive enough to get me a refill before my drink was half gone.

Right?

I shake my head swiftly and focus on the reality of the situation. “Plus, did you see his face when he first heard I had a son?” I ask, knowing she had. It was impossible to miss Coen’s rounded eyes. “He has zero interest.”

“He didn’t make a face. You just expect everyone to make one so you imagined it.” Rachel’s rolling her eyes. I can hear it in her tone.

Did I make it up? I work to recall the moment, but can only remember how quick and genuine his smile had been. How warm his palm had been against mine. How sincere he seemed.

“Do you?”

“Do I what?” I ask, sitting up to once again attempt to clear my thoughts.

“Have interest in him.”

I balk. “No!” I cry. “I don’t even know anything about him other than he’s a fireman. And you know that’s three strikes on its own,” I remind her.

“Are you sure? I mean, maybe he could…”

“Are you interested in him?” I cut her search off.

There’s a long pause. “I … No. Maybe? …I don’t know.”

“All I hear are lies.”

“Ella!” she cries, and her tone reveals I’m right. She does have feelings for him. “I don’t like him. My divorce hasn’t even been final for a year. I’m not supposed to be dating yet.”

“Says who?” I ask.

“The entire South.”

My laughter grows. “Well, I’m pretty sure you know where I stand on what everyone else thinks.”

“Sure you’re a single mom, but you have a prestigious job, and live in a house with a wraparound porch and a rose garden. And you have hanging baskets with ferns that you water and prune. In addition to all of that, you cook dinner every night, bake homemade cakes, are a member of the PTA, and you go to baseball games each week. You, Ella, are the epitome of what a Southern belle is supposed to be.”

“I also got pregnant at seventeen, swear, refuse to get dressed or wear makeup on the days I work from home, and the cakes I bake are from a boxed mix, topped with store-bought frosting. And while I attend the baseball games, I still don’t know when I’m supposed to cheer other than when a ball is hit. I have to watch the other parents to know when I’m supposed to clap or start one of their ridiculous chants.”

“You chant?”

“Stop.” I clasp a hand to my forehead, laughing because saying it out loud sounds so silly.

“You can’t tell me you chant and not do one for me.”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“And you’re being mean.”

It feels good to laugh with my best friend and share this banter. Some of the tension that had seemingly quadrupled in the past forty-eight hours releases, and I sit down because it almost makes me light-headed to feel the significance. Rachel isn’t just my best friend—she’s my only friend. I moved here with a background about myself that even after nine years, I haven’t been able to shake. I’ve never had the gumption to ask Rachel if she ever believed what she heard about me, or even if she still does. I prefer living in ignorance.

“What are your plans for next weekend? The devil is taking Hayden, right?”

“You have to stop calling him that. One day, Hayden’s going to hear you,” I tell Rachel, grabbing a magazine, filled with pages of summertime recipes from the table and flipping it open.

“Good. Then maybe we can pull the entire sheet off so he can see the whole picture.”

My attention shifts to the conversation. “It’s better this way. Kids are supposed to love and be loved by both of their parents.”

“When their parents are both good people, absolutely.”

I don’t know why I’m arguing with Rachel. A part of me feels resentful for having to defend Patrick. After all, it’s me who has been wronged by him. It is me who experiences anxiety attacks when my son is gone for entire weekends. It’s me who this town looks down upon.

“Hayden deserves to have a father though.” And that alone is the reason I will continue to defend my ex.

“Ella, you have to start hating him in order to get over him,” Rachel says. “It’s the only way.”

“I am over him,” I reply automatically.

She doesn’t argue. We both know I’m not. When you give your heart away, there’s no way to fully get it back. Pieces will be left behind, lies will drill holes, deceit will cause cracks, and the feeling of being unwanted will create a doubt your heart was ever whole. The only time I’ve ever felt as though my heart was entirely full was years ago when I thought a man loved and adored me more than anything or anyone. It’s a feeling I have missed for the past nine years—and one I find myself briefly waiting to experience on every blind date I go on. There have been moments where I’ve even wondered if I was possibly experiencing a small bit of it while out on a date. A private smile or a prolonged glance or finding something special in common like a shared love for French espresso have all had me believing and hoping I could feel that fullness I once felt. It was almost cruel to experience those dates at all because it didn’t feel fair to my feelings, let alone my heart.

“You’re a better person than me,” Rachel says. “If I were you, I’d be keying his car and finding all sorts of creative ways to make his life miserable.”

“No you wouldn’t.”

She laughs. “I’d at least look for ideas on the internet to make myself feel better.”

“I can imagine getting all sorts of strange texts from you.” I laugh. “I bet you’d even have organized folders for each subject of torture. Ways to destroy his car. Methods to ruin his house. Best rumors to spread about him. Ways to cause him endless diarrhea.”

“You know it,” Rachel says.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do next weekend.” I draw the conversation back to her original question. “Maybe paint the sunroom. I think it has the personality to be green or maybe yellow. What do you think?”

“I don’t think walls have personalities,” she teases. “But if they did, I would say it would be a blue room.”

“I feel like every room in my house is either blue or beige.”

“That’s your fault for having a son.”

“Want to come and paint with me?”

“I can’t,” she says. “I’m leaving for Miami on Friday, remember? But why don’t you come with me?” Rachel’s voice rises. “You could come for just a night and we can hit the town, drink too much, eat carbs, stay up late, skinny-dip in the ocean…”

“That sounds fun, but I can’t. If Hayden needs to come home or there’s a problem, I need to be here.”

“Just one night,” she begs. “It would be so much fun!”

“Maybe the next time he’s at his dad’s we can do the same here in town.”

“Where are we going to go skinny-dipping?”

“I have a sprinkler,” I say, smiling hugely.

“Ella!” Rachel cries, giving me the response I had been hoping for. “Fine. I’m going to watch TV and then go to bed. You go work for the next eight hours so you can wake up and go back to work again.”

“Ha ha ha,” I say dryly. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Ella?”

“Yeah?” I ask, sweeping a pile of crumbs off the coffee table and into my palm.

“I’m really sorry about Hayden. I swear it will never, ever, ever happen again.”

“I know it wasn’t on purpose, and I’m not mad at you. You know how anxious I get when something like this happens.”

“I do. And I’m really sorry that I was the one who caused it. I hope the devil doesn’t freak out on you when you tell him.”

“It’ll be okay,” I lie. My ex—whom Rachel is referring to as the devil—will freak out. I dread having the discussion with him, yet strangely appreciate that he will be upset because it shows he cares.

“If you need me to kick him in the nuts, or look up some methods of torture, just say the word.”

“Word,” I tease.

“What do you think of trying to sell him on Craigslist?”

“Aside from that tiny detail of human trafficking being illegal, how would we ever get him to go anywhere?”

“Ella!” Rachel shrieks, warning me that her idea has snowballed. “We can make an ad for him. A handyman ad.” She pauses, and I know she’s already working through the details. “Imagine it! Him, Mr. I-can’t-do-anything-except-lift-my-finger-to call-someone-to-hire, being called for random jobs?”

“He’d hate that,” I say with a laugh, tossing the crumbs into the garbage can in the kitchen, unable to sit in one spot for any length of time.

“Exactly.” She draws out the single word as we both think far too long about it. “He wouldn’t actually go, but just having him get a bunch of random calls to help with jobs he can’t do would be hilarious.”

“I’ll see how big of an asshole he acts like when I drop him off on Friday and let you know. Until then, the light is red.”

“Ella!” Rachel cries. “You have to be proactive. You know my dad’s favorite line that a good defense is a great offense.”

“I think you have that one backward, but regardless, I’m not going to do anything now. I haven’t heard from him or his perfect Stepford wife in weeks. There’s no need to go looking for a fight, especially with this new project I have going for work.”

“Okay. Well, if you get tired and lonely from staring at numbers too long, give me a call again, and we can look over some of your new dating matches.”

“You added veterinarians to my blacklist, right?” I add before she can hang up.

“No! Ella, your blacklist is so long it could likely reach the sun. You need to stop finding what you don’t like and start focusing on what you like so we can work on that list.”

I slump my shoulders in defeat and reach for my fridge in hopes that a thick slab of chocolate cake will magically appear.

“You know Patrick’s not for you. He doesn’t deserve you and never did.” Her words crash against the pretty dreams I keep locked in my subconscious of my ex, Hayden, and me all together, happy and right, making my lack of cake, or any sort of dessert, even more disappointing. It surprises me to hear her use my ex’s name since she never does. Even when she goes with me to pick up or drop off Hayden and she comes face to face with him, she calls him anything but his name or doesn’t address him at all.

“I just felt like he understood me. Like he knew what made me who I am and what I wanted and needed and feared.”

“Master manipulators have a way of making themselves look like gods. It’s part of their spell.”

“Do you ever wonder if we just hate him because he didn’t choose to love me back?”

“Ella!” Rachel’s voice turns to steel, cold and harsh. “Honestly, I hate talking about him with you more than anything. I find myself getting so irrationally angry. I want to shake you and force you to remember every horrible thing that asshole did just so you’ll stop worshipping the selfish, worthless … self-absorbed … manipulating jackass that he is.” Rachel breathes loudly, worked up.

“I’m not trying to cause a fight. I’m over him. I am. Sometimes it’s just harder.”

“Harder than what?”

“Other nights.”

“That’s not over him, Ella.”

“I don’t cry anymore. I don’t hate him anymore. I don’t even look him up on social media anymore.”

“God, you know how to be a masochist.”

“You’re right. I need to get out there. Maybe I won’t find my husband with online dating, but at least this will allow me to realize what I want.”

“Not just what you want, but what you deserve,” Rachel corrects me.

Deserve.

The word floats through my mind again and again, making me question the existence of nearly everything in my life. I have the greatest, sweetest, and most intelligent son on this earth and a job that makes me feel accomplished and happy and a house I can comfortably furnish. Maybe I’ve met my quota of what I deserve.

“Go log in. We’ll make a top-ten list and set up some dates!”

While I’m feeling discouraged with my realization that I’ve likely met my allowance of the universe’s infinite tally system of what I deserve, the need to be over my ex once and for all has me doing exactly what Rachel told me to. Sitting at my dining room table, I open my laptop and log in to the dating site to see I have multiple alerts and click on my inbox.

“Is that a…” I click on the first message, and my eyes widen with shock. “Someone sent me a dick pic!” My words border on being a shout, and I have to be silent for a few seconds to ensure I didn’t wake Hayden.

“You get those a lot.” Rachel’s tone is completely impassive.

I switch my cell phone to my other ear again. “You don’t set me up with any of them, do you?” I whisper-shout. Shocked that she’s so blasé about this.

“Not yet. I’m waiting though for you to tell me when you just need a—”

“No,” I say, cutting her off. “Not a chance.”

Rachel’s laughter fills my ear as I look to the next message.

“I thought you said you added age limits?” I ask.

“I did.”

“Then why is Grandpa interested in taking me out to the buffet?”

Rachel laughs again, louder this time as I shake my head and delete another message.

“Number three looks nice,” she says as I scroll through his pictures.

“Isn’t it weird though that he obviously was in these with someone else? Like, did he just cut his ex-girlfriend out?”

“Don’t get too hung up on that, because you’ll see it a lot.”

“I guess that’s better than guys with millions of selfies, right?”

“Look at you finding the silver lining!” Rachel says. “Now what do you think about number three?”

“He seems fine.”

“We aren’t looking for fine here, babe. Let’s delete and move on.”

“Rach, what do you think of number nine?”

“Outdoorsyman?”

“Yeah.”

“You might have to go camping,” she warns. “And fishing.”

“Hayden would love that.” I continue going through his pictures. “And he has a dog.”

“Don’t get too caught up by that either. Lots of people have dogs.”

“I thought we were supposed to be looking for silver linings?”

“Touché,” Rachel says.

“He owns a construction company,” I read aloud. “And has kids.”

“He owns a boat!” Rachel cries. “Maybe he has friends.”

“I have a good feeling about this guy.” I scroll through his pictures again, finding his golden hair and light blue eyes even more attractive than I had with the first pass. “He has kind eyes.”

“He does, doesn’t he? And he’s clearly motivated if he owns his own company.”

“Anyone can own their own company,” I tell her.

“Silver. Lining.” She enunciates both words, making me laugh.

“Okay, so how do I set up a date?”

“Easy. Since he’s already shown interest in you, all you have to do now is reply.”

“His message is so vague! All he said was hi. What do I say?”

“Just think of it as an interview for a date.”

“That doesn’t help,” I tell her.

“Start with hello.”

“I can’t just send hello to him.”

“Why not? He did.”

“Because then I’m allowing him to lead the conversation.”

“You could start with ‘hi, my name’s Ella, and I’m a control freak,’ if you’d like. It might be more accurate.”

“I’m going to ask him about his dog,” I say, ignoring her.

“Ella,” Rachel says my name in the whiniest of voices, one that only she can achieve.

“It’s a safe, mutual topic,” I explain. “Conversation is supposed to start on middle ground and segue into other topics, and if it does and feels comfortable, I think I’ll ask him out.”

I wait for Rachel to disagree and argue about my intention.

“You should have been doing this a while ago,” she admits. “I just ask a series of questions to make sure they don’t sound like psychos and then ask them out.”

“Do they think they’re talking to me when you do that?”

“Do you think they’d think it was normal if they knew it was your mother and me doing it?”

“My mother helps you?”

“She loves it.”

“She’s seen the dick pics?” I ask, horrified.

“She’s even asked me if I think some of them are real.”

“Oh. My. God.”

“It’s good for her.”

“But really bad for our relationship. I can’t believe she’s been pushing online dating when she’s seen what people send.”

“She’s been suggesting speed dating a lot lately.”

“I’m mortified,” I admit, my cheeks heated with the fact.

“Why? Your mother’s been married for over thirty years. I’m sure she’s seen the one-eyed snake a time or two. After all, you are here.”

“Stop!” I cry. “Stop. Stop. Stop.”

Rachel laughs, enjoying my discomfort. “Maybe it helps her—”

“I will hang up on you,” I warn.

“You’re such a baby. It’s just sex.”

“It’s my mother! Talking to you about a guy’s weenis is much different than knowing my mother is looking at them.”

Rachel’s laughter grows again. “Weenis. God, I forgot about that word.”

Smiling, I minimize Outdoorsyman and look through the rest of my messages.

“After this, I’ll give you the info so you can log on to the other site. You need to be on your phone though. It’s kind of fun. You get to swipe if you like someone.”

“Baby steps,” I warn her.

“You’re diving in, babe,” she counters.

“Yeah, but I don’t want to belly flop on my first attempt.”

“You won’t,” she assures me. “If you apply even a small fraction of the effort you do toward your work, you’ll find someone. Then you’ll finally learn what a good, strong, healthy relationship is.”

A bitter part of me wants to remind her that she is a recent divorcée, but I know that’s my ego talking and manage to swallow the words before I click on the next message. “Number thirteen is hot, but does the man own a shirt?”

“Oh, let me look!”

We’re silent for a few minutes, each scrolling through the same images. “You should message him. Eye candy is never a bad thing.”

“We haven’t even read his profile.”

“You’re the one that’s going through their pictures first,” Rachel teases. “What did his message say?”

Although she can see it as easily as I can, I close the pictures so I can read it to her. “Hey, Ella. You probably get this a lot, but you’re really hot. I don’t do relationships, but if you’re interested in hooking up, message me.” Reading the message a second time to myself makes it even more baffling. I shake my head and release a humorless laugh. “That’s it. I’m telling my mom I want a cat for my next birthday. I’m done.”