For someone who claimed he had feelings for me, Preston didn’t show up the next day or the day after that. I got a text saying he’d been working late. He offered to call me later after I got off of work, but I had caught Izzy’s cold and all I wanted to do was to fall into bed.

Lying on the couch, blowing my nose, and coughing gave me plenty of time to think. And what I thought about, was the comment he’d made when he bought me that box of tampons.

If that isn’t love, then I don’t know what you’d call it.

Was he trying to tell me he loved me?

I didn’t have much experience on that front. Jeff had said he loved me, but I’d bet anything that hundreds if not thousands of teenage boys said the same thing if it got them laid. If Jeff ever had loved me, he fell out of love the moment he learned I was pregnant.

And what about me? Was I in love with Preston? I know I’d never loved Jeff, even if I’d told him I did. It was like responding to a sneeze:

I love you.

I love you too.

Gesundheit.

I had nothing to measure my feelings against.

Preston was sexy and attractive, confident and successful. He was attentive and generous. I may not have truly loved him yet, but I was pretty well on my way.

With that in mind, I decided I would cook for Preston Saturday instead of going out like he’d suggested. Izzy was spending the weekend with Jeff’s parents, so it would be perfect. He was probably sick of restaurants, anyway, after client dinners and lunches out several times a week, eating food with names I couldn’t even pronounce. What he needed was a decent, home-cooked meal—good old American comfort food. My specialty. Served wearing the pink-and-black lace bra and panties I’d just bought. Also my specialty.

I’d show him plenty of comfort.

* * *

The table was set, the Cornish game hens with wild rice and chestnut stuffing tented in a warm oven to keep them from going dry. The glazed carrots would need to be reheated and the salad dressed.

I’d shaved my legs, curled my hair, and put a dab of perfume on all my pulse points, including the backs of my knees and my ankles. I shimmied into the low-cut, sleeveless black dress I’d borrowed from my mother, leaving my legs bare. I had the perfect strappy sandals to go with the dress, but the extra four inches would have made me almost as tall as Preston, so I opted to remain barefoot. It’s not like I was going anywhere.

At seven o’clock, I popped a John Mayer album into my CD player and lit the candles.

At 7:20, I turned off the oven, since the game hens were getting dry, and wrapped the foil around them tightly so they wouldn’t turn to shoe leather. I checked my cell phone. The last message I’d received from Preston on Thursday said he would pick me up at seven.

I refrained from texting him. He wasn’t that late. Besides, he’d had a busy week and might still be working.

At seven forty-five, I turned off the music and poured myself a glass of chardonnay. At eight thirty, I blew out the candles and poured another glass of wine.

After the third glass, I grabbed my phone.

It was a silly thing to write, because the message above that said he would see me Saturday. At seven.

The little dots on the screen began to bounce. Then they stopped. I waited about fifteen minutes, then tried to call him. The call went straight to voicemail.

I didn’t know whether to be angry or worried, although I was leaning heavily toward anger. I stormed into the bedroom, yanked the borrowed dress over my head, and slipped into an oversized sweatshirt and a pair of leggings. Then I pulled my hair into a messy bun atop my head and began cleaning up my ruined dinner. I wanted to toss the entire mess into the garbage, but I couldn’t afford to be that dramatic.

I was picking the last of the meat off the carcass—at least I could make chicken salad for dinner tomorrow night—when my phone chimed. I was tempted to let it go, but who was I kidding?

I should’ve ignored him, let him see how it felt. But I couldn’t.

I opened my front door to find him leaning against the doorjamb.

“I’m tired, Preston. You shouldn’t have come.”

“We had plans.”

“Five hours ago. And now I’m tired. I don’t feel like talking to you right now.”

I tried to close the door, but he pushed it open and stepped inside.

I was so not in the mood for this. “Preston!”

“I’ve had a bad night, Rain, and this isn’t helping.” He closed the door with a quiet click.

“Yeah? Well, so did I. I wanted to surprise you with dinner, and now it’s ruined.”

He looked at my sad kitchen table: the two place settings, the melted candles. Even the flowers were drooping.

I should’ve cleared it all away. Not even told him I’d made dinner. Let him think I’d forgotten we had a date.

I felt so stupid.

He rested his hands on my upper arms and tried to pull me toward him, but I resisted.

“I’m sorry, baby. I really am.”

“You could’ve at least called. Or texted me.”

“I know. It was just . . . a bad time.”

“Yeah, well. Shit happens.”

Since I wasn’t budging, he stepped toward me and wrapped me in his arms, then rubbed his hand up and down my back. “Can we talk?”

“I told you, I don’t feel like talking right now.”

He let out a long, familiar sigh, the kind I used when I was trying to reason with a five-year-old.

“Rain, please. It’s important. I need you hear me out.”

I broke away from his embrace and stalked all of two feet to my couch, where I dropped heavily onto the cushions and glared at him.

“Go ahead. Talk.” I probably shouldn’t have mixed wine with disappointment. It made me cranky.

Instead of sitting beside me, Preston paced, if you could call taking five steps in either direction pacing. He gripped the back of his neck with both hands. Then he scrubbed a hand over the scruff on his face. Preston never did scruff. He also didn’t do wrinkles, yet his shirt looked as if he’d slept in it. Even one of the front tails was untucked.

Maybe he really had had a bad day.

He stopped and faced me. “When we met, I was seeing someone.”

Oh my god. He was like Jesus, only instead of turning water into wine, he was turning the wine in my stomach to bile.

The pacing started again. “This is difficult for me, Rain.”

My brain was going a hundred miles an hour, but I said nothing. And I had a sick feeling that I wasn’t going to like whatever he had to say either.

He sank down onto the couch beside me and lifted my hand, running his fingers over my palm, then clasping it tightly in his own.

“Suzanne and I have dated since high school. Off and on. Mostly on.” The grip on my hand grew tighter. “It was mostly over when I met you. But it’s been . . . complicated.”

A shard of glass had somehow become lodged in my throat, but I forced the words out anyway.

“And now you’re back together, is that what you’re saying?”

“No.” He shook his head. “Not exactly.”

I tried to remove my hand, but his hold was too strong. He leaned forward until his face was just inches from mine.

For a split second, I wanted to head-butt him. I could always blame the wine.

“I’m in love with you, Rain. I am. But I’ve been with Suzanne since high school. Our families are friends. We move in the same circles. Belong to the same clubs.”

Circles. He was talking about social circles and clubs. My circle consisted of my daughter, my mother, and Diane. And clubs? I didn’t even belong to Sam’s Club. I should’ve known better than to fall for someone so far out of my league it was a surprise we resided in the same area code.

My eyes prickled and burned, but there was no way I was going to cry in front of him, which meant he had to go. Now.

“Look, Preston. I get it. We’re from two different worlds. No biggie.” I tried to stand, but he pressed me against the sofa.

“I’m not finished.” His voice was demanding and authoritative.

I’m sure he talked to lots of people like that, but not to me. I wasn’t one of his fucking employees. I pushed harder, but he only held on tighter.

“Well, I am.”

“Don’t do this.” He rested his forehead against mine. “Would you just hear me out?”

“What’s there to say? After all your talk the other night about being my boyfriend, you already have a girlfriend. Obviously, it was just sex, right?”

I really needed him to go.

“It wasn’t just sex, and you damn well know it. You almost introduced me to your kid, for chrissakes.”

“Yeah, well. My bad.”

He plowed on, ignoring my sarcasm and my efforts to get away from him.

“Suzanne’s mother died tonight. That’s where I was. Like I said, I’ve known her family for a long time. I was there to support her. As a friend. That’s it. I’ve been trying to break it off. Gently. But it’s been hard with all the shit that’s been going on. Her mother had some real aggressive form of breast cancer, and it didn’t respond to treatment.” His grip loosened and he leaned back against the cushions. “I didn’t have the heart to end it when her mother was dying.”

Emotions bombarded me. The strongest was sadness for a girl who had just lost her mother, which diluted some of my anger and the embarrassment of being lied to. I knew how it felt to lose a parent. It sucked.

“I’ll make this right, Rain, I promise. I’m just going to need a little time.” He ran a finger under my chin and lifted my face to his. “You understand, don’t you?”

Sadly, I did. “Yeah, sure.”

He stood. “I probably won’t be around for the next week or so. I promised to go with her when they make arrangements, and of course there’s the wake and services.”

I looked down as I pushed myself off the sofa, desperate to hide the surprise and hurt that had to be marching across my face. “You’re leaving?”

“Yeah, I told her I was just going to run to my place for some clothes and then I’d be back. She probably shouldn’t be alone tonight. She’s pretty upset.”

He was staying with her. The man I stupidly fell in love with was leaving to spend the night with his on-again, off-again girlfriend. I pressed a hand against my churning stomach while I walked him to the door. How was I supposed to respond to that?

He kissed my forehead. “Thank you for being so understanding. You’re a good girl, Rain. The best.”

After locking the door behind him, I couldn’t help but wonder.

The best what?