They took their dessert to a park bench away from the crowds and the glowing amber of street lamps. There, under the cozy darkness of a cypress tree, their bodies moved in with an instinctual magnetism. Animal magnetism. Sam had what someone less distracted might call the right match of pheromones, but in the moment all she cared about was the scent of cypress wood, alcohol, and him. It was intoxicating. She needed to get closer to it. First was his chest, her head resting on it, finding it a little more immense than she’d expected. Sam tended to wear a button-down shirt and jacket, sometimes even with a waistcoat, and she was surprised at the muscled mass of him underneath an unbuttoned and spread sports jacket.

God, it was so wretchedly bittersweet. The magnetism, the attraction, was immediate and easy, and, it seemed, deliciously available. The sadness, however, was of a deferred variety. An extended unanswered question. It hung over them, even as they sat on the park bench, the wings of an albatross hovering over them dark like the cypress: their uncertainties and worries about the future. Possibly their future. Or not. Sure, the feel of his unflexed bicep under her hand was warm and sexy and all . . . Well, no, it was pretty fucking amazing—like the rest of him, outside and in. But what about the questions? Those damn questions . . . What could silence those?

For the time being, it was Sam’s lips. His hand had gone from her neck to underneath her jaw, lifting her face to greet his. Smiling, and then not smiling, and then touching softly there, his late-day stubble scratching a little on her cheek. And their kiss, the shared taste of restaurant breath mints, the shared exuberance of tongues. The connection of their mouths, just like everything else about this surprising connection, had grown hot and unwieldy and so impulsive. So strange that she’d fallen this way, drawn happily into quicksand, into the unknown. And already, on that first real date, on the bench and on each other, already she’d felt the possibility of being ruined in some way—only she wasn’t sure if it was the good or bad type. All Clara knew was that she wanted it decided.

* * *

Clara turned off the radio and drove the rest of the way from downtown to the suburbs in silence. She couldn’t stop thinking about him. A good problem to have. It was like an almost trance-like meditation on her man, her funny, sensitive, sexy Sam. It had been going so well. The date especially, to cap it off. The date. Hell yes, it was a date. She’d wanted that so badly. It had been declared like the victorious finding in one of her court cases, outright and unquestionably. And then, the kiss outside on their park bench. It made her feel warm again, reliving it, the way he kissed her so deeply. It made her feel at least eight years younger—and not at all like a parent of an eight-year-old. And for that, Clara was almost tempted to feel guilty. She rarely took nights off for herself, time and energy away from Molly, who had been so central to everything. But it was at the insistence of her friends—especially the one watching her daughter tonight, a friend, Bren, who had facilitated this whole thing. According to her, it was time to branch out and reclaim some personal time. A personal, extracurricular life. Fun. Was that the kind of fun that Bren had in mind? Park-bench fun?

“So how was it?”

Clara found Bren stretched out on the sofa with the remote in one hand and a wine glass in the other. It seemed she’d been having her own fun night, helping herself to a glass of chardonnay. Knowing Molly’s usual routine with babysitters, she might have earned it. Maybe even the whole bottle.

“Is Molly sleeping?” Clara dropped her coat, bag, and take-home box in a clump on the kitchen table.

“Yeah. So come on, tell me.”

“Was she okay? I hope she wasn’t too horrible.”

“Clara, come on, tell me all about it.”

She stood there for a moment, trying not to smile like a crazy person. But she slipped up, and a little giggle escaped out into the living room. She was instantly embarrassed at how fifteen she sounded.

“Clara,” Bren said teasingly. “Oh, my God.”

“I know.”

“It was that good?”

“It was hardly anything,” Clara said, trying to regain some composure as she sat on the sofa’s armrest. “We just had dinner, but . . .” She laughed, turning away from her friend and saying, “Oh, my God. I’m in trouble.”

“Oh, my God. Is he coming to your poetry reading?”

“No . . . Well, I don’t think so. But how was Molly, though? Was she really okay?”

“She was perfect.”

“Perfect?”

Bren smiled. “She might still be awake.”

“Oh, I’m sure of it.”

The faint sound of Bren’s laughter faded as Clara padded down the hall. She stuck her head through the doorway of Molly’s lair, looking in the slightly messy room, its walls filled with glowing rotating stars. The light machine was first used to ward off bad dreams. Now Molly just thought it was cool—or so she said. Clara would usually turn it off after an hour or so, but this time Molly was awake. Her little feet were kicking around in the blankets, and then out from that warm little jumble came a little, meek, tired voice, “Mommy?”

Clara crept over to her and knelt by her bed. “Hey, Sweetie.”

“What time is it?” Molly rolled over and scratched at her face.

Clara gripped at her tiny wrists, pulled one hand away, and looked at her sweet, sleep-deprived goblin. “Did you get any sleep yet?”

She nodded.

“You sure?” Clara asked softly. “You had a dream?” Molly’s hands went back to her face, rubbing her eyes. “I just came in to say goodnight, okay? Give me a kiss?”

Molly kept her head flush back on the pillow. “I think I had a good dream.”

“So did I.” Clara leaned over and kissed her on the forehead.