Who does he think he is? I spent the whole night fuming after speaking with Jacob, and this morning I woke up in a bad mood, which ruined my whole day.

As I lock my front door, I cast an annoyed glance in the direction of Jacob’s home. My blood still boils when I think about how he acted last night.

Just because he’s big and scary, he thinks he can intimidate me, in my own home?

Most people may overlook his rudeness and just comply just because he’s demanding and intimidating, but not me.

I'm used to dealing with men his size, men who have specifically been hired to intimidate other men. It’s not like Stan never used his bouncers to keep us in line. Jacob doesn't scare me.

None of my business? The damn guy lives next door! How can something like my own neighbor’s profession not be my business?

You always see neighbors of serial killers showing up on TV, talking about what a normal, polite person the axe murderer is. And you think, gosh, how can these people not realize they were living right across the street from a serial killer? And it's all because nobody knows anything about anybody anymore, thanks to attitudes like the one Jacob showed me last night.

Hell, for all I know, he may be doing all kinds of shady things right next door. I always see the lights in his house turned on until ungodly hours of the early morning. What does he do that requires that kind of work hours?

I get inside the car. The leather car seat feels cool on my butt as I stick the key into the ignition and start the engine. The digital clock on the dashboard says it’s seven, which means I’m right on time. Good.

The location of the neighborhood meeting changes each time, so we’ve gathered in a few other people's homes. And we’d never had any noise complaints. Not until last night.

I mean, we're not inconsiderate pricks. The meeting always starts around dinner time and ends before ten, before most people go to bed.

And we're not excessively noisy. It's not like we played loud music and hung a disco ball from the ceiling while we poured some beer from a keg. Maybe I’m biased because I used to spend most nights in a loud strip club, but I definitely think the noise level last night was reasonable.

I back the car out my driveway and glare one last time at Jacob’s house. The light in what I guess is his living room is on and I can see shadow moving behind the blinds. His noisy motorcycle is parked in the driveway.

He probably stays up all night and sleeps all day. That's fine by me. I used to have crazy work hours too. But he shouldn't expect everybody else to live by his schedule.

Me? Loud? How ironic.

An angry chuckle escapes my mouth as I my eyes land on Jacob’s big motorcycle. He fires up that thing in the middle of the night and revs it up loudly, and supposedly that's okay?

What is he even doing in Ashbourne?, I think to myself as I navigate the sleepy streets leading to the restaurant where I’m having dinner tonight.

Since Jacob fixed my car last week, he hasn’t said a word to me—not that I’ve given him any chance to. I’ve been avoiding him, for obvious reasons.

As attractive as I think Jacob is, I can’t rule out the possibility that he’s somehow connected to Stan.

Sure, he doesn’t look like the type. A straight-laced military type who respects strippers and helps out women who happen to be stranded in the middle of nowhere? Yeah, someone like that probably wouldn’t associate with Stan. He’d probably hate Stan’s guts if they knew each other.

But how much do I really know about Jacob? We spent one night together three years ago and he helped me fix my car last week—that’s the extent of our interactions, really. Last night, I was hoping that he would tell me what his job is and what he’s doing here so I could put my mind at ease, but he wouldn’t even do that.

Too bad things turned out the way the did. I really enjoyed that one night with Jacob and, despite my rule about not dating customers, I would’ve seen him again if the circumstances were different. He was shipping out soon anyway so it wasn’t like we were going to get into a relationship.

As things stand right now, my job is no longer a problem, but I can’t let him get too close. It’s way too dangerous for us both. He could be a danger to me. And while I personally won’t pose a danger to him, being associated with me could definitely lead him to dangerous situations.

But what am I doing thinking about Jacob? I’m on my way to what’s potentially a hot date. I try to shake off any lingering thoughts of Jacob as I park my car in front of the restaurant.

Think about Steve instead, I tell myself. He seems nice on his dating profile.

I didn’t want to get into online dating—you know, since I’m in hiding and all. But I’m lonely and I’ve been told Tinder has a radius setting, so I thought it would be safe to create a profile and only make it visible to people in Ashbourne.

I mean, if Stan specifically sends a guy to this town to find me, I’m pretty much screwed already at that point.

I lock my car and smooth out my black dress as I walk toward the restaurant entrance, checking my own reflection on the big glass windows. I look good. I smile to myself. It’s been a while since the last time I got all dolled up. There aren’t too many events for which people dress up in this small town, and the nicer items in my wardrobe were getting neglected.

I scan the restaurant as I open the door, letting the waitress know that I’m looking for someone.

And then I see him, a guy in a baby-blue button-down shirt waving his hand at me with a wide grin on his face. I give him a practiced smile and raise my hand to wave back.

He doesn’t look anything like his profile picture. Well, maybe he used to, like, ten years ago. Does he think he still looks like that? Because that would be sad.

As I gingerly approach the table, I try to recall the photos I’ve seen online and compare them to the man right in front of me now.

Steve’s hairline has shrunk at least two full inches further up his scalp, while his waistline has grown by a lot more inches. He’s still wearing his old clothes, though—I can tell by the way his shirt bulges over his pot belly and meets the waist of his dress pants somewhere near the top of his thighs.

“Jessica?” Steve gets up and walks around the table to get closer.

“Yeah. Steve?”

“That’s me,” he says, spreading his arms wide.

Oh God, he wants a hug. I glance at the wet patches on his armpits that are staining his shirt a darker blue and try to stop myself from cringing. I put my hands on his shoulders, keeping him at arms’ length, but he pulls me in until our chests touch. I hope he’s not sweaty all over. I’d hate for the sour smell of his sweat to stick to one of my favorite little black dresses.

“Oh, hi, Steve. Nice to meet you.” I pull away and give him a sweet smile, the kind I practiced to perfection in my previous profession.

“Wow, you look so much better than your pictures,” he says. If I were him I really wouldn’t bring up the topic of how true-to-life any of our online dating profile pictures are.

“Why don’t we sit down? My new shoes pinch a little. They’re new.” I lie, of course. I’ve had these shoes forever and they’re super comfortable, but he doesn’t need to know that. I just need to put an end to the worst, longest hug ever.

“I already ordered for you,” Steve says as he takes his seat across the table from me. “Trust me, I know what items on the menu are good.”

“Okay.” I keep the smile plastered on my face. Jesus. Can this get any worse? If there’s anything that annoys me more than people catfishing on dating sites, it’s people who think they know what’s good for me.

“So, you’re a teacher, huh?”

“That’s right. I teach at the local high school.”

“You must like it,” he says.

“Actually, I do. I’ve always wanted to be a teacher.”

“Why, though? It doesn’t pay very well, does it?” He grimaces. “You can probably do better.”

Great. Only a few minutes into the date and he already knows my job isn’t good for me. This is going to be one long date. I take a deep breath. I don’t think we’re going to hit it off, but if we’re going to do this, I may as well try to make conversation. Maybe that will make this bearable at least.

“Well, there was a teacher who really inspired me when I was in high school. She made me want to do the same for other people,” I say.

“Ah, well. I guess since you’re a woman that’s okay.” He raises his eyebrows like there’s some hidden meaning in his sentence that I’m not getting. “It’s good practice for when you have your own kids. I like women who are nurturing. They make the best mothers.”

The hairs on my skin stand up when I realize what he’s implying. Really, dude? We just met and you’re talking about how I’d be a good mother for your future kids? And what does he mean by it’s okay because I’m a woman?

“Uh, yeah. I guess,” I say politely, not sure how I’m supposed to respond.

Luckily, the food arrives at this point in the conversation. I’m really glad for the opportunity to drop the subject of women’s work and nurturing instincts. I guess it’s a good thing he ordered ahead after all.

I have to hand it to Steve. At least when it comes to the choice of restaurant and food, he knows his stuff.

I haven’t even heard of Caves, but it’s apparently a cute little Greek restaurant with fake stone formations hanging from the ceilings, giving the place a dark, intimate atmosphere. The food consists of platters of souvlaki with meats and tzatziki sauce. I can actually see myself coming back here, just not with Steve.

He introduces the items on the table and shows me the proper way to eat them. As we both rave about the food, I actually start to enjoy this dinner.

“You know, I think it’s really cool that you’re following your dreams.,” Steve says.

“Yeah?” I smile and take a bite of the warm, fluffy flat bread and spiced meat. Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.

“Yeah. I have this friend, he’s a social worker. Great guy. He’s always liked to help people. It suits him. He’s happy.”

“Good for him,” I say.

“Personally, I don’t think it’s such a good move for him. I wouldn’t do it. He’s only making sixty-thousand a year.” Steve scrunches up his face like it’s the worst fate in the world to be making twice the amount I do.

“Oh, that’s not so bad.” I try to keep the positive vibes going, but he’s not making it easy.

“Maybe it’s not so bad for you.” Steve smiles like he genuinely believes he’s giving me a compliment. “But he’s a guy. What happens when he has a wife? Children?”

“Maybe his wife can work.” I shrug with annoyance. I tried. I really tried to keep my mouth shut so we can have a pleasant meal.

“No way. Women, once they have kids, they just want to stay home all day and be with their babies,” he says.

“I’m sure there are women out there who disagree.”

“They’re just fooling themselves.” He dismisses my silly womanly opinion with a wave of his sausage fingers. “All women want to take care of their kids. It’s just biology. You’ll see. You’ll have kids and then you’ll want the same thing,” he says.

Okay, my initial instinct was correct. He’s just one of those guys who think they know everything all women want. Funny how these omniscient men are always the ones who never get laid.

My blood boils, but I keep a lid on it. Arguing with someone like Steve would just be a waste of my breath. So I just nod while I continue eating in silence.

“You know…” Steve’s voice trails off as he looks intensely at me. “I feel like I’ve seen you before. Have you ever lived somewhere else? Like, in the city? I mean, San Francisco?”

Shit. Okay. This is my cue to leave. If he knows me from before I moved here, he knows where I worked. And if he opens that big mouth of his, I could lose my job.

“Oh, excuse me. My phone is ringing. It looks important.” I fish my phone out of my bag. Nobody’s really calling, of course. I have to press a button so the screen isn’t completely dark.

I fake an emergency phone call and quickly dash out of the restaurant, but not before leaving a couple of twenty-dollar bills so Steve wouldn’t accuse me of being one of those women who are just using dating sites to get free meals. Somehow, he strikes me as the kind of guy who’d say something like that.

Damn. Yet another disappointing date. Maybe I should give up already.