I looked like myself in a lackluster white tank, dulled bangle bracelets, and faded, hole-in-the-knee jeans—in other words, worn out. Like my heart. Yet, here I was, sitting in my younger neighbor’s yard, feeling the muscle beat in my chest, pounding heavier with his every side glance.
“I was just getting my girl out for a night before she turned into a hermit,” Mary said. “Plus, my dear husband needed a dose of what it’s like to be home with kids every night. Guy has it made.”
“I see.” He still didn’t look Mary’s way.
“No kids for you, neighbor?” He winked, and it was almost enough to obliterate the sadness his words carried. They weren’t meant to be mean or harmful. He was only being playful, dashing. He didn’t know what had happened.
“That’s a little personal for not even knowing my name,” I shot back, stubbing out my smoke on the side of my chair and standing. “I’m going to hit the hay. This hermit can only stand so much fun for one night.”
I turned without another word, knowing Mary wouldn’t help me. She’d firmly entrenched herself in Camp Tough Love. It was time to move forward, get going with my life, according to Mary.
“Shit,” Aiken mumbled. “Hey.” He ran after me. “Hey, you!”
I was already on the other side of the fence, Smitty trotting next to me.
“Claire. Her name’s Claire,” Mary called out.
I was on my back porch, Aiken hot on my heels. I could hear his breath, smell his cigar, feel his heat.
“Claire, wait.” I went to open the door, and he pulled me back, exposing my bra strap. His huge mitt of a hand singeing my shoulder, he used his pointer finger to right my strap, keeping his eyes focused on mine. “I’m sorry…I don’t know shit. Stupid-guy alert.”
“It’s fine.”
“I mean, I don’t know…maybe you couldn’t have them or were never married. I took you for a hot divorcée. Shit.” He took a drag of his cigar. “I’m fucking this all up. What I mean is this is coming out all wrong. Whatever the reason you have, I’m sorry I called you Smitty’s mom. I sort of get why you got mad now.” His words filtered out in a puff of cinnamonesque smoke, begging me to lean close and sniff.
I resisted.
“Really, it’s fine. It’s all me, this issue. It’s me. Swear—”
“Come back. Let’s have a drink.”
My eyes betrayed me, taking in his full length, the same worn-in jeans Mary had ogled, tight T-shirt, weathered flip-flops, biceps bulging, and hair askew—he wasn’t for me.
He couldn’t be for me.
“I can’t. Listen, let me put your guilt at ease. I am a divorcée, deposited on the side of the road for a younger make and model. A better one.”
I took a deep breath and let him chew on that. He didn’t look fazed, so I went in for the kill.
“As for kids, I can…could…have them. I did have one. Actually, the best one ever. A beautiful daughter named Abby. Bright, happy, full of life at one time. She’s dead now, because I wanted to take a bath and drink wine. I’m not for you, Aiken, even if you’re on some Mrs. Robinson jag.”
When I stopped to catch my breath, I finally got a reaction, but it wasn’t horror like I expected. It wasn’t pity like I typically got.
It was something worse. Empathy. His eyes glazed with sincerity, his brow furrowed with concern, his mouth opened to say something.
I turned, walked into my house, and allowed the door to slam behind me without even agood night.
Because it wasn’t.
