I’m not sure why my friends are so intent on setting me up.
Without fail, whenever we get together, at least one of them justhasto mention it.
From Shea, fiancee of my fellow officer and friend, Oliver—“Oh, Mike, there’s Felicity, the new teller at the bank. She’s so nice, and last time I stopped in, she mentioned something about hoping to meet someone.”
Or Rose, Ian’s wife, will mention,“Mike, there’s this woman who just joined Ian’s gym. She’s just lovely. Divorced with the cutest little girl. And so smart. I could give her your number, if you want.”
It’s not just the partners of my friends, either. The guys—who used to be just as content being single as me—have to get into the mix, too.
Oliver will bring up the barbecue they’re hosting at their house, making sure to let me know there’ll be several available women in attendance.
If we’re out in public—the Hop-less Horseman for trivia or the Horse and Ghost for their happy hour specials—I’ll get to hear comments from the guys like, “Hey, that brunette over atthe bar has been staring at you since you got here. Maybe you should go over to introduce yourself.”
But I don’t want to introduce myself to the woman at the bar. I don’t want to ask Felicity—who I’m sureisvery nice—out on a date. Or call up the single mom at Ian’s gym.
Not that I have a problem with kids. I don’t. It’s the whole dating thing I’d rather avoid.
I know my friends mean well.
With only a few exceptions, they’re all in relationships and happy as clams. So I guess, in their minds, they think I should want the same thing as them.
Dating. Living together. Marriage. Kids. The wholespending a lifetime with one personthing.
In theory, it sounds nice.
In reality? I’m not sold on it.
I tried marriage before. It didn’t work.
Marriage was a year of listening to my ex, Heidi, complain about my schedule and subpar salary and my reticence to go back to school so I could get a job that was, in her words,more upwardly mobile.
She knew I was a cop when we met. She knew as a rookie I got the worst shifts, but that it was only temporary. That my salary would go up steadily as I put in my time, but I’d never be wealthy like some of the guys she dated in college. And sheknewI didn’t want a different job. That being a cop was the only career I’d ever wanted.
When she told me she wanted a divorce, I wasn’t surprised. But the way she did it—clearing out our shared bank accounts before coldly telling me,“I earned it for putting up with your shit, Mike. I’m taking the money and moving. Going someplace where I can find a man who’ll treat me right,”made the whole thing ten times worse.
And that’s not the first time I’ve been abandoned by a woman I cared about.
Before Heidi, back when I was young and hopeful and desperately in love, I thought I’d found the woman I wanted to spend my life with. But just like with Heidi, it turned out I just wasn’t good enough.
After having my heart crushed by my first love, then betrayed by the second woman I took a chance on, is it any wonder I’m content being single?
I like my life as it is. I love my job as one of the senior officers of the Sleepy Hollow police department. I like living in this cozy town, doing my part to keep it safe. I like puttering around the house on the weekends, working on an assortment of projects or taking care of the lawn. And all well-meaning matchmaking aside, I enjoy meeting up with friends for a drink or trivia on one of the nights I have off.
But rather than explain all of that when any of my friends bring up the subject of dating, I just give them a pleasant but vague answer.
I’m pretty busy right now, but maybe in a couple of months.
I’ll think about it.
Thanks, but I’m not looking to date right now.
I’m not celibate, of course. In the sixteen years since my divorce, it’s not like I haven’t been with women. I’ve been on dates. Had some mutually-agreed-upon one night hookups. They’ve just never gone anywhere. And I’m okay with that.
Life is less complicated that way. Less chance of getting hurt.
“Oh, Mike.” Ari—who’s married to Cash, one of the Sleepy Hollow firefighters at Station 4—leans across the worn wooden table to touch my arm. “I almost forgot to tell you, there’s a new teacher at my school who you might be interested in. She just started in September. She’s kind of quiet, but so sweet. And she’s definitely single. I asked.”
I barely smother a laugh. We’ve been at the Hop-less Horseman for less than thirty minutes and the matchmaking has already started.
