My heart stalls for a second at the sound of his name. Whywouldn’the come up tonight? Gabriel’s the one who hired him to do the work at Natasha’s house. Of course he would. Still, hearing it here, across the table on a date, makes something in my chest tighten.
I take a quick sip of water, carefully this time—trying very hard not to choke on it like I did on my last date with Chris.
“That’s… nice.”
He doesn’t notice my discomfort. “Yeah, it’s worked out for both of us. Allows me to set my hours as much as possible so that I can be with my daughter and I don’t answer to anyone.”
“How old is your daughter?” I ask leaning forward. “And what’s her name?”
“She’s three. Mia.”
“Beautiful name.”
His whole face softens. “Love of my life. She’s in either K3 or with a babysitter while I’m working, which makes me miss her like hell. But she’s thriving. I can see her really coming into her own.”
“That’s wonderful. Maybe someday she’ll be in my class.”
His eyebrows raise. “You’re a teacher?”
I nod. “Yes. Kindergarten. At Brookhaven Elementary.”
“Wow. You must have the patience of a saint.”
I laugh. “I think so. It’s such a special season in their lives—so much growth and discovery. Watching them learn to read, to write, to handle relationships, to explore the world around them—it’s the foundation for everything that comes after in their life.”
He studies me for a second, then smiles. “Sounds like you love what you do.”
I pause. Because for the first time in a long time, I can respond with full confidence that “I do love it.”
That’s when it hits me that I haven’t been taking as many PI gigs lately either. The one this past weekend was the first in… weeks. And it hadn’t felt the same. It used to give me this sharp sense of purpose. A rush. Even if most of the time I was just proving what someone already suspected to be true.
Lately, though, it just hasn’t felt as… fulfilling. Not even when I remind myself that I need the extra money if I’m going to keep chipping away at my debt.
Even the job this weekend didn’t spark the same satisfaction it used to. The boyfriend I’d been hired to tail never showed a single sign of cheating, and if I’m being honest, I didn’t push as hard as I normally would have to catch him slipping. I wasn’t disappointed that he hadn’t either. If anything, I felt relieved. Relieved to know maybe not everyone cheats.
“For a while, I didn’t enjoy it,” I admit. “I took a break when things got rough in my last marriage. Then throughout the divorce, I just… I couldn’t find the joy in it anymore. The kids, the job—it all felt empty, and I wasn’t my best.”
“I can imagine.” His voice is soft, understanding. “How longhas it been since everything was finalized?”
“Two years since we separated. A year since the divorce.” I bite down on my lip, wondering if I should elaborate. “It wasn’t amicable. He’d been unfaithful.”
He exhales sharply. “Damn. I’m sorry you went through that.”
I nod, and for a moment, I realize—this is the third time that I’ve explained my divorce on a date in the past month. And each time, it feels like it’s getting a little easier. Like I’m reclaiming my story instead of letting it own me.
The sharp pain that’s twisted in my gut when I used to think about the betrayal is no longer as severe. Now, it’s just more of a blunt ache reminding me that I was hurt, but I survived. Talking about the bad parts, the ugly parts, the things I missed, the red flags that I ignored, and even the good parts… Well, it’s not just hurtful anymore. It seems to be healing.
For so long, I kept it all locked inside. I isolated myself from the rest of the world that was moving forward by concealing the truth of what happened out of embarrassment. I let shame keep me quiet like I’d failed because my marriage did. But I don’t want to do that anymore. I don’t want to keep thinking that I was the problem, that I was the flaw in the relationship and that was why my husband cheated. I refuse to think that he broke something in me that has made me unlovable. I know I am.
“Thank you,” I say. And I mean it this time.
Travis nods just as the server returns, setting down two dishes of homemade lasagna in front of us.
“Wow,” I sigh. “This looks incredible.”
He grins, already digging in. “It’s what Mia and I always get when we come here.”
I take a bite, savoring the layers of gooey cheese, warm pasta, and rich, homemade sauce. Damn. This is good. And this—thisis nice.
