“Made it all the way there,” I continue. “Then stood outside and realized I didn’t want to walk in.” I shrug. “Kind of figured that was my sign.”
“Smart man,” she says. Dry, but not unkind. “Those things are … a lot.”
“My best friend met his girlfriend at one,” I admit. “So, I keep telling myself they work. Just maybe not for me.”
She hums, like she’s heard that before. “There’s a difference between being open to something and chasing it,” she says. “People often mix those up.”
I think about that as we walk. About how many nights I’ve spent hoping the next one would bethe one.
“I’ve gone on a lot of dates,” I say finally. “Enough that it’s sort of become my thing.” I wince. “And not in a good way.”
Maria glances at me, softer now. “And you’re tired of it.”
“Yeah,” I say, surprised at how easily it comes out. “I think I am.”
She nods once. “Then this is a good place to be. Dogs don’t care what your ‘thing’ is. They just care if you show up.”
We reach the exercise pen, and she opens the gate and gives my shoulder a quick squeeze. “Have fun with Rambo. He’ll keep you busy.”
“Thank you,” I tell her, then unclip the leash. Rambo bolts across the turf like he’s been shot out of something, skidding to a stop a second later and dropping a slobbery tennis ball at my feet, tail wagging.
I laugh as I bend to pick it up.
And for the first time in a long time, I’m not thinking about who I might meet next.
I’m just … here.
And strangely, that feels like progress.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Brittany
Please.I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and turn the key in the lock of my mailbox. I don’t know why it bothers me so much. I don’t know why this has become the most apprehensive part of my day.
I’ve literally been in courtallweek. Presenting evidence and arguing points should be way more nerve-racking than just checking my mail. But alas, here I am, worked up over a letter that I’m certain won’t come.
And it’s all my fault.
My stomach stays knotted up as I swing the small metal door open, then open one eye, peering through a blurry lens at what I know is going to be disappointing.
And it is.
My shoulders immediately sag beneath my black blazer as I open a second eye, seeing nothing at all in the box. There’s not even a bill. No junk mail. Just …nothing.
The disappointment hits harder than it should. Not only because there isn’t a letter, but also because writing back had become part of my day—something small that was mine. Something I chose. And now, even that feels like it slipped out of my hands.
“You check your mail more than anyone I’ve ever met,” a voice says, and I blow out a sigh, already knowing who it is—the redheaded lady who basically finds my entire existence something to poke at every time she sees me.
“Doesn’t everyone check their mail once a day?” I keep my voice light as I shut the box, locking it.
She folds her arms across her chest from behind the desk, eyeing me with her usual judgmental gaze. “Well, sure. But you check it in the morningandin the evening. Like the postman’s gonna drop by an extra time or something.”
Okay, she payswaytoo much attention to me.
“He could run late,” I reason, shrugging my shoulders as I drop my keys back into my bag. “It could happen.”
“He comes at two o’clock in the afternooneveryday.” She snorts, shaking her head at me. “I think you got something important coming. You in trouble or something?”
