Page 11 of Pining for You

Then she turned on one heel and walked back to the truck parked on the side of the road. Without looking back.

Some guys think a woman who was interested would steal a look over their shoulder. For me? I interpreted it that Chloe was confident in her decision. Or maybe a little scared that she might second-guess herself if she did look back. After she opened the door to the pick-up and tossed her yellow hardhat and gloves on the seat, she raised her hand and gave me a salute, mouthing, seven. Tomorrow.

I was still grinning from ear to ear when her truck disappeared from sight around the bend in the road. Well, hot damn! I got myself a date!

5

CHLOE

What the hell had I been thinking agreeing to this date? It must have been the fiftieth time I questioned my mental capacity since yesterday. Normally, I did due diligence before I agreed to a first date.

I stared at my reflection as I applied my moisturizer and went through my mental list of what I did know about him.

I knew his name. Bradley Calhoun. He was from a local family and Marilyn vouched for him. Marilyn wouldn’t steer me wrong and no doubt had known Brad when he was in school, same as she did everyone else under the age of fifty. He had a solid job—the main arborist for the only tree-cutting company in the township, hell, in the region. Arborists made good money. Best of all, he wasn’t self-employed, which, compared to my ex, was a big check mark in the yes column of my dating checklist. Marilyn had also assured each of us that the other was single, so another check mark in his favor.

I thought about the results—or lack of results—about him on my social media search for his name as I applied my foundation. Either he went under some weird nickname like BigWood6969 or he wasn’t on Facebook, X, Instagram or TikTok. Which was a possibility, I supposed. I wished I knew some of his friends, could ask someone for… Pondering that took me from my concealer, bronzer, powder and blush, before I paused with my eyeliner hovering over my left eyelid.

What was I doing? Interviewing him for a job? Expecting him to hand me a resume or references? Or should I look at dating a lot more prudently this time around?

What interview questions would I ask someone who might want the position of my boyfriend? I scoffed at the word boyfriend. I didn’t want to date a boy. I wanted a man. Someone responsible. Who paid his bills. Who could be relied upon. Trusted.

When I’d met Tony, I’d let my heart lead the way and ignored what my brain had been niggling over as little red flags. I’d dated a fair amount before I’d met him, but something about Tony’s positivity, his outgoing nature, his talkative charm, had hooked me.

Initially, I’d been impressed by his air of worldliness. Tony had impressed me with his confidence in his own ability, that he owned his own home renovation business and could fix a faucet, which a lot guys these days can’t do.

I got taken in by his flashy latest-generation tech (that I’d later learned had been a fake), and his flashy truck (that turned out to have been purchased on a loan that never got repaid) with his company’s logo on the side. I thought they were signs that he was successful, that he managed his money well. Which is why I’d taken the leap and moved in with him. Or why I’d let him move in with me, and why we’d gotten married shortly after.

I trusted him when he’d convinced me to move to a new town a hundred miles away a year later, because it had so many business opportunities for home renovation, only for him to hit on an even better business opportunity halfway across the province before the ink on our rental agreement was dry.

So we’d moved again, and again, and I’d given up job after job, but I told myself that I loved him and that someday we’d settle down. Which we finally did about seven years later, staying in the same location for over a year and I’d found a job I loved. I’d been able to use my business degree and I was about to get a promotion in the city’s building service division. I was starting to think of kids and picket fences, though it turned out Tony didn’t have time for personal home repair, always keeping busy with his various opportunities.

I should have seen the writing on the wall. I should have known that one day, I’d come home to find my ex’s latest truck winched onto the back of a tow truck by a repo guy, and another tow truck waiting to repossess my little sedan. Worse were the police spread out through our rented house, where I’d discovered only my clothes remained in the closet, and all of Tony’s belongings were missing, with no sign of Tony anywhere.

The neighbors’ phone cameras had captured the moment the police led me, handcuffed and sobbing, across the lawn to push me into the back of one of their vehicles as if I were the criminal. While I sat in the interrogation room, appalled and confused as the police accused me of being an accomplice to Tony’s fraud, my neighbors posted the video to all the social media sites, videos that were picked up and played over and over again on the local news, and the not-so-local news. It was only then I learned that for the whole time I’d known him, Tony had been ghosting clients while pocketing checks worth thousands of dollars—in one case, a hundred thousand—in every town we’d lived in. Because the office where I worked oversaw building and work permits, they assumed I’d provided the permits for all the shoddy work he had done there.

I was still paying off the debts from hiring an attorney to defend me—successfully, though many of Tony’s victims weren’t convinced, despite the judge’s ruling. Oh, and I mustn’t forget the cost of the divorce attorney. Luckily, my lawyers had ensured I wasn’t responsible for all the debts Tony had run up or for paying Tony’s legal bills after he was sentenced to four years for multiple counts of fraud.

I found it ironic that I was still struggling with the debts he’d caused while he walked free as a bird after serving eight months.

Sometimes I felt like I’d never be free. But one thing was true.

I was free to date Brad Calhoun if I wanted. Since he worked for John Chisholm and got the seal of approval from Mrs. B, I knew for sure Brad wasn’t a fraudster or a wheeler-dealer. There was no way John would keep anyone on if they were doing shoddy work, and Brad had apparently lived in Port Paxton all his life. He wasn’t running from town to town, two steps ahead of his angry clients and the banks, and eventually the cops.

Time to stop second-guessing myself. Time to move on and prove to myself I was worthy of better.

Was Brad better? So far that seemed to be a sound yes. With a flurry of “but what ifs” bouncing around in my brain, I plucked my keys from the hook by the door, pulled on my coat, and headed to what might be a great night, or might not, but I chose to aim for the former rather than the latter.

BRAD

Even though I’d arrived a half hour early, The Alleys’ parking lot was already filled, so I’d ended up across the road in the grocery store’s lot.

After a quick check in the rearview mirror to make sure there was nothing stuck between my teeth—yes, I’d brushed my teeth, flossed and used the mouthwash, but I’d been caught out before with some errant piece of whatever I’d eaten for lunch that day. That misadventure had cost me a potential first date. I’d stood up to greet her, smiling broadly, she took one look at me, and strode away.

Strangely enough, it had happened right here at The Alleys, but my first first date had taught me to be vigilant about my oral hygiene. Future experiences had taught me to ensure my shirt had all its buttons and that they were done up correctly, socks had no holes, and to be careful about not intimidating my potential love interest by looming over her.

The Alleys used to be a five-pin bowling alley with about a dozen lanes, but business disappeared. The building got sold and the new owners turned it into the bar. While they’ve kept four lanes, with actual working ball returns and pin setters, they’d converted the rest into a bar and restaurant. In the summer, there’s a small dance floor with a DJ, though this time of year, it’s empty and the music is piped in through an intercom system that really isn’t great. Having dated one of the bartenders a few times, I learned that the music is dependent on the head bartender’s smart phone. Tonight we were serenaded with golden oldies, 60s and 70s rock like The Beatles, Stones, a few Gordon Lightfoot songs, along with Billy Joel’s “Piano Man” which got played every time I’d come in, no matter who was in charge of the playlist.

Because I’d arrived early, I’d had the good luck of snagging a booth with a window overlooking the parking lot so I could see the moment Chloe appeared, walking along the sidewalk from downtown.

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