Page 70 of Pity Parade

He shakes his head vigorously. “Not at all. You were perfect. I just didn’t think I deserved you.”

“It’s amazing anyone ever finds love with all the head games going on out there.”

“It is, but you obviously believe in love more than most. I mean, it’s your job. It’s your calling.”

“That’s a nice way of looking at it,” I tell him. “But I think the last few years of mixing it with television have soured me.”

“I’ve watched every season of Midwestern Matchmaker,” he says.

“Really?”

“Yep. I even considered auditioning for the show, but then I met you and thought I’d hit the jackpot.”

“Then you broke up with me,” I remind him.

“Head games,” he repeats his earlier reasoning. Then he adds, “But we’ve found each other again and if you’re willing to give me another chance, I promise I’ve matured.”

“Let’s take it one date at a time,” I tell him. “Not because I’m punishing you, but because I’ve changed in the last couple of years, too. I’m not sure what I once wanted is what I still want.”

“What do you want now?” he asks.

I shake my head from side to side. “That’s the thing,” I tell him. “I don’t think I know anymore. All I know is that the next time I commit to someone it’s got to feel like the sun, moon, and stars have all aligned.”

He shrugs his eyebrows up and down. “Did I mention my love for astronomy?”

I smile at his easy sense of humor. “You did not, but that’s good to know.”

While the jury is still out on what will happen between me and Daniel, I do know one thing. I’m very happy he’s come back into my life. And if I’m not the woman for him, I vow to help him find the one.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

HEATH

I don’t want to wait until I get back to Elk Lake to open the envelope from Jess. Being that it’s late in the day, I decide to spend the night at my condo.

Driving into the city is as strange as going to Oak Park was. As familiar as it is, it no longer feels like my home. How is that even possible? I haven’t been away that long.

After pulling into my building’s underground parking garage, I stop off at the front desk to gather my mail. William, the night attendant, looks startled when he sees me. “Mr. Fox, I thought you were gone for the summer.”

“I’m only here for a short time,” I tell him.

He bends down and pulls out a stack of mail for me. Handing the bundle over, he says, “Let me know if you need anything.”

I wave to him before turning around to go to the elevator. Once the doors open, I push the button for the fortieth floor. As I wait for my destination to arrive, I remember that when I bought this place, I asked the realtor to find me the highest unit available. I mused that the farther up I was, the closer to heaven I would be. And while I intellectually knew that was ridiculous, I longed for the illusion of being closer to Jess.

Once I get to my apartment, I open the door before dropping my mail onto the counter. I keep Jess’s envelope with me. Turning on the lights, I look around and while everything looks the same, somehow, I know it’s not. Like I’ve walked into another dimension.

Going into the kitchen, I pour myself a scotch before searching the cabinet for something to eat. I grab a half-full jar of peanuts and a small container of gummy bears before walking into the living room.

Sitting down on the couch, I stare at the envelope in my hand. I wonder what else I missed by not packing up the house myself. I hired a company to take care of my things and I left Jess’s stuff for her parents to deal with. The way I jumped ship, it’s a small wonder I rarely hear from my in-laws.

Turning the envelope over, I gently loosen the back flap. Then I start to pull out an array of treasures. There’s a newspaper clipping of Jess’s and my engagement announcement. Another of our wedding announcement. There are loose pictures from our early years at university, and a menu of the restaurant we ate at the day we signed the papers for our house. I sift through it all with a strange sense of detachment. While I remember everything, like our home in Oak Park, these are the memories of another man.

I’ve looked through most of the stuff when I spot a smaller envelope with my name on the front. Again, it’s written in Jess’s loopy handwriting.

Pulling the folded paper out, I gently lift it to my nose. It smells like gardenia, which was my wife’s signature perfume. She used to spray it on cards and letters before mailing them, claiming she wanted the recipient to have a richer experience when reading her words.

Opening the paper, I read:

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