Page 7 of We Can Forever

She’s not yet one hundred percent developed when it comes to everything.

I consider calling her back in to clean up after herself, but I need the silence and space to think, so I put the orange juice away and then start stress-cleaning the whole kitchen.

Jenny and Katie are right. It has been too long since I’ve been on a date.

It’s not like I haven’t been with other women in the eleven years since Talia and I split, but none of those weekend flings—or, sometimes, just nights—were meant to last.

Actual dating is different, a whole new ball game.

Am I ready for it? What will I even talk about with this woman? My whole life is Katie and work—first contracting, now running the fire station here.

I scrub the stovetop harder, my stress mounting. If nothing else, I can just end the date. Tell her I’m sorry and leave.

But I can’t deny that I’m actually a little excited. Not just to meet someone new, but to spend an evening not having to put out little fires—both literal and metaphorical. An evening to just be me.

And who knows? Maybe Jenny is right, and this will be the start of something new.

Chapter Three

HANNAH

My phone beeps on the counter, and I yip in surprise.

Usually, the sound of a text wouldn’t make me so jumpy, but today is different. Today is the day. I’m going on my first date in years.

The mere thought makes me dizzy. I’m trying not to spiral and fixate on all the ways tonight can go wrong, but it’s hard. I don’t even know this guy, and yet it feels like so much is riding on tonight.

Checking my phone, I find that the text, predictably, is from Flick.

You should wear that black dress you crocheted. It’s sexy but won’t look like you’re trying too hard.

Sighing, I put down the phone. I still have to do the books, and I have no time to run back home before seven. So it’s jeans and the mahogany blouse that I already have on.

At least I brought some makeup so I can touch up ahead of time.

It’s not the first text Flick has sent about tonight’s date. She’s been an endless well of advice, and while I appreciate it, the input is also starting to make me stressed. I know I should ask her to stop, but she’s just trying to help and I don’t want to hurt her feelings. That would be stressful, too, and make things awkward between us.

My phone starts ringing. Assuming it’s Flick calling with some more advice, I huff and pick it up—but it’s my aunt Carol.

“Hey,” I answer, relief flooding me at the opportunity to speak with her.

“Hey, sweetie. How are you? How was work today?”

“Good.” I take a seat on the stool behind the counter. “Things are busy.”

“That’s wonderful.” The familiar sounds of home drift over the line, all the way from Oregon—the gentle gurgling of water as she fills the teakettle, her cat Einstein meowing for attention in the background.

It’s almost enough to make me miss Portland, but not quite. As much good that happened there, there were also a lot of heavy times. In Maine, I’ve shed a lot of the past. People don’t know me here, and, in a way, I don’t know myself either. It’s been easier to take off the old identity and put on a new one, that of a knitting store owner who lives in a historic cottage and keeps to herself.

“Have you made any more friends?” Carol asks.

“Actually, yeah.” I bite into a smile. “You know that group I was thinking about starting? For people with chronic pain? Flick and I held the first one the other night, and two women came.”

“Oh Hannah, that’s lovely.”

“And…I have a date. Tonight.”

Silence.

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