Page 41 of That Reunited Feeling

What happened in the car last night—or what almost happened—was bad news. Bad, bad, very bad news. Terrible. The worst.

I shift my cleaning attention to the shelves in the alcove to the right of the fireplace and run the duster along a row of books, then to the next shelf that’s arranged with a variety of knickknacks the kids made for Maggie and Jim over the years. This might be a formal room, but Maggie makes everywhere homey.

I flutter the duster over a mini abacus Elliot built in woodworking class, and a portrait of their old dog painted by Connor. Then there’s a little plate stand that holds the gold record Tom made in our Mother’s Day craft class in the first year of high school. The label in the center of the disc reads, “Thank you for being my Backup Mom.” The gold spray paint has chipped off a little around the edges over the years, but the rest of it is still shiny.

I run the duster along the top edge of the record and onto the clay skyscraper Max crafted when he was seven or so, but the duster takes the record with it. As if I’m watching a slow-motion replay, it topples to the edge of the shelf, teeters on the brink, then tumbles.

Heart somewhere near my throat, my pulse lurching from normal to dizzying, I just about get my free hand under therecord and prevent it from crashing to the floor, smashing the memories.

Thank God.

I turn it over in my hand. It appears to be unscathed.

My stomach churns at how close I came to having to tell Maggie I’d broken something on what she calls her Precious Shelf.

My trembling hand sets the record back on its stand.

Anyway, no matter how delightful Maggie is and how much matchmaking she’s not-so-subtly trying to do, I am not getting involved with Tom.

Even if I did, I’d only have to wave him off to London, and there’s no way in hell I’d put myself through that again.

No way. Never. Not going to happen.

But the way I was on the verge of melting last night when he cupped my chin and eased my face toward his…the way his lips parted just a tiny bit…the way his eyes kind of misted over…

Well, thank fuck for that swerving semi, that’s all I can say.

I should track that trucker down and buy them a beer for saving me from myself.

I move to the coffee table and squirt the can of furniture polish so hard the spray rebounds from the wooden surface and splatters me in the face.

My eyes sting and water. I take a tissue from my pocket to pat them dry and try to wipe away the burning lemony polish. As I do, my eyes just water more. And a rock forms in my throat. That’s definitely not a symptom of polish splatter.

It’s as if once my eyes were given a practical use for tears, the floodgates opened for impractical ones. Tears that will solve nothing. Tears that were shed many years ago and have no place back in my life.

My butt vibrates with the buzz of my phone.

Although my vision’s blurred, I can see it’s a reply from Rachel.

Last night when I got home, I texted her with a simple, yet melodramatic, “Almost kissed Tom.”

Given the time difference, I hadn’t expected to hear from her till later this afternoon.

I swipe the lingering tears from my cheeks, swallow, blow my nose, and swipe the message open.

RACHEL (10.17 AM)

Yay! *kissy-face emoji* *dancing emoji*

ME (10.17 AM)

What’s wrong with you??? It’s not good. It’s terrible.

RACHEL (10.17 AM)

Not terrible. He’s hot. I’ve seen pictures.

ME (10.18 AM)

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