Page 47 of Starting Over

Who would have thought a man in the Irish Mob had a soft spot for romance? My Duane did. He surprised me often with all the little ways he showed me how much he loved me.

That was another thing I missed. Duane was my best friend. When he died, I didn’t just lose my husband, I lost my friend.

That hurt the most.

Pulling into the parking lot, I couldn’t help but notice the police car sitting on the street. The sheriff’s station was directly across the road from The Diner, and I let myself wonder for a moment if he was there.

Switching off the ignition, I sat in my truck for a few more moments, willing myself to gather the strength and courage to go in.

I couldn’t remember the last time I walked into a store or restaurant where people didn’t already know who I was. There was a sense of peace knowing that you were given respect, regardless of what someone thought of you.

Fear did that.

The Mob created that fear.

Reminding myself I no longer wanted to live that way, I got out of my truck and walked into The Diner with my head held high. I wanted to earn the respect of the people in this town on my own merit.

Not because of who my husband was, or who my father was. But because I was someone people genuinely wanted to have in their life.

Not because of the connections they could make through me, but because I was worth connecting with.

I believed it.

I reveled in it.

I would have it.

Then I saw him.

Sitting at a table.

With a woman.

A beautiful woman.

A woman who laughed with him. Who touched his arm with a familiarity of someone close. Maybe intimately close.

All at once, the confidence that had me wanting to make an imprint on this small town disappeared. Replaced with the desire to run.

Run back to Boston, to the things that were familiar, comforting. The things that were safe. For the last thirty years, I hadn’t had to deal with feelings of longing, or jealousy. I had Duane. He was faithful, always.

Many wives believe that about their husbands, until they are smacked in the face with their infidelity. But Duane and I were different. I was lucky, I had a unicorn.

Now though, seeing Declan O’Rourke, the subject of every teenage fantasy I had, sitting with a woman, destroyed me.

I knew I was being ridiculous. I hadn’t seen the man in nearly forty years. But I couldn’t deny the same connection I felt as a child.

I stood there frozen, just watching them. Their heads leaned together as they talked.

I needed to leave before they saw me, but my feet were firmly rooted in their place. Unmoving, I watched as my chesttightened. That foolish teenager who still thought herself in love with the boy from her childhood was devastated that he was with someone else.

“Sit anywhere you like, honey,” a waitress said, as she scooted by to drop off someone’s meal. Her voice carried enough that Declan looked up and our eyes caught.

I watched as a flicker of something I couldn’t name swiftly transformed to irritation in his eyes, before once again returning his attention to the beautiful woman he was with. Deciding a glance was all I was worth.

I had two choices. I could turn around and walk back out the door. Letting him see how much his disregard for my presence affected me. Or I could hold my head high and choose a place to sit and have lunch. Hopefully relaying to him that his brush-off meant nothing.

I chose the latter.

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