Page 31 of If It Can't Be Us

Oh, shit.

Sympathy.

All of a sudden, I know what’s coming.

“So,” he stammers, searching for the right words. “I hope you don’t mind, but Kara told me about your situation.” He seems unsure of himself.

“Oh? She did?” I look at him inquisitively.Alright, dumbass, let’s do this.

“Yeah. She told me about your, um… your husband. And I, uh… I just wanted to make sure you were in the right mindset to be dating,” he stammers. “Because I really like you. But I don’t want to waste my time getting to know you if you’re not emotionally ready for a relationship.”

And there it is. His flaw. He completely lacks emotional intelligence.

Are people really this fucking clueless?

I try to think of some way to respond that isn’t snarky.

I lost my daughter too, did you also want to talk about that? No? That’s uncomfortable for you?

Fuck. I’m so angry with Kara right now. How could she? But then I think, how could she not? There’s no way you set someone up with a young widow without divulging some of that sensitive information. You’d have to give them a forewarning, make sure they could handle it. Though I can’t blame her, I’m pissed.

I feel betrayed.

This ismystory to tell, when I am ready. My hell, I haven’t even told Leo yet.

“Are you okay?” I hear him say over my shock. “I’m sorry if that was…”

I cut him off. “Stop.” I turn my body toward him, my hand in a stop sign position, unsure what to do next.

He stares at me, confused.

“I’m sorry, Nate. You’re a nice guy, but I’m not comfortable talking to you about this. Nor do I have to. I’ll walk myself the rest of the way. Thank you for dinner; I had a nice time.”

Leaving him stunned, I turn on my heel and take long strides to get the hell away from him and the discomfort as quickly as possible.

I’m devastated. For the first time, I think about myself through the eyes of my friends, and it makes me feel so small. I know they love and care for me, but they all treat me the same. They scamper around as if I’m fragile, afraid that I might break. My eyes get misty, and I fight the urge to cry or be offended.

All I can do is learn from this mistake and move forward. No more blind dates set up by friends.

* * * * ** * * * *

Sunday-The Next Day

I end the call and reach for my hair dryer, feeling relieved. My mom is one of my best friends, and I tell her everything. We talk at least once a week, usually on Sundays. I know her opinions can be biased, but she is a wise woman whose advice has never led me astray. Talking to her was just what I needed after my date last night. I feel better.

She and my dad just got back from visiting my mom’s family in Spain, so I had to catch her up on the past few weeks. She always asks about Leo. My mom is obsessed with him and keeps telling me to be patient because this is how her and my dad’s relationship started. I mostly roll my eyes at that one. It’s definitely not the same. My dad wasn’t sleeping with the entirety of Boston while he was at Harvard when they met, and she wasn’t a born-again virgin widow. See? Very different scenarios.

I look at the time on my phone. Shit. I accidentally slept in, and then my mom called. I talked to her with wet hair while standing in my bathrobe. Now I only have fifteen minutes until I meet Leo out front for brunch.

I love our coffee and brunch dates the most. I look forward to my coffee in the mornings more than anything, and I love breakfast food. Between that and Leo’s company, it’s an absolutely perfect start to my day.

Exhaling my burdens, I tip my head upside down and power dry my hair. At 8:55, I throw on some leggings, a cropped sweatshirt, and sneakers. My hair is straight today, a rare occurrence, and I didn’t have time for much makeup. Just a swipe of mascara and a touch of lip gloss, but that’s okay; I don’t usually wear much anyway. As long as my lashes are done, I feel good. I race out the door, determined to beat Leo, but he’s already there, waiting for me.

He looks at his watch, then eyes me, lifting a brow. “You sleep in, Walker?”

“I’m two minutes late!” I exclaim, meeting him with an embrace that makes my toes curl.

“Ah, I’m just giving you shit.” He puts his hand on my head and ruffles my hair.

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