Page 7 of Don't Call Me Sweetheart

Now I had questions.

Like, was I going to be single forever, and how was I ever supposed to have sex again if I couldn’t keep from crying? I was only thirty-one. If I lived to eighty-five, like most women in my family, that was fifty-four years without sex. Fifty-four years! That wasn’t okay.

“Kate?”

I blinked. Eli was watching me, his eyebrows drawn together in a worried frown. “Oh, just…” I waved my hand dismissively. “I’m fine.”

He tilted his head, considering. I would bet my last cent that he was weighing his desire to be a decent human against his abhorrence of sticking his nose in someone else’s love life, with a healthy dose of what would Emma want him to do thrown in.

“Really,” I insisted. “Go home. I’m going to shower and get brunch. Emma can find me at Dreamer’s later, if she wants to.”

He nodded. “I’ll let her know.”

I closed the door behind him with a relieved sigh. I liked Eli. He was a great guy, and he made Emma so happy. But the look he had given me, shot full of pity and confusion, I could do without. Both he and Emma were a couple years younger than me, so while we hadn’t been close friends in high school or when Jessica was an infant, they had known who I was. They had known my love story with George and had mourned his death, like everyone else in Hart’s Ridge.

But I wasn’t going to stand here wallowing about that now, not on my free Saturday. Dreamer’s was the only brunch spot in town, and it filled up quickly. Today, one of those mellow, bluebird days that was neither quite summer nor autumn but instead claimed the best of both, I was sure the patio would be packed. Fortunately, Delmy Garcia, the owner and chef, always kept a small corner table reserved for me on Saturdays when Jessica was with her grandparents.

I changed out of my pajamas and into a pair of leggings and a chunky fuchsia sweater that matched the slick of lipstick I swiped on. I was a big believer that bold lipstick could adequately spackle over all kinds of emotional turmoil. That, and concealer.

Twenty minutes later, I was at Dreamer’s, which was even busier than I had imagined.

Delmy pointed to my table, a snug patio corner meant for two underneath hanging baskets of gold and orange chrysanthemums. “I barely managed to keep the hordes away,” she joked.

I grinned gratefully. “Thank you!”

I settled in, put in my order of coffee, and took my time perusing the menu. I came here often—by myself, or with friends or Jessica—but the offerings changed seasonally, and I loved trying Delmy’s new concoctions.

“Ahem.”

I slowly lowered the menu and found myself face-to-face with Emma and Suzie. “Oh,” I said. “Hello.”

“Screw hello,” Emma said. “Tell us everything.”

“Sorry, I can’t,” I said, not feeling sorry at all. “There are two of you and only one chair.”

“We can share.” Emma perched half on the chair across from me and motioned Suzie to follow suit. “Sit, Suzie.”

Suzie eyed the rattan chair dubiously. “Okay, but scooch over more. I just had a baby. My hips deserve respect.”

Emma scooched and Suzie sat. They stared at me expectantly. Fortunately, the server took that moment to take my order. I requested the pumpkin spice waffles with whipped cream with a side of bacon and a serving of fried plantains, which I knew my friends would help themselves to despite their claims of having already eaten.

“So…” Suzie said encouragingly. “Emma tells me you didn’t spend last night alone.”

“Tattletale,” I muttered, even though I had suspected Emma would do exactly that.

Emma shrugged, unrepentant. “Come on, give us details. This is a big deal, Kate. You haven’t had a boyfriend, or even a date, since George.”

I winced. Why did everything have to be relative to George? Because everything about my life was relative to George. There was no escaping that brutal truth. It was only now that it began to chafe.

“It’s not a big deal,” I said. “It was just a one-time thing. He was staying at Luke’s place. I’m never going to see him again.”

“Oh.” Suzie’s hopeful expression deflated. Having met the love of her life at the ripe old age of fourteen, and having been very happy with him ever since, she was a romantic through and through. She truly believed a bar hookup could be love at first sight in disguise.

“Was it at least nice?” Emma ventured.

Nice? It was excruciatingly embarrassing. But also…My mind slipped past that gruesome moment of inappropriate tears to what happened next. To what he didn’t do—make me feel bad—and what he did. The way he turned his back to give me a moment to recover my scraps of dignity. The game of cards.

“Yeah,” I said finally, softly. “It was nice.”

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