Great—now I was a melodramatic spinster on a pity train. I put my phone on my lap to rub my throbbing temples.
“How are the kids?” Bryan texted when I picked up my phone again.
“Good. Really good. Madd loves her job and met someone she really likes. Ian is doing great at school and has decided to let nature take its course and meet someone organically, as he says.”
“Tell them I said hi,” Bryan texted.
“Sure will.”
“How’s that cutie pie Ben, and Cassie?”
“Ben is a real handful, such a personality, and Cassie’s going to night school to be an X-ray technician.”
“Cool,” I texted.
“Hey Jess? I wanted to thank you.”
“For what?”
“For letting me go. For knowing it was the right thing.”
It was suddenly ragingly hot in the bathroom, and I stood up to pace, as much as I could pace from the toilet to the sink to the paper towel dispenser.
What to say? What to say? You’re welcome? It was my pleasure letting you go? Neither of these was true. It had been wrenching. I’d felt like I had taken a direct hit to the back of my knees when Bryan had left. More than once, I’d wanted to get in the car and drive all night to North Carolina to find him and beg him to come back.
But I hadn’t. I hadn’t, because I knew both of us needed—deserved—more than what our marriage had become. We had stopped bringing out the best in each other. The laughter had gone silent. We had to separate to even be friends again. I had never regretted meeting, being with, and marrying Bryan. He had been in my path. He was part of my story. He always would be.
I had grown stronger during my single life after Bryan, and if he was grateful, so was I.
“I’m glad it all worked out,” I texted.
It was meant to be. He was meant to be happy. He was meant to be free.
“Keep in touch,” was his last text.
I went to the sink to wash my hands. The soap dispenser held nothing but a few watery bubbles at the bottom. Did no one else but me notice these things?
“Geez, did you fall in?” Wes asked, guffawing, when I emerged from the bathroom.
“Here’s a new batch,” Joe said, adding to the pile of invoices on my desk.
“The secret is how much lard you use,” Sal said, speaking way too loud for the office.
Use your indoor voice, I wanted to tell him.
“No, it’s the sugar that’s the thing,” Paulie rallied back. “Use too much, and the berries bleed all over.”
“It’s neither,” Wes said. “It’s the ripeness of the berries. You pick them even a day too early, you’ll end up with sour strawberries. Too late, and they’re soft.”
“None of your wives won best shortcake last year,” Joe yelled over the counter. “It was Marla Stokes, remember? The newcomer.”
I’d heard them mention Marla before because it was rumored she was sleeping with the planning board chairman. As for being a newcomer, she’d lived in Meredia eight years.
“Yeah, well, she was probably screwing the judge,” Sal said, wiping his nose on his sleeve.
“Probably,” Wes grunted, chortling.
I was happy for Bryan, I realized. Fully happy. Happy enough to let the town comedians jabber on down another nonsensical tangent, entertaining one another and even me.
Whatever was next, I decided I would be open to possibility. Every day carried the potential to bring something new and unexpected. And that was a good way to live, working very hard to trust the universe.
69
Online, BoldMan was wearing a ski hat, about to take a run down a steep cliff-like hill, looking like an excited kid. So what if I didn’t ski—I could wait in the lodge by the fireplace, right?
He was fifty-nine, which was great, but unfortunately, lived more than two hours away, which could pose a significant logistical challenge.
His profile left much to the imagination: he only said he liked to ski, hike (of course), swim, and hang out with his kids.
It was worth a shot.
“You don’t give much away in your profile,” I messaged Bold. “Are you waiting for someone to ask the right questions?”
“Ask away.” His response came within minutes.
“What’s your name?”
“Daniel. Yours?”
“Jessica. How old are your kids?”
“Twenty-nine and thirty-two. Yours?”
“Twenty-one and twenty-five. So you ski?”
“Love it. You?”
“I’m more of a ski fan, like, I watch the winter Olympics. Winter your favorite season?”
“Summer,” Daniel replied. “Yours?”
“Fall. Orange leaves, a snap in the air, no humidity.”
“Yeah, humidity does terrible things to my hair.” Which was a joke, because his head was shaved in all his photos.
I defaulted to my speed dating questions, which he returned with some of his own.
“So, would you take a trip to a beach or to mountains?”
“Beach, hands down,” Daniel replied. “Morning person or night owl?”
“Mornings suck.”
“You’ve got it there. Everything good happens at night. Dogs or cats?”
“Definitely dogs. I have a little one sleeping on my feet right now. Literally, on my feet.”
“Small dogs for sure. I have four that rule the house!” Daniel wrote. “Long hair or short?”
“On a dog?”
“No, yours,” he replied. “I’m looking at your profile pictures right now, Jess. Is your hair still long?”
“Got it trimmed recently, just the ends.”
“It’s very pretty,” Daniel wrote. “I like it long.”
“Thank you.”
“Hey, I hate messaging through this site, I’d much rather text. Sound good to you?”
“Absolutely,” I replied, sending him my cell number.
That was the first step in online dating intimacy—switching from using the site to message to actual texting, which involved sharing phone numbers. My kids, of course, told me to never give out my cell number, because if things didn’t work out with a guy, it would be easier for him to stalk me.
Daniel didn’t seem like the stalker type.
His first text came across. “Will
