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Phillip “Gideon” Gabaldon
A man having a no good, very bad day,
that has suddenly taken a wonderful turn.
She’s too young for me.
Way too young.
On the ground, in the rain, with the dogs climbing all over us and fear she’d been hurt making my heart race, I didn’t notice her age at first—only that Sydney was stop-your-heart beautiful—but now…
Well, now, it’s obvious that my generous hostess is younger than I am.
Probably much younger.
Once we have the dogs dried off and settled in the lighthouse’s rec room with water and food, Sydney gives me the tour of her rental. She blushes a little as she opens the door to a bedroom overlooking the water. “This is my room. Kind of small, but bigger than the dorms, so it feels spacious to me.”
Dorms.
Fuck. She can’t be more than twenty, twenty-two tops. I’m ancient in comparison, and I’ve never had any interest in dating younger women.
This wouldn’t be dating, anyway. This would be one night, maybe two, and I’d likely never see Sydney again. I can’t remember the last time I was in Maine, only that it was so long ago, I was nervous my friends in Bucksport might have forgotten me. And this isn’t even a part of Maine that’s easy to get to. Sea Breeze is on a peninsula in the middle of nowhere, so close to Canada, I can smell the maple syrup and poutine.
If Sydney and I were to start seeing each other, I’d have to fly in for every date.
As much as I’d love to drop everything for a beautiful woman, I learned the dangers of long-distance relationships the hard way.
You’re insane. You’re not going to have a relationship with this woman. You’re not going to sleep with her, either, even if she is interested. She’s a child.
I clear my throat, feeling properly chastised by the inner voice, and ask, “So what are you studying in school?”
She glances back at me as she leads the way farther down the hall. “Oh, I’m not. I’m done. I got my MBA in the spring.”
MBA. My ears perk up at the news. She has a graduate degree. Maybe she’s older than I thought.
“So, you’re twenty-four? Twenty-five?” I hear myself asking without consciously deciding to go there. But I can play off my curiosity. I flash an easy smile her way. “I have a twenty-two-year-old son. He starts grad school in the fall.”
“Oh wow.” She hesitates with her hand on the doorknob to the next room. “You… I…” She laughs and shakes her head. “I’m sorry. You don’t look old enough to have a twenty-two-year-old.”
“Thanks,” I say, accustomed to that response by now, though I don’t get it as often as I used to. After going part-time at my firm to spend more time outdoors, I’m in the best physical shape of my life, but the gray hair adds a certain gravitas I didn’t have in my early thirties. “My high school girlfriend and I weren’t as good at birth control as we thought we were.”
Sydney makes a sympathetic face. “It’s hard to be truly good at anything in high school. Are you two still together?”
“No, we’re not.” I do my best to keep the words neutral. I’ve had enough therapy to have moved past the worst of my anger with my ex, but I’ll never forgive her for the things she’s done. Even if my son and I finally mend our relationship someday, the part his mother played in turning him against me has done so much needless, painful damage. “We were married for five years, but…” I shrug. “We grew into people who didn’t have much in common.”
Sydney nods thoughtfully. “I can imagine. My parents were married young. By the time I was seven or eight, it was hard to see how they ever fell in love. They were so different.”
“Are they still together?” I ask, enjoying that we’re jumping into real conversation without wasting time on small talk. I hate small talk.
“No,” she says, tightening her grip on the door handle. “My mother passed away when I was thirteen and my father never remarried.”
“I’m so sorry.”
Her lips curve in a tight smile. “Thanks. It was hard. We didn’t even know she had a heart condition until it was too late. But my dad and I got through it.” She opens the door and steps inside. “This could be your room if you’d like. It’s small, but cozy, and big bonus…” She grins at me over her shoulder. “There aren’t any tragic local legends set in this part of the house.”
“Tragic local legends? I’m intrigued.”
“I’ll tell you the tale over dinner,” she says. “And you’re welcome to sleep on the third floor if you want. The legend is tragic, but it’s almost two hundred years old, so…”
