“Can I ask you something?” Dex says.
“Sure.”
“Are you lonely?”
The question catches me off guard with its directness. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, you’ve built this whole life around protecting yourself and your kids. But are you happy? Are you lonely?”
I consider deflecting, giving him the standard answer about how fulfilling single motherhood is. But something about the way he’s looking at me, the genuine curiosity in his voice, makes me want to be honest.
“Yes,” I admit. “I’m lonely. Most of the time, actually. But lonely feels safer than vulnerable.”
“I get that.”
“Do you? Because from my perspective, you have everything. Fame, money, women throwing themselves at you.”
“All of which is meaningless if you can’t have a real conversation with any of them.” He refills our cups. “You know what the worst part is? I’ve gotten so used to being Dex Malone, Professional Hockey Player, that I’m not sure I remember how to be just... me.”
“Who’s ‘just you’?”
“I don’t know anymore. Someone who likes quiet evenings and bad documentaries. Someone who actually cares about whether his teammates are happy, not just whether they’re winning games. Someone who wants to know what makes you laugh, what keeps you up at night, what you dream about when you let yourself dream.”
The vulnerability in his voice makes me want to reach across the table and touch his hand. But I don’t, because vulnerability is dangerous and I’ve gotten very good at protecting myself.
“That sounds like someone worth getting to know,” I say instead.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
We finish the wine as the waterfront empties around us, conversation flowing easier than it has all evening. He tells me about growing up the only boy in a house full of women, about missing his family but never quite feeling like he fits when he goes home. I tell him about the voice work, about finding pieces of myself in other people’s stories, about the strange intimacy of speaking to thousands of people you’ll never meet.
“We should probably head back,” I say eventually, noting how late it’s gotten.
“Probably.”
We walk back toward the restaurant district where our cars are parked, neither of us talking much. The evening feels different now—more real, less performed.
“Thank you,” I say as we reach my car. “For dinner. For the escape plan. For the most honest conversation I’ve had in months.”
“Thank you for giving me a chance to be something other than a public figure for a few hours.”
We’re standing close now, close enough that I can see the way the streetlights catch the different colors in his eyes. The wine and the conversation and the unexpected connection have created something between us, something that feels both inevitable and terrifying.
“Golda,” he says softly, stepping closer.
I look up at him, and something in my expression must encourage him because he reaches out to cup my face gently. His thumb brushes across my cheek, and I can smell his cologne, something expensive and clean that makes my brain go fuzzy.
When he leans down to kiss me, for a split second every nerve in my body screams YES. His lips are so close I can feel his breath, warm and wine-sweet, and I want this more than I’ve wanted anything in years.
But then reality crashes in. Evan’s notebook. The restaurant full of people recording us. The fact that I’m a single mom who can’t afford to make mistakes.
At the last possible second, I turn my head.
His lips brush my cheek instead of my mouth, and the disappointment that flashes across his face is so raw it makes my stomach clench.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper, stepping back. “I can’t.”
