Page 45 of Living at 40

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Driftwood is a popular restaurant and bar closest to the public beach. It’s a beautiful August evening, and a rooftop setting allows patrons to see the lake in the distance. A slight breeze cools off the hot day, and Logan secured us a corner table for privacy.

“I don’t remember the last time I was on an official date,” I state, grateful for this evening. With Rick, we always ate meals I cooked at home after preparing food for others at the café all day. In addition, Rick hardly ever had money, so treated meals were a rarity. Surprisingly, he had plenty of money for drugs, alcohol, and another woman.

“I wish it could be fancier.” Logan glances around the packed rooftop, full of patrons loudly laughing and imbibing. A bottle of wine has been placed on the table, and Logan pours us each a glass. “This area needs a good steakhouse.”

One can order steak here, but Driftwood’s fame is its burgers and sandwiches.

“I’m not worried about the menu. Just here for the company,” I flirt, reaching for my glass of wine.

“I don’t want the company to disappoint you either.” He lifts his wineglass and tips it at me before adding, “I’ve been on too many dull dates, and not many led to seconds.”

As Logan drinks, his comment reminds me of my conversation with Anna about Logan being a second choice to Mason. I’ve never felt that way myself, but I can understand how Mason might appear better than Logan, with an emphasis on appearance. As I’ve aged, though, I’ve learned repeatedly it’s the inside of a man who counts, and a sense of humor is more stunning than a pretty face.

Wishful thinking brings hope Logan doesn’t have second dates because he doesn’t find the women he dates appealing and not the other way around. Unfortunately, Logan will leave here and go back to random dating, eventually meeting the right woman and settling into a routine with her. They’ll date on the regular and have wild sex when they can. Maybe he’ll fall in love again. Maybe he’ll marry her.

I don’t like the thought of any of it.

“Do you date often?” I hate that I’m asking. We promised only sex, but I’m still curious. Who will he see when he returns to his home?

He shrugs, reaching for his glass of wine. “Not like I used to.” He avoids looking at me, but I wait out more explanation. “When I first divorced, a few guys at the office encouraged me to date right away. Get laid, they said. You’ll feel better. Only I didn’t.” His finger circles the rim of his glass. “I didn’t like feeling like I was stepping backward in time. Starting over to discover someone. Learn their likes and dislikes. I understand that’s dating, but I just didn’t want to do it. I guess I was too comfortable being married.”

“There’s some crazy statistic I once read that said men are something like eighty percent more likely to remarry than a woman. It’s the comfort factor you just mentioned.” I’m not judging him, but it makes sense to me. All the men I’d dated liked the fact I took care of them. It made them too comfortable in their situation but not comfortable enough to be with only me.

“Why aren’t you married?” he asks, as long as heavy conversation seems to be on the table.

“I could say I never found the right guy. But I think it’s more the right man never found me.” I glance away from him as it’s more than I wanted to share, but the truth pours out. I blame it on the wine and the company. “I’d find a man, fall hard fast, and think he must be the one. But I like to think the one would have found me just as well, and it hasn’t happened.” I shrug, lifting my glass for my lips. “Maybe it never will.”

“You don’t believe in destiny, fate, love?” he questions, arching a brow. “I thought that’s what all women dream of.”

“Logan, I’m going to let you in on a little secret.” Both eyebrows hitch as I crook my finger, beckoning him to come closer to me. “I do believe in destiny, but I think mine missed me.”

His mouth falls open, but I lift a hand to stop him.

“While all girls want Prince Charming, they don’t want to feel like they have to do all the seeking. A woman wants to be sought. She wants to feel like she’s more than a fleeting moment to a man but the woman he absolutely cannot live without for a lifetime. She’s perfectly capable of taking care of herself, but she doesn’t want to feel like she has to do it all alone. She wants to feel needed but not have him be needy. She wants to be taken care of but not be smothered. Hold her hand. Hold her up. It’s a lot of pressure, but the right man . . . he knows how to do it.”

“I’ll never measure up. It’s a constant line of contradictions.” Crestfallen, his expression suggests he really believes this about himself, and I feel guilty I’ve imparted wisdom that comes across as an impossibility. Maybe my sights have been set too high, but that can’t be the case, considering the lowlifes I’ve had in past relationships.

“We aren’t called the contradictory sex for nothin’,” I tease. He reaches for his glass and finishes the remainder of it.

“I thought you were supposed to be the gentler sex,” he says, not fully teasing me.

“I am gentle, but that doesn’t seem to get me anywhere. Honestly, I’m not married because no one ever asked me.”

This lifts his dropped lids, and he stares at me. “Were they insane?” His sharp reproach of my exes makes me laugh.

“Actually, I think I was a little bit crazy. It’s my nature to nurture, and men who need that kind of tuck-them-in-bed and spoon-feed-their-ego is who I seem to attract.”

“Jesus, you must think we’re all dicks,” he mutters.

“Not at all. And I like a dick.” I wink, hoping to draw us away from this depressing conversation. He chuckles softly, but his laughter isn’t coming from his belly. “What about you? Why aren’t you remarried?”

“I haven’t found the right woman who can take on me and Lorna.”

I nod as if I fully understand, and in many ways, I do. It takes a special woman to accept a man who had children with another woman. “Did you love Chloe?”

As he pours himself more wine, he explains. “I thought I did. When I look back on our beginning, I really think it seemed like love. With hindsight, I’m not convinced it was the type of love I wanted it to be. I mean, we seemed to be the sort of people who understood one another. The weight. The eating. The humor. Chloe changed. Or maybe I did, and it just wasn’t that long-lasting love I’d always hoped I’d find.” He crooks his finger at me. “I have a secret to tell you.”