Page 8 of Studfinder

“Rita Kaplan, for all the shi-shitake . . .” She pauses to glance at the baby, catching herself on the curse word. “. . . you give me about my husband, and you can’t give me more than he’s hot?”

I laugh. “Well, your husband is hunky and handsome. I live through the details of your life because mine is so boring.” My gaze remains on little Harley in my hands. I’ve missed out on many things. Most days, I don’t dwell on the loss. No sense living in the past, my dad would say, but my future feels uncertain. I’m going to be forty-five in a few years, and if I live double that, what will I plan to accomplish with the remainder of my life? As I hold Harley, a zigzag of regret travels through my chest. I think I’ve missed out on something big by never having a child, but that ship sailed when I lost Ian. There just hasn’t been another man for me since his passing.

“Your life isn’t boring. You’re a successful lawyer with your own practice, and you dedicate your extra time and talents to Building Buddies. Plus, you’re an advocate for AA and supportive of that community.”

“Yeah,” I whisper, noting those are achievements, but many of them are service to others. What have I done for only me? What do I have that’s only mine?

“Tell me more about this stud,” Scarlett softly demands, sounding like she’s ready to break into her rendition of the Grease classic “You’re the One That I Want.”

As I speak, I focus on Harley. “He’s part of our restorative program at Building Buddies. I shouldn’t be attracted to him, but I just am. There’s something about him.” His scruffy jaw. His heated eyes. His rough hands on my skin. My chest clenches like I’m being pulled forward by simply thinking of him.

“Why shouldn’t you be attracted to him?”

I shrug, unable to answer.

“What do you know about him?” Scarlett’s voice softens even more as being a recruit in our program means he’s had an addiction in the past or trouble with the law.

“He’s been in jail. He’s on parole.” Silence follows my statements. “That’s it. That’s all you know.” I shrug again. “I don’t research those who come to us, respecting their privacy.”

“You aren’t even a little bit curious. Just a little social media digging . . . er, research.”

“No, Scarlett.” I’m not a sleuth like her in that manner. I don’t scroll social media for evidence. I deal in fact, and the facts were given to our director to review before being presented to the board for approval. I could use my connections with the DMV to run a background check on Jake, but I trust Alfred Jennings’ judgment on who might benefit from our Building Buddies philosophy. Most of our candidates did not commit a crime directly against another person, but more a misdemeanor of sorts. Curiosity has gotten to me, and I’ve wondered why Alfred thought Jake would be a good match with us, but I still have not looked into Jake’s history.

“I’ll look him up,” Scarlett says, reaching for a pocket in her diaper bag.

“No. Don’t.” In the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t matter what she finds. He committed a crime. He served his time. He works with Building Buddies. That’s it. That’s as far as I need to know because Jake and I will not be more to each other. We should not be more. Jake is not for me.

However, if I search deep down inside myself, I don’t want Scarlett playing investigative reporter because I don’t want to learn he dates around or, worse, has a family with a wife and children. So, there will be no diving into his present life or his past.

He almost kissed me. He wouldn’t do that if he had a family, right?

The plea in his voice, asking me not to be afraid of him, echoes through my head, mixing with his quiet reassurance he wouldn’t hurt me. Does a man who has a woman in his life touch someone else so intimately?

Shaking my head, I erase my questions. I’m being silly over nothing. So he stroked my neck. So he caressed my shoulder. He was only trying to distract me from that momentary surge of panic.

“I thought of Ian today,” I say, diverting Scarlett from her phone as I bounce Harley on my knees.

Her head lifts. “You never talk about him,” Scarlett states, opening the door for discussion. Scarlett flew in and out during Ian’s funeral, but we often spoke after his death until I couldn’t talk about him anymore. It was just too painful to keep bringing him up. Of all the people who offered sympathy and pity, Scarlett was the first to let me drop the subject and discuss anything other than what I’d lost.

“What’s there to say? He was a good man, and then he died.”

“Rita,” Scarlett whispers, understanding passing through my name. Scarlett knows me better and doesn’t accept my flippant answer. I’m not upset, though. Not in a manner of hysterics and rants, like I once was when I cursed God for taking Ian from me and then threw myself at men and alcohol in hopes to sew up the hole in my heart. Alcohol became a patch instead of a stitch, and one night with the wrong man ripped through my attempts to hide how I felt.

Scarlett is one of few who understood my spiral. I didn’t even see the downward spin into alcohol dependency happening. A drink—or two—to help me through the quiet, lonely evenings in the house we shared before his death. A glass of wine—or the entire bottle—to help me sleep in an empty bed we’d bought to make babies in after we married.

“You’re a survivor, Rita. Don’t ever forget that.”

I huff but agree with her, which is why my reaction in the basement earlier has me baffled. Was it a warning? I’m not superstitious like that. Was it the universe forcing Jake and me together? Even that seems farfetched. It was a fluke, plain and simple.

“Okay, enough of the maudlin. How about dinner, chickie? I could go for a burger the size of my head at the Goat, but Tuxbury is the opposite direction for me. How about a bite at Speakeasy?”

Speakeasy is a brewpub located on the old gin mill property along with the Busy Bean Café, where we sit, and the Gin Mill, another bar specializing in Vermont beers.

“Are you sure?”

Given my history with alcohol, people are cautious about asking me to visit establishments that serve the damning liquor. Still, as long as there is good food and I leave before the rowdy crowd starts, I’m okay in a place that pours my past poison. I know my limits. While I appreciate Scarlett’s concern, I don’t want my friend to be squeamish about us eating at the brewhouse.

“Are you willing to take your baby to a bar?” I tease, recalling a similar line in one of our favorite movies, Sweet Home Alabama.