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We agree to meet at Wine and Dine at eight o’clock—which means I’ll be up early tomorrow to get some baking in since I won’t get it done this evening—and then Lacey takes off to get ready.
After enjoying a nice, hot, quiet bubble bath, I video-call my kids to check on them. Of course, they answer with huge smiles on their faces, telling me they’ve arrived—which I already knew since Beatrice is amazing and has texted me every step of the way—and are heading to the beach house to get settled in. I remind them to behave and tell them that I love them before I let them go, promising myself that I won’t be that annoying helicopter parent. Until now, neither of them had been given electronics, but since they would be away—and I was freaking out—Beatrice bought them each an iPad as an early birthday present, so we’d be able to video-call and message all summer.
After spending a few hours getting lost in a romance novel, I search my closet to find something to wear. All the way in the back, I find a dress I haven’t worn in years, but when I give it a good look, and memories surface from the last time I wore it—for Peter’s and my five-year wedding anniversary—I hang it back up and go with a pair of jeans and a flowy top, throwing on heels at the last second, so Lacey won’t completely kill me.
With my blond hair blow-dried and thrown up into a high ponytail, and a bit of makeup donning my face, I head out to meet Lacey. It’s a warm night in New York, so I grab a taxi and let it take me the mile to the bar we’re meeting at.
She’s already seated when I arrive and has ordered us a bottle of wine to share, along with a couple of appetizers to munch on. The live music is chill, and with the glass of wine in my hand, I relax and enjoy myself.
“Thank you,” I tell her as we eat, drink, and sing along to the music. “You were right. I needed to get out.”
She smiles softly and pats my thigh. “That’s what best friends are for.”
A few minutes later, she nods toward a table of guys glancing our way. “See anyone you like?” She waggles her brows playfully. “I bet you can have your pick.”
“Nope.” I shake my head without giving them a second glance. “I’m good right here.”
She lets out an exasperated huff but, thankfully, drops it.
We hang out, ordering a dinner to split, along with another bottle of wine, and once we’re tipsy and full, we get up and dance to the music. It feels good to let loose. Until masculine hands grip my hips, and a warm breath leans in too close. “Can I have this dance?”
I turn around, backing out of his touch. He’s taller than my five-foot-six, maybe six feet, dressed in a typical New York-style corporate suit, clean shaven and good looking, but when I look at him, I feel nothing. No butterflies, no chemistry. Nothing. Not like how I felt the first time I locked eyes with Peter. When I knew at that moment, before any words were even spoken, that he was the one.
Some people think I’m full of it. They don’t believe that a person can know they’ve found the one without speaking, but I know how I felt, and I know Peter felt the same way. And I don’t care that everyone thinks I should move on—that even my late husband wants me to move forward. I refuse to settle for anything less than what I felt with my husband. And if that means I end up alone for the rest of my life, then so be it. I know what it feels like to be in love and to be loved, and I would rather be alone than feel anything less.
“No, thank you,” I tell him politely.
He opens his mouth to argue or perhaps to accept my response, but I shake my head and walk away before he gets the chance to do either.
I feel Lacey at my back, silently chastising me for turning the guy down, but she doesn’t comment, knowing it won’t change my mind.
“I think I’m ready to head home,” I tell her, taking a sip of my wine. “It’s getting late, and I have to get up early.”
“Okay,” she says, smiling sadly at me. “Sam is going to swing by to pick me up. We’ll give you a ride home.”
“Thanks.”
An hour later, I’m home with a clean face, heel-free, and in my pajamas. With the kids gone, the house is quiet—too quiet. And like the masochist I am, I pull up the videos on my phone and watch the ones from when Peter was alive—Halloweens, birthdays, trips to the park. I skip over the Christmases, unable to watch those. Even nearly five years later, it’s still too hard to think about the holiday.
