Page 5 of I Saw Her First

My chest aches as I think about Lydia, wishing I wasn’t doing this alone. She’d never let him talk to me like that. Hell, if she was here, we wouldn’t be in this situation at all. Her naturally calm, positive energy always created harmony between people. This house was so much warmer when she was here.

And that’s why I can’t give up. I need to fix things with Jess, not just for us, but for Lydia. For the sake of what’s left of our family.

3

Daisy

The sun casts a copper glow across the historic townhouses of Brooklyn Heights as I lock up Joe’s and step into the cool evening air. I rarely work such long hours, but Celine decided to call in sick with a migraine at eight-thirty this morning, most likely to get back at me after Dave made her come in so early for my seven-year anniversary thing. Anyway, Dave had to go see his daughter’s play, so he asked me to work a double shift. As usual, I had nothing else planned—and I hated to leave him stranded—so I agreed.

My feet regret that now, though.

I should head straight for the subway, but I’ve been craving ginger duck from that Thai place since I mentioned it to Weston this morning. My plan is to grab some and head home, where I’ll spend the next few hours vegging in front of Netflix.

I frown to myself as I trudge along Fruit Street. It was only this morning that I promised myself my life would change, and what am I doing? My usual act of scurrying home after work to retreat from the world. I should be out partying, like otherpeople my age. I should be meeting up with someone off Tinder, or whatever the latest dating app is.

But I’m sotired.

I sigh as I spot the Thai place up ahead. All I want is ginger duck and to pour myself a glass of wine at home. Honestly, sometimes I think I’m a middle-aged woman trapped in a young woman’s body, which is exactly why I struggle to date guys my age.

What about Weston?my brain suggests, which is hardly fair, knowing that will never happen.

I allow myself exactly ten seconds to slip into the fantasy I’ve indulged in many times before.

I’m in the coffee shop, in the early morning, and Weston enters, no longer wearing his wedding ring. I make a heart shape in the foam of his coffee and he looks at me with longing in his eyes—

Right. That’s enough.Thisis why you’re stuck.

I shake the image from my head with a frustrated exhale. I’m nearly at the Thai restaurant when I hear a door slam to my right, and a male voice spits furious words.

“Fuck you.”

My eyes widen and I freeze, glancing to find a guy thundering down his front steps, angry gaze intent on me.

What the hell? I know this is New York, but jeez.

He slows his steps, blinking as if suddenly noticing I’m there. “Shit, sorry. That wasn’t directed at you.”

I glance around the street, searching for whoever hewasspeaking to, only to see we’re alone.

He shakes his head. “No, it was—” He rubs his hands down his face in agitation, before motioning back toward the house. “My dad… never mind.”

Oh, right.

I look from the house back to him, and my heart squeezes a little when I notice his frustrated expression and slumped shoulders. If anyone knows anything about not getting along with their folks, it’s me.

“I get it,” I murmur, and he gives me an odd look as he pulls a cigarette and lighter from his pocket.

“Get what?” The anger drains from his eyes and he cocks his head curiously. Meanwhile, my feet groan in protest at me standing here, talking to a random guy when I could be eating Thai food on my sofa. This is the problem with spending all day making conversation with strangers. Sometimes I forget I don’t have to do that when I’m not on the clock.

“Nothing,” I mumble, turning to go.

“Wait.” He lights up and takes a deep drag. The smell of weed wafts toward me and I realize it’s not a cigarette. “What did you mean, that you get it?”

I shrug, turning back. “Just that I argue with my dad too. With both my parents.”

He nods, flicking the ash off the end of his joint, which glows in the fading evening light. It’s definitely working its magic because he’s now studying me with a relaxed air of interest.

For reasons I can’t quite pinpoint, I find myself studying him back. He’s tall; six-foot, I’d say, with a lean, athletic build. Up close his ice-blue eyes gleam with mischief, and a smile plays on his full lips as he pushes his wavy chestnut hair back from his forehead. He’s around my age, and even though I have no explanation as to why, there’s something vaguely familiar about him. Maybe I’ve seen him at Joe’s.

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