Page 38 of The Woman Left Behind

She told him she loved mysteries, both books and movies, so she’d been wanting to go to this double bill since it was announced.

He told her he obviously got off on mysteries, considering his job, which made her laugh that pretty laugh again.

She told him about Ronetta and George, her neighbors, and Sherise and Shane, their kids who had left the nest.

He told her his father had moved down to Arizona after retiring, and that his brother was in Olympia, practicing law.

There was discussion about what they’d get at Luigi’s (she was going for the chicken piccata, he told her he’d get the caprese salad, which opened the door to her shoveling a slight amount of shit at him for finding the only somewhat healthy thing on the menu to eat). This led to them discussing their favorite restaurants in town, their favorite spots to hike, and them learning they shared a “favorite day.” That being renting a boat and going out on one of their lakes and simply being out in the fresh air, on the water, doing nothing.

In other words, they laid the getting-to-know-you groundwork before Lillian told him she had some proofing to do on one of her client’s manuscripts, so she had to let him go.

Once they got into the swing of it, there was something comforting and easy about shooting the shit with Lillian, hearing her voice in his ear, having her give him her time, giving it in return.

But work was work, so even if he didn’t want to, he let her go.

Then he got up, taking his empty bottle to the sink to rinse out before putting it in the recycling.

His dogs followed him.

He turned, and giving distracted head scratches to his pups, it occurred to him he hadn’t enjoyed a night at home since Winnie died.

Not one.

But that night, he wasn’t alone with a drink, his dogs, and a game, a show or a book, the night dark and closing him into a quiet, lonely house that had once, long ago, been full of life.

That night, he’d had something a whole lot more.

And fuck, but he liked it.

On that thought, Harry gazed around his kitchen.

Even if his mom and dad had plans when they’d moved into that place, they hadn’t gotten around to finishing them, so it hadn’t been updated in decades, only the appliances replaced when the others gave out.

It was a kitchen that was all he’d known, since he bought this house and land from his father, and he grew up there.

It was a kitchen he didn’t cook in very much, because he was a busy man with a busy job, and it sucked cooking for one.

A kitchen he didn’t realize until right then he didn’t like all that much. And it wasn’t about Winnie. She’d mostly only been in it to make toast, pour a bowl of cereal, grab a mug of coffee, or eat the food he made her.

It was that it was the kitchen of someone who didn’t give a fuck. The wallpaper was dated and looked like something out of Stranger Things. The countertops were nicked. The floor was linoleum, and it had held up, but it was butt-ugly.

It was a kitchen that was an indictment of the life he’d been living. The time he’d allowed grief to steal from him.

But standing there, after being asked out by a strong, sweet, beautiful woman, Harry refused to get mired down in these thoughts.

It was what it was.

But things were changing, he was changing.

And tomorrow, it would be Saturday.

Date night.

He was getting back in the game.

But he knew he wouldn’t be if it wasn’t Lillian doing it with him.

And he was all the way down with that too.

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