Page 67 of The Maine Event

I find myself thinking about Dan, about the time we shared together. The laughter, the tears, the moments of connection that felt so real, so raw. And I realize that, in a way, he will always be a part of me. A part of my story, a chapter in the book of my life.

But it’s a chapter that has come to an end. I messed up. And as much as it hurts, as much as I may want to cling to the past, I know that I have to let it go. I have to move forward, to embrace the future that lies ahead.

I reach into my pocket, my fingers brushing against the smooth surface of my phone. I pull it out, staring at the blank screen for a moment before unlocking it. I open up my email, my eyes scanning the inbox for one particular message.

There it is. The email from Channing Gabriel, confirming my return to work. I click on it, reading the words that I’ve read a dozen times before. But this time, they feel different. This time, they feel like a promise. A promise of new beginnings, of second chances.

I picture myself walking into the office, head held high, ready to take on whatever challenges come my way. I picture myself thriving, growing, becoming the best version of myself.

And I know that, no matter what happens, I will always have this moment. This moment of clarity of purpose, of pure, unadulterated determination.

The plane continues to soar, carrying me closer and closer to my destination. And as I sit there, my heart full of hope and possibility, I know that I am exactly where I am meant to be.

SEVENTEEN

FOUR MONTHS LATER

I never imagined getting dressed for a date would feel like assembling battle armor.

I stand in front of my full-length mirror, smoothing the silky fabric of my dress with slightly trembling hands. It’s a rich forest green—a color Zoe insisted made my eyes “look expensive”—but tonight, I’m not sure what message I’m trying to send. Confident? Curious? Emotionally available?

I haven’t been on a real date in months. Not since Portland. Not since Dan.

That thought catches me off guard, creeping in like an uninvited guest. I shake it off, adjusting the strap of my dress. This isn’t about him. This is about me. Moving on. Saying yes to the world again.

The condo is quiet, almost suspiciously so. No urgent emails. No impossible deadlines. No campaign crises demanding immediate triage. Just the low hum of the city outside and the quiet clink of my necklace clasp as I fasten it behind my neck.

I check my phone—my Uber is two minutes away. I grab my bag, slipping on a coat as I glance around my place. Everything is exactly where it should be. Tidy. Organized. Predictable.

It doesn’t feel like a home. It feels like a base of operations.

The idea unsettles me, but I push it aside. Tonight isn’t about soul-searching. Tonight is about dipping my toe back into the world of dating—and maybe reminding myself that life still exists outside of PR decks, crisis plans, and regret.

I lock the door behind me and head downstairs, the familiar clack of my heels on concrete a strange comfort. The Uber is waiting, its interior glowing softly like a promise of something new.

As the car pulls away from the curb, I catch my reflection in the window—composed, polished, every inch a woman who knows what she wants.

I just wish I knew for certain what that was.

The Uber drops me off atNouveau—his suggestion—the trendy restaurant in the heart of downtown. As I step inside, the lively chatter and clinking of glasses promise an evening to remember. The hostess leads me to a table by the expansive windows, giving me a perfect view of the bustling street below.

I slide into the velvet chair, carefully crossing my legs and unfolding the napkin onto my lap like I’ve done this a hundred times. But inside, I’m jittery. Not in a bad way, necessarily—just… rusty. I focus on the stylish decor—exposed brick walls, Edison bulbs casting a warm glow, and an eclectic mix of artwork. The hum of conversation fills the air, punctuated by bursts of laughter from nearby tables. I can’t help but feel a spark of anticipation. Maybe this is exactly what I need, a chance to connect with someone new and let loose a little.

The truth is, I’m not used to this version of myself anymore. The one who shows up early to dates. The one who gets dressed up for the sake of curiosity, of possibility. For so long, I’veonly dressed to be taken seriously. Power blazers. Monochrome palettes. Always aiming to disappear into competence.

Tonight, I’m trying something different.

I glance around the restaurant, watching other tables for cues. A couple to my left is halfway through a bottle of wine, hands inching closer between courses. Across the room, someone laughs a little too loudly at something not that funny. First-date nerves, I suspect.

Friends toast with colorful cocktails, and I fidget with the napkin in my lap, trying to quell the butterflies in my stomach. Dating has never been my strong suit, always taking a backseat to my career. But I’m here now, putting myself out there. That counts for something, right?

I glance at my phone, checking the time. He should be here any minute. I take a sip of water, surveying the menu without really reading it. The scent of garlic and herbs waft from the kitchen, mingling with the soft jazz playing overhead. I remind myself that tonight is about being brave. Being spontaneous. Living my best life—or, at the very least, trying to.

Lyle arrives exactly on time, striding confidently into the restaurant with that same cocky charm I remember from the pitch meeting. He looks polished and sharp in a charcoal suit, his hair perfectly styled, and I have to admit—he cleans up well.

As he strides toward me, every eye in the room seems to notice him. He has that energy—like he knows he belongs here.

And just like that, I remember exactly why I initially said no.

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