Page 23 of Healing Hearts
Her expression is sad as she stares back at me, and I get the sense she’d like to press me, see if she could use her debating skills to win me over. But I’m not going to be won—not about this.
Her phone and mine chime at the same time, and rather than dwelling on the growing awkwardness between us, I snatch my phone off the coffee table.
“Roads are open,” I say. “I’ll get my stuff together.”
“We’re okay?’ Em asks, rising with me.
I drag her into a hug, and I squeeze her tight. “I’m honored you asked, Em, and I’m sorry I can’t do it.”
She presses her cheek against my chest, and I let myself feel it in a way that I shouldn’t, let myself wish for a brief second that I could say “yes.” But if I let myself sink into those thoughts, I’ll be consumed with the idea of Emily being pregnant with my kid, and I can’t let that notion take hold. That’s a fucking dangerous path.
For me, wanting leads to foolish choices, and I’m done making those.
Chapter Ten
Emily
By the end of the first week of January, I’ve met with two fertility doctors at two different clinics. For whatever reason, neither of them clicked for me in a way that felt like fate or destiny stepping in. I don’t know why I’m convinced it needs to feel that huge, but that’s my mindset. From the minute I step into the clinic, it needs to feel right, or I’m not doing it.
I’ve just finished showing a house when my phone buzzes with a text.
I’ve got a dentist friend in Utica. Divorced. No kids—yet. Nice guy. Just starting to date again. Any interest? I can set you up.
I stare at Kelvin’s message, feeling conflicted, which is all I seem to feel lately. As though I’m doing life in the dark, no path clearly lit.
The men from the app weren’t working out, but maybe dating wasn’t the wrong course of action. Maybe how I was meeting the men was the problem. Kelvin’s typically a good judge of character, and he knows me well.
This weekend?I text back to Kelvin.My mom takes Amir most Saturday nights, so I could make that work.
I’ll set it up.Kelvin texts back.I’ll send you the meeting details.
We meet at a cocktail bar in downtown Utica. It’s notThe Flirty Englishman, and I’m determined that I’m not going to call Trent to rescue me, regardless of how the date goes. Maybe part of my problem was that Trent’s been my safety net since I started dating. Maybe I never gave any of the other men a chance.
Michael is tall with dark hair and light-blue eyes. He’s conventionally handsome, and he’s managed to straddle the line between casual and dressed up with his jeans and button up shirt. Once we get the small talk out of the way, he carries a conversation that doesn’t feel forced. Maybe I was dating the wrong way all along.
“We could end it here,” Michael says when we finish our second cocktail. “Or there’s a dance club next door, if you want to extend the evening.”
I can’t remember the last time I went dancing, but I’ve also never had a guy suggest it. “Doyoulike dancing?”
“Um, actually,” he says, letting out a self-conscious laugh, “last year Kelvin talked me into participating in the benefit for Little Falls.”
“You were in that?” I ask, surprised. I’d been part of the organizing committee for the Small-Town Saviors fundraiser after the town flooded, but after my dad died unexpectedly, I’d stepped away near the end.
“Just part of the group number,” he says, “but it sparked something in me. I’ve taken a few lessons since. Turns out, I like dancing.”
“Let’s do it,” I say, hopping off the stool from the high table we’ve been sitting at near the window.
He takes my hand and leads me out of the cocktail bar and down the street to the dance club. As soon as we enter, I second guess my decision. The music is thumping, and it’s going to be impossible to talk.
Once he leads me onto the dance floor, I realize we can use non-verbal communication instead. We move to the music together, and it’s pleasant, if not electrifying. It’s the first time in a long time that I’ve felt like a date might have even a hint of potential.
When there’s a brief lull in the music, I shout to Michael that I’m going to the bathroom, and he says he’ll get us drinks. He points to a spot near the bar for us to meet, and I agree before weaving my way through the crowd toward the bathroom.
I’m almost to the bathroom hallway when someone grabs my elbow, and I turn, ready to give whoever it is a piece of my mind when I’m met with a familiar face.
“Trent?” I say. “What are you doing here?”
“What are you doing here?” he asks, looking past me and then focusing on me again.
