Page 4 of Healing Hearts
“How was your date with that doctor from Utica?” Tyler asks as he stuffs some sketches into his messenger bag. He likes to do some sewing while he’s in the shop if he’s not overrun with eager customers who hate his reduced hours.
“Terrible. He was arrogant and entitled. The conversation was dull. I got very drunk.”
“And called Trent.”
I glare at him.
“I’m just trying to figure out if Trent is actually just a friend or if he’s a drunken booty call.”
“We’re not having sex, Tyler. And honestly, so what if we were? We’re both adults.”
“You’ve had a lot of hurt the last few years, and after what happened between Trent and Lila…”
“She misread that situationbigtime. I love Lila dearly—we grew up together. We all love her like a fourth sibling,” I say, putting my hand over my heart, “but Trent honestly didn’t do anything wrong. He’s a flirt. We all know he’s a flirt. She tried to take that seriously, and you can’t. He’s not boyfriend material,” I say and then hold up a finger, “but he is fling material. Not that we’re flinging anything around.”
“Jesus, that visual,” Tyler says, shielding his eyes.
“Whatever you’re envisioning is your own fault,” I say with a huff.
Trentwouldbe very good fling material, if I was the type to have one. He’s kind, surprisingly thoughtful, and offers a safe, nonjudgmental listening ear. When we were teenagers, I didn’t understand what Maggie saw in him as a romantic partner—their relationship hadn’t even been what we thought it was—but I understand Trent’s appeal now.
The tattoos, the bad reputation, the lack of formal education are armor that he wields to keep some people at arm’s length, which seems to include every woman he dates. They get so close, and then he drops them. Claims it was never serious and moves on. Any time I’ve tried to pry, after a few too many drinks, he’ll shrug and tell me that’s how he likes his women. High drama. Low stakes. No chance of someone getting the wrong idea.
Honestly, Lila probably dodged a relationship bullet in that sense. And I have no desire for his inability to commit to pierce me instead.
We’re good as friends. The best. Other than Tyler, Omar, and my dad, there’s never been a guy that I knew I could call—no matter the time, no matter what was happening—and have them show up for me. Only a fool would risk that kind of loyalty and caring for a brief affair.
Besides, I’m not sure if my real estate business could withstand anything more between us than close friendship. Even a fling—if I was willing to risk it—would have repercussions if it got out. Like a lot of small-town politics, real estate is dependent on reputation and connections.
Although Trent has tried to repair his status in town, make amends for his role in the drug bust that took down several kids and their families in our community, he’s not back in everyone’s good graces. In our small town, memories run long, and forgiveness runs short.
I would hate to be judged for something I did at nineteen for the rest of my life, but sometimes that’s the way it goes. It’s also part of the reason he lives in Utica, the city closest to Little Falls. A clean slate.
“None of your dates have been winners so far, huh?” Tyler checks the baby bottles and formula to make sure he’s left me enough. “You’ve been back at it, what, a month?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I don’t think I want to date, to be honest. At least not from the shallow pool that seems to exist in Utica and Little Falls. Doctors and engineers and dentists and lawyers—all people who should probably be interesting to talk to or something, and they’ve been duds for me. I’m bored, or they’re not nice, or our ideas about life don’t match.” I throw up my hands. “Where are the decent men with a good sense of humor? That’s my Roman Empire.”
Tyler chuckles. “Seems like a short enough list.”
“Right? Two things. Check and check.” I mimic ticking off boxes. But part of me wonders whether I’d even be interested if someone placed that exact person in front of my face. Ever since Omar died, the thought of being with anyone else—in any way, whether it be emotional or physical—just hadn’t appealed to me. Still doesn’t. My family wants it for me, especially my mother, but I don’t yet want it for myself.
Tyler must read something in my expression because he says, “You know, there’s no timeline on grief. You’d think Mom would understand that, but with Dad dying, my life in shambles, and Maggie doing long distance with Grady in New York City and beyond, I think you’ve inadvertently become her focus, her project. Youcansay no.”
“I know,” I say, and I do.
Apathy isn’t a good way to go into anything, and that emotion—or maybe lack of emotion—feels like all I’ve been capable of for the last year since Dad died. The only thing I’ve truly thrown myself into in a way that is remotely positive is my friendship with Trent. Everything else has felt absurdly hard.
Even my relationship with Amir is cloudier than I’d like because I’m trying so hard to make it seem like I’m okay, his mom is okay, when I’m not sure I am. Not truly. Not completely. Not about Dad. Not about Omar…still.
“Victoria should be up soon for a bottle,” Tyler says, as though I don’t already know the routine. “I’ll be back just after lunch.” He slings his messenger bag over his shoulder and steps out the door.
Immediately, I start getting the house organized. It’s the one thing that seems to keep me calm and focused. Cleaning and organizing is like meditating, or what I imagine meditating would be like if it involved a lot of moving around instead of sitting perfectly still.
I tackle the dishes, and I put in a load of laundry, and then I hear Victoria stirring on the monitor.
When I enter her bedroom and peer over the crib at her, she stares up at me until I speak. “Hey, sweetheart,” I say, and she smiles, kicking her feet. I sling a burp cloth over my shoulder and lift her out, resting her against my shoulder. She snuggles in, and I breathe in her baby scent. The milky smell warms my chest, and I close my eyes, savoring the feel.
As long as I get these days with Victoria, it makes the loud ticking of my biological clock a little quieter. Even if part of me worries I’ll never find someone again, that I’ll neverwantto find someone again, which probably means I’ll never have another child, I know I still have time. I’m only in my mid-thirties.
