He reaches out a hand and rubs my shoulder, kind of a friendly gesture, kind of a tender one, but even so, it sends a thrill through me. It’s wild and electric, because he’s touching me, and I like his touch very much. “You can’t beat yourself up over a relationship ending. It happens.”
“But I can, and I do,” I say, though talking to him is hard with his hand on my shoulder. It’s hard because I want him to keep his hand there.
Or maybe not.
I want him to slide his palm everywhere.
To explore me with his hands.
With his lips.
With his body.
He squeezes harder. “Did you love him?”
That is an excellent question. But it’s not hard to answer. “In college I did. At least, it felt that way. But it was also . . . young love. Do you know what I mean?”
A faint smile crosses his lips. “I do.”
“And by the time I was pregnant, it was more like . . . this is a math problem we need to solve.”
“I get that.”
“And we solved it for a while. But then, I suppose the solution no longer made sense. No longer added up.”
“You didn’t want the same things at the same time, but you still tried to make it work, and the reality is, it would be worse if you’d stayed together just for her.”
I look at him, meeting his eyes straight on, seeing so much honesty and insight in them that it thaws some part of my heart I didn’t know was frozen. “Do you feel like you’re doing that at all? In your quest to find Ms. Right, I mean? You’re not just trying to find a mom for Ethan?”
He shakes his head, adamant. “I didn’t set out to be a dad. It happened, and while I wish I had known sooner, known right away, I had to make a choice when I found out. And to make the choice to be the best I could at it.” He inhales deeply. “But the thing is, I would like to find someone. I would like to be in love. I would like to know what that’s like. I have no idea, but I hear it’s good.”
And my heart, it thunders. “You’ve never been in love?” The question comes out coated with emotion and maybe, just maybe, a little bit of hope.
“I don’t think I have. Came close, maybe. Perhaps puppy love, but not the real thing.”
“The throw-a-parade, toss-confetti, and change-your-life kind of thing?” My voice floats up, chased by that longing I seem to feel around him. A longing that grows more intense by the hour.
“Yeah, that kind.” His voice is soft; his smile is gentle.
And what it does to me is insane. The flutters cascade through my body, race down my arms, rush through my cells.
Then, they double down when he adds, “I think I’d like that kind.”
I. Swoon.
And I don’t want to. I don’t want to swoon. Or melt. Or fall.
Drawing a deep breath, I do my best to be cool, even. “You’re a rare breed, Liam.”
He shrugs and smiles. “Maybe I am. But what are the chances I’m going to meet someone I could love who wants the same thing at the same time? Eight billion to one?”
He sounds sadder than I’ve heard him before, and I try to lift his mood. “It could happen.”
He lifts his spoon, offering it as a toast. “To meeting the right person in the right place at the right time.”
“I will toast to that.” As I clink my spoon against his, a drop of ice cream boomerangs and hits my cheek. He sets down his spoon, leans a little closer, and swipes it off my skin.
I shiver as his finger runs across my face.
And I swear, dear God, I swear that he lingers there longer than he needs to.
I swear, too, that the moon seems brighter. That the stars shine more brilliantly.
This whole moment feels like it’s the right place at the right time.
Only I know it’s not.
At some point later—later than I’d like to admit, since my daughter pops out at eleven with a yawn, saying she’s going to bed—Liam straightens his spine, clears his throat, and hooks his thumb toward his house.
“I should go.”
“Night, Mom,” Wednesday says, then gives me a peck on the cheek.
“Night, Spawn.”
She waves at Liam, saying good night too, but it’s crushed in a yawn the size of the Grand Canyon. She pads back inside as I gather the wineglass, my e-reader, my phone, and the spoons.
“Thanks again for the ice cream.”
“Thanks again for not giving me zucchini noodles.”
I gasp. “Stay right there.”
Rushing inside, I set the items on the kitchen counter, yank open the fridge, and grab the pasta salad.
I find a small glass dish, scoop some of the pasta into it, and pop on a top.
