Ethan and I both long for a family, but I’m not scouting for a mother replacement for him. I’m looking for me, dating for me, because I want what I haven’t found yet.
What my parents have.
What my sister has.
I see it in clients who come in as couples, doting over the brand-new tortoiseshell kitten or floppy-eared puppy they’ve acquired, doting on each other as they take the next step in their togetherness.
It’s there in the bookstore when I spot a pair checking out books, showing each other things they know will make them think, or laugh, or just enjoy.
In the park with my son, I see how the other parents are with each other, holding hands as the kids play. Love has been on my mind a lot since Ethan came into my life.
I make my way home, cycling past emerald-green grass and acres of grapes, and let myself imagine that kind of life. And as I slow my pace at the end of my ride, turning onto Mallard Lane, I let those thoughts fade away, shelving them for now. There will be time later to tackle all those wishes.
I roll past the houses on my street, which still feels a little like a foreign land. But it’s a map I’m beginning to learn. My yellow home comes into view, and beyond that is January’s light-blue one with the unmistakable ladybug mailbox in the front.
There’s something even better there too—my neighbor.
I stop my bike in front of my house, dismount, and wheel it to hers, where I lean it against the white picket fence. January is in her garden, picking green beans, it looks like. She shoots me a devilish look as she snaps one off and waggles it in my direction. I make the sign of the cross to ward it off, and she cracks up and climbs to her feet, swiping her hair away from her face.
She pushes her sunglasses on top of her head, and I take mine off too, tucking them in the neck of my bike shirt before I undo my helmet and rest it on the handlebars.
“How can a vet hate veggies? Doctors shouldn’t hate veggies,” she says.
“I’m a DVM.”
“Same idea.”
“It’s not the same at all. And actually, most of my patients detest green beans too.”
She raises her eyebrows. “So it rubbed off on you—a dog’s dislike of veggies?”
I smile. “Seems to be the case.”
A wicked glint crosses her eyes. “I should make my sautéed green beans for you. I bet you’d change your mind.”
I rub my ear. “Did you say cupcakes? If you did, I would be delighted to try them.”
She ignores my comment. “They’re so delicious, Liam,” she says, sounding so enticing that she almost tricks me into thinking I could like the veggie dish. “A little garlic, a little olive oil, a little salt and pepper—I swear, they melt in your mouth.”
I stroke my chin and hum out loud. “I feel like you have a fundamental misunderstanding of what happens when vegetables go past your lips. Chocolate melts. Green beans don’t.”
She laughs, dragging a hand through her hair, which drifts on the breeze like she’s advertising air or water or some other essential. “I promise—you won’t be able to resist them,” she says, still trying to reel me in. It’s not the green beans I can’t seem to resist though—it’s this beauty with the spray of freckles and bright blue eyes.
“Try me,” I say, then toss out a counter-challenge. “But I guarantee you won’t be able to resist my brownies.”
“You’re a baker?” she asks, sounding like I just announced I’m an astronaut.
“I’m pretty good in the kitchen.” I smirk. “You should see what I can do with a KitchenAid.”
“Wait.” She holds up a hand to pause the conversation. “You said you love to cook, but there’s a difference between enjoying something and being good at it.”
“Oh, I’m good.” I lean in closer and whisper like it’s a dirty secret, “The best.”
“Wow. Good in bed and good in the kitchen? How is that possible?”
I give an if you’ve got it, flaunt it shrug. “Like I said, I’m a hot commodity. Oh, wait—you’re the one who said that.”
She laughs. “I did say that. Speaking of, when does the great dating escapade begin?” She taps her wrist, but there’s no watch there. Still, ticktock.
“Soon. Actually, I guess I could start today. I suppose I should get on the apps, at least.”
She shoos me away. “Get moving, then, Liam.”
But I don’t leave, and I don’t think she wants me to either, judging from the smile she’s sporting.
The one that matches mine.
We stand there for a moment, and neither of us says anything. The silence feels awkward, like perhaps we ought to fill it. Maybe with questions—like the kind I’d ask if I invited her over for dinner. We’d cook, crack open a bottle of wine, and I’d find out what she likes most about living here, what makes her happy, what makes her sad, what makes her tick.
