ISIT UP, GASPING, cold, panicked.
Libby.
Where is Libby?
My eyes zigzag across the room, searching for something grounding. The first rays of sunlight streaming through a window. The sound of pots and pans clanking. The smell of brewing coffee drifting through the door.
I’m in the cottage.
It’s okay. She’s here. She’s okay.
At home, when I’m anxious, I cycle. When I need a boost of energy, I cycle. When I need to knock myself out, I cycle. When I can’t focus, I cycle.
Here, running is my only option.
I dress quietly, pull on my muddy sneakers, and creep down the stairs to sneak out into the cool morning. I shiver as I cross the foggy meadow, picking up my pace at the woods.
I leap over a gnarled root, then thunder across the footbridge that arcs over the creek.
My throat starts to burn, but the fear is still chasing me. Maybe it’s being here, feeling so far away from Mom, or maybe it’s spending so much time with Libby, but something is bringing me back to all those things I try not to think about.
It feels like there’s poison inside of me. No matter how hard I run, I can’t burn through it. For once, I wish I could cry, but I can’t. I haven’t since the morning of the funeral.
I pick up my pace.
“I’ve found him!” Libby squeals, running into the bathroom as I’m trying to coax my curtain bangs into submission, against the express wishes of the unrelenting humidity.
She thrusts her phone toward me, and I squint at a headshot of an attractive man with short, chocolaty hair and gray eyes. He’s wearing a down vest over a plaid shirt and gazing across a foggy lake. Over his picture is BLAKE, 36.
“Libby!” I shriek, realization dawning. “Why the hell are you on a dating app?”
“I’m not,” she says. “You are.”
“I am definitely not,” I say.
“I made an account for you,” she says. “It’s a new app. Very marriage minded. I mean, it’s called Marriage of Minds.”
“MOM?” I say. “The acronym for the app is MOM? Sometimes I worry about the severe lack of warning bells in your brain, Libby.”
“Blake’s an avid fisherman who’s unsure if he wants kids,” she says. “He’s a teacher, and a night owl—like you—and extremely physically active.”
I snatch the phone and read for myself. “Libby. It says here he’s looking for a down-to-earth woman who doesn’t mind spending her Saturdays cheering on the Tar Heels.”
“You don’t need someone exactly like you, Sissy,” Libby says gently. “You need someone who appreciates you. I mean, you obviously don’t need anyone, period, but you deserve someone who understands how special you are! Or at least someone who can give you a low-pressure night out.”
She’s looking at me now with that hopeful Libby look of hers. It’s halfway between the expression of a cat who’s dropped a mouse at a person’s feet and that of a kid handing over a Mother’s Day drawing, blissfully unaware that Mommy’s “snow hat” looks only and exactly like a giant penis.
Blake is the penis hat in this scenario.
“Couldn’t we just have a low-pressure night out together?” I ask.
She glances away with an apologetic grimace. “Blake already thinks he’s meeting you at Poppa Squat’s for karaoke night.”
“Nearly every part of that sentence is concerning.”
She wilts. “I thought you wanted to switch things up, not be so . . .”
Nadine Winters, a voice in my mind says. It takes me a second to recognize it as the husky, teasing timbre of Charlie. I suppress a groan of resignation.
It’s one night, and Libby’s gone to a lot of trouble for this very weird gift.
“I guess I should google what a Tar Heel is beforehand,” I say.
A grin breaks across her face. If Mom’s smile was springtime, Libby’s is full summer. She says, “No way. That’s what we call a conversation starter.”
Libby (acting as me) didn’t tell Blake where we were staying, and instead suggested I (secretly we) meet him at Poppa Squat’s around seven. In her flowy wrap dress with her hair perfectly tousled and pink gloss smudged across her lips, you’d think she had something better to do than nurse a soda and lime while watching me from across the bar, but she seems perfectly excited for the underwhelming night ahead.
Normally, I’d arrive to a date early, but we’re operating on Libby’s timeline and thus arrive ten minutes late. Outside the front doors, she stops me by the elbow. “We should go in separately. So he doesn’t know we’re together.”
“Right,” I say. “That will make it easier to knock him out and empty his pockets. What should our signal be?”
She rolls her eyes. “I will go in first. I’ll scope him out and make sure he’s not carrying a sword, or wearing a pin-striped vest, or doing close-up magic for strangers.”
“Basically that he’s none of the four horsemen of the apocalypse.”
“I’ll text you when it’s safe to come in.”
Forty seconds after she slips inside, she sends me a thumbs-up, and I follow.
It’s hotter in Poppa Squat’s than it is outside, probably because it’s packed.
The crowd is drunkenly singing “Sweet Home Alabama” around and on the karaoke stage at the back of the room, and the whole place smells like sweat and spilled beer.
Blake, 36, is sitting at the first table, facing the door with his hands folded like he’s here with Ruth from HR to fire me.
“Blake?” I outstretch a hand.
“Nora?” He doesn’t get up.
“Yep.”
“You look different than your picture,” he replies.
“Haircut,” I say, taking my seat, hand unshaken.
“You didn’t say how tall you were in your profile,” he says. This from a man who listed himself as six feet and an inch but can’t be taller than five nine unless he’s wearing stilts under this table.
So at least dating in Sunshine Falls is exactly the same as in New York.
“Didn’t occur to me it would matter.”
“How tall are you?” Blake asks.
“Um,” I stall, hoping this will give him time to rethink his first-date strategy. No such luck. “Five eleven.”
“Are you a model?” He says this hopefully, like the right answer could excuse a multitude of height-related sins.
There is, of course, the misconception that straight men universally love tall, thin women. Being such a woman, I can debunk this.
Many men are too insecure to date a tall woman. Many of those who aren’t are assholes looking for a trophy. It has less to do with attraction than status. Which is only effective if the tall person is a model. If you’re dating someone taller than you and she’s a model, then you must be hot and interesting. If you’re dating someone taller than you and she’s a literary agent, cue the jokes about her wearing your balls on a silver necklace.
On the bright side, at least Blake, 36, isn’t asking about—
“What size are your shoes?” His face is pinched as if in pain. Same, Blake. Same.
“What are you drinking?” I say. “Alcohol? Alcohol sounds good.”
The waitress approaches, and before she can get a word out, I say, “Two very large gin martinis, please.” She must see the familiar signs of first-date misery on me, because she skips her welcome speech, nods, and virtually sprints to put in our order.
“I don’t drink,” Blake says.
“No worries,” I say, “I’ll drink yours.”
Back by the pool tables, Libby grins and flashes two thumbs up.
