“Just meet him first,” she said. “I don’t want you stuck on a number.”
Over the next few weeks, I heard “emotionally intelligent,” “he makes me feel safe,” and not much else. Every time I asked for details, she dodged. She kept promising I’d meet him “soon,” then pushing it back.
Finally: “Dinner Friday. Please be nice.”
I cleaned the house like I was being graded. Cooked her favorite pasta. Put on a dress. My stomach was doing backflips.
There was a knock. I opened the door—and my past hit me in the face.
“You know each other?”
Emily stood there smiling, holding hands with a man behind her. He stepped forward, and my brain stalled.
Same brown eyes. Same jaw. Older, but absolutely him.
“Mark?” I whispered.
His eyes went wide. “Lena?”
Continue on the next page:
