But if I can give her a few years of stability, set her up for a lifetime of opportunities, then all of this would’ve been worth it.
I may be a cruel bastard, but I’m no monster.
And there’s a difference.
15
Astaire
I run another coat of pink lip balm over my lips and close my compact before grabbing my purse from my bottom desk drawer Thursday.
The academy has emptied, the majority of the staff has already gone home for the day, and in thirty minutes, I’m supposed to meet Mrs. Angelino’s nephew at an Italian place called Fino for our second-chance blind date.
Keys in hand, I stroll to the parking lot, my coat unzipped.
No clouds in the sky.
No chubby rain drops peppering the sidewalk.
I inhale a crisp breath and unlock my car. I’m not exactly in the mood for a date, but I could use a couple hours of getting out of my own head, being social, enjoying a drink or two.
I try to focus on the positives and ignore the nagging voice in my head pleading with me to check my damn email. I’ve done so well this week, not having logged in since Monday. If Bennett has written back, I’m none the wiser. I thought it’d get easier with each passing day, but if anything, my curiosity has intensified.
Tonight’s date should be a good distraction.
Pulling out of the parking lot, I pass a minivan crammed full of vivacious kids of varying ages and a makeup-free mama with a messy bun and a metallic teal coffee mug in her hand.
It makes me think of Honor’s foster mom, who was late picking her up again today, only this time she stayed and chatted for a few minutes, whispering as she informed me that she and her husband are expecting twins this summer and then blindsiding me with an even bigger bombshell—that Honor’s case worker has found a permanent placement for her.
Lucy doesn’t know when Honor will move or where she’ll move to—just that she’s definitely leaving at some point.
There’s a squeeze in my chest when I picture her skipping into my classroom with her contagious little grin and crooked ponytails, but I’m happy for her.
I wish her the most amazing, incredible childhood—one filled with love and memories and a place to forever call home.
* * *
Within ten minutes, I’m parked outside Fino—which happens to be down the street from Ophelia’s.
My used gray Volvo stands out amongst the myriad of glossy Porsches and polished Maseratis, and judging by the elegant lettering on the white awning before me, there’s a chance I’m a hair underdressed, but whatever.
I’m here.
I’m doing this.
Enveloped by the restaurant’s warmth a moment later, I’m greeted by a young hostess who doesn’t smile. Her hips sway in her bodycon dress as she escorts me to a U-shaped booth next to the front windows.
I slide into the wine-colored leather and run my hands along the pristine linen tablecloths.
A cluster of votive candles dance around a small vase of pale pink roses in the centerpiece.
Garrett isn’t here yet, which is fine. I deliberately arrived early this time.
A young man in a crisp button down and lint-free pants pours me a water before handing me the drink menu.
“Pino noir would be great,” I say without glancing at the selections.
He nods, heading toward the bar, and it’s then that I spot a tall, dark, and indisputably handsome man coming my way. Our eyes catch. He smiles. I smile.
“Astaire?” he asks when he’s closer.
“You must be Garrett.” I stand and he greets me with a hug. A hug. Already he’s warm and personable—everything Bennett Schoenbach isn’t, not that it matters.
“Hope you haven’t been waiting too long.” He removes his black suit coat and hangs it on a hook between our booth and the next before scooting in.
“A minute if that.” I’m smiling so big my cheeks ache, so I dial it back. I’ve no idea why I’m so giddy all of a sudden.
Am I nervous?
Excited?
Relieved that he isn’t a cruel-hearted prick?
“Listen, I’m sorry about last week.” His gaze softens, his expression apologetic as he places his hand over mine. “Waited ten, fifteen minutes then got to thinking that I’d mixed up the dates or times. And of course Aunt Jane forgot to give me your number. Anyway, I feel awful about the mix-up.”
He half-smiles when he talks, and his words are sweet and unrushed, milk and honey.
“Don’t even worry about it.” I tuck my hair behind my ear.
Our server appears with an uncorked bottle of pinot and two wine glasses. I didn’t realize I’d ordered a by-the-bottle only selection.
I pray that this bill fits my schoolteacher’s salary …
“You drink pinot?” I point to the second glass as the waiter uncorks and pours the red liquid courage into my waiting chalice.
“More of a gin and tonic guy, actually. I’ll take one of those. Forager’s if you’ve got it,” he orders Trevor’s drink. A good sign, I hope. “Thank you so much.”