Chapter 15 Emma
Connor was telling me about Seattle.
"The rain is real," he said, cutting into his chicken. "Everyone warns you, but you don't really get it until you've lived through six straight weeks of gray skies. I was buying vitamin D supplements in bulk by February."
I laughed. "That bad?"
"Worse. But the coffee culture makes up for it. I gained ten pounds just from trying every café in a three-mile radius." He grinned. "Worth it, though."
We were at Marcello's, a Italian place downtown that had been on my list for months.
White tablecloths, dim lighting, that low murmur of conversation that made everything feel intimate without being overwhelming.
Connor had made the reservation three days ago, picked me up at seven, complimented my dress without being weird about it.
He was doing everything right.
"So what brought you back?" I asked, taking a sip of my wine. "Besides the lack of sunshine?"
"My dad, actually. He had a health scare…
turned out to be nothing serious, but it reminded me that I've been putting off coming home for too long.
Plus, the company I was with got acquired, and the new management was.
.." He made a face. "Let's just say I wasn't interested in sticking around for the corporate restructuring. "
"So you came back and re-joined Sebastian's firm?"
"Yeah. They do good work, and I like the team. Smaller scale than what I was doing in Seattle, but honestly? I missed it, and I needed the change of pace." He set down his fork. "What about you? Still at Penn?"
"Officially an NP! I’m now working at Riverview Women's Health." I smiled. "I love it. Every day is different, and I actually feel like I'm making a difference instead of just putting out fires."
"That's amazing. I remember you talking about going back to school that summer we went out. You seemed so excited about it." He paused. "I'm glad it worked out."
That summer. Three years ago. We'd gone on three dates—nice dates, perfectly pleasant dates—and then he'd moved to Seattle and we'd lost touch. I'd been newly divorced, barely holding it together, definitely not ready for anything serious.
Now here we were. Both of us older, more settled, ready to try again.
"So am I," I said. "It was the right call."
The waiter appeared to refill our wine glasses and ask about dessert. Connor ordered the tiramisu to share. I didn't object.
The conversation flowed easily. Connor asked good questions, listened to my answers, shared his own stories without dominating. He was funny without trying too hard.
He was exactly the kind of man I should want.
And I did want this. Wanted the ease of it, the comfort of sitting across from someone who made me laugh and didn't have any baggage connected to the worst period of my life. Connor was a clean slate. A fresh start. Someone who'd never lied to me or betrayed me or made me question my worth.
Someone safe.
The tiramisu arrived. Connor pushed the plate toward the center of the table and handed me a fork.
"Ladies first."
I took a bite. It was good: rich, creamy, the perfect balance of coffee and sweetness. "Oh, that's dangerous."
"Right?" Connor took his own bite and nodded appreciatively. "We might need to order a second one."
I laughed. "Let's see if we survive this one first."
The door to the restaurant opened, letting in a gust of cool evening air. I glanced up automatically, all those years of nursing having me ready to track movement, assess situations, stay aware of my surroundings.
And froze.
David.
He was standing just inside the doorway, scanning the restaurant, clearly looking for someone. He was dressed casually—dark jeans, a gray button-down, nothing fancy. His hair was slightly windswept, like he'd walked here instead of driving.
Then his eyes found me.
I watched the recognition hit. Watched him go still, his expression shifting from neutral to something I couldn't quite read. Surprise, maybe. Or discomfort.
We stared at each other for a beat too long.
Connor noticed. He glanced over his shoulder, following my gaze, then looked back at me. "You okay?"
"Yeah." I forced myself to look away from David, back to Connor. "Sorry. Just… someone I know."
David was moving now, walking toward the bar at the back of the restaurant. There was another man waiting there; older, maybe mid-forties, wearing a leather jacket. They greeted each other with a handshake, then a brief hug.
Not a date, then. Meeting a friend.
I picked up my fork and took another bite of tiramisu, trying to focus on Connor, on the conversation we'd been having, on the date that had been going so well.
But I was aware of David at the bar. Not, not just aware… hyperaware. I could feel his presence like a physical thing, a weight in my peripheral vision.
Connor was watching me. "Ex?" he asked quietly.
I hesitated, then nodded. "Ex-husband, actually."
"Ah." He took another bite of dessert, considering. "Awkward?"
"A little."
"Do you want to leave?"
The offer was genuine. I could see it in his face: if I said yes, he'd signal for the check, get me out of here, no questions asked. No judgment.
"No," I said. And meant it. "I'm having a good time. I don't want to cut it short because of... him."
Connor smiled. "Good. Because I'm having a good time too."
I smiled back and deliberately turned my attention away from the bar. Connor started telling me about a disastrous camping trip he'd taken in the Cascades, something involving a bear and a poorly secured cooler, and I laughed in all the right places.
But I was still aware of David.
I could see him in the mirror behind Connor's head. He and his friend were sitting at the bar now, the friend gesturing animatedly about something while David nodded and sipped what looked like a soda. Not alcohol. Interesting.
David glanced toward our table once. Our eyes met in the mirror. Then he looked away quickly, turning his full attention back to his friend.
He wasn't staring. Wasn't watching me. Wasn't trying to catch my attention or make some grand gesture or intrude on my evening.
He was just... there. Having a conversation with a friend. Existing in the same space as me without making it weird.
The old David, the David from three years ago, would have panicked. Would have tried to explain his presence, or worse, tried to come over and introduce himself to Connor. Would have made it about him somehow.
This David just ordered food and talked to his friend and pretended I didn't exist.
Which was exactly what I'd asked for.
So why did it bother me?
"Emma?"
I blinked. Connor was looking at me with concern. "Sorry, what?"
"I asked if you wanted to get out of here. Take a walk or something? It's a nice night."
I glanced at the mirror again. David was laughing at something his friend said, relaxed and present. Not looking at me. Not thinking about me.
"Yeah," I said. "A walk sounds good."
Connor paid the check—insisted, despite my offer to split it—and we headed for the door. We had to walk past the bar to get there. I kept my eyes forward, but I felt David's presence as we passed.
He didn't look up. Didn't acknowledge us. Just kept talking to his friend like nothing else in the restaurant mattered.
Outside, the air was cool and crisp. Connor offered me his jacket; I almost said no, then accepted it. It was a nice gesture. The kind of gesture nice men made.
We walked toward the river, hands in our pockets, shoulders almost but not quite touching.
"So," Connor said after a block of comfortable silence. "Ex-husband."
"Three years divorced," I said. "It was... messy. But it's over now."
"Seems like it might not be completely over."
I stopped walking. "What do you mean?"
Connor stopped too, facing me. His expression was kind, not accusatory.
"I mean you were distracted the entire second half of dinner.
And I don't blame you… running into your ex is never fun.
But Emma... if you're not ready to be dating, or if there's still something unresolved there, I'd rather you just tell me. "
My first instinct was to protest. To say I was completely over David, that seeing him meant nothing, that I was absolutely ready to move forward with someone new.
But Connor deserved honesty.
"I am over him," I said slowly. "I really am. Seeing him tonight was just... unexpected. It threw me off. But it doesn't change the fact that I had a really good time with you."
"But?"
I smiled slightly. "There's no but. I'm just still recalibrating, I guess. Getting used to the idea of dating again. Of being open to something new." I looked at him. "I like you, Connor. I'd like to see where this goes. If you're patient with me while I figure my shit out."
He considered this, then nodded. "I can be patient. But Emma… I need you to be honest with me. If that changes, if you realize you're not ready or there's something else going on, just tell me. Okay?"
"Okay."
We kept walking. After a minute, Connor's hand found mine. I let him take it, his palm warm against mine, his grip gentle but present.
This was good. This was what healthy looked like. A man who communicated clearly, who asked for what he needed, who didn't play games or hide things or make me guess what he was thinking.
A man who wasn't David.
We walked along the river for another twenty minutes, talking about easier things: work, friends, the podcast Connor was obsessed with. When he dropped me off at my apartment, he walked me to the door but didn't push for more.
"I had a really good time," he said.
"Me too."
"Can I take you out again? Maybe next weekend?"
"I'd like that."
He smiled, leaned in, and kissed me. It was soft, brief, respectful. The kind of kiss that promised more but didn't demand it.
"Goodnight, Emma."
"Goodnight, Connor."
I went inside and locked the door behind me. Kicked off my heels, hung up Connor's jacket, poured myself a glass of water. Went through my normal nighttime routine on autopilot.
When I finally climbed into bed, I picked up my phone. No messages. No missed calls.
I pulled up my email instead. The one from earlier in the week was still there, sitting in my work folder.
From: Emma Peterson, NP-C To: David Harrison Subject: RE: Maria Rodriguez - Medical Documentation
Mr. Harrison,
I'm available to testify at the hearing if needed. Please send me the date and time once it's confirmed.
Best regards, Emma Peterson, NP-C
He'd responded within an hour.
Ms. Peterson,
The hearing is scheduled for April 18th at 10 AM. I'll send you the courthouse details and logistics next week. Thank you again for your help with this case.
Respectfully,
David Harrison
Professional, polite, distant.
I stared at the email thread for longer than I should have. Then I closed my phone and turned off the light.
Connor was a good man. Kind, stable, emotionally available. The kind of man who would show up when he said he would, who would communicate instead of hiding, who would never make me feel like I was competing with someone else for his attention.
He was exactly the kind of man I deserved.
So why was I lying in bed thinking about the way David had looked at me in that restaurant?
The surprise in his eyes. The immediate retreat. The way he'd deliberately given me space, hadn't intruded, hadn't made my evening about him.
Three years ago, he would have caused a scene. Would have made it awkward, made me choose between acknowledging him or pretending he didn't exist.
Tonight, he'd just... let me have my date. Let me be happy with someone else. Respected the boundaries I'd set.
That was growth, wasn’t it? Real growth.
And I didn't know what to do with that information.
I rolled over and forced myself to think about Connor instead. About his easy laugh and thoughtful questions and the way he'd offered to leave the restaurant without hesitation. About next weekend's date and the possibility of something good and uncomplicated.
About moving forward instead of looking back.
I fell asleep eventually.
But I dreamed about gray button-downs and surprised eyes and the way someone could change so much they became a stranger wearing a familiar face.