Chapter 7
Miles joins in on the job hunt. It’s a little unnerving having him there, but in a way, it breaks the ice everywhere we go.
Because Miles is a people person. He has this easygoing way about him that instantly disarms people, and everyone seems drawn
to him. Which is why I shouldn’t be surprised that he also disarms me.
The next day, when I leave my apartment, he happens to be leaving at the same time and comes along, this time with a list of places I hadn’t thought to apply. We stop for coffee
and walk around our neighborhood, and he patiently waits as I fill out job applications in person or online.
Most of the managers in charge of hiring are Minnie’s age, which is its own kind of humiliating, but if Miles is embarrassed
for me, he doesn’t say so.
This goes on for the rest of the week, and while most of our conversation is surfacy, I’m getting a sense of who he is. Sort
of. And I have to admit to myself that maybe my first impression of him was a little skewed. Biased. Judgy.
Not the kind of person I want to be.
I haven’t shared too many personal details, just that I’m divorced, have a daughter, and I’m originally from rural Illinois
and just moved here from Colorado. Beyond that, we keep our conversation about the city, our apartment building, our neighbors.
Benign topics with zero feelings attached.
On Friday, I step out into the courtyard with a basket of fresh-baked muffins for Lorraine. I’ve decided this is the kind
of neighbor I want to be—one who bakes for people just because.
But also? Stress baking is going to lead to stress eating if I don’t start giving some of this stuff away.
Spring has descended on the city, and the tulips in the courtyard are starting to bloom. The space is like an advent calendar
with secret surprises every time I step outside.
As I close the door behind me, I see Miles sitting on the stone bench in the center, talking on the phone.
I don’t want to eavesdrop, but I do catch the “I love you too” as he ends the call, and I wonder if I’ve earned the right
to a personal question or two. But when does a casual, platonic friendship earn the right to go to the next level?
And if I ask him personal questions, he’s bound to ask me personal questions, and I’m not sure I’m willing to share.
He looks up and sees me, then gives me a quick wave. As I approach, his eyebrows shoot up. “More cookies?”
I tilt my head and make a face. “No, that was a onetime thing.”
“Dang it.”
I nod toward Lorraine’s door. “Muffins for Lorraine.”
“Is it her birthday?”
I frown and look down at the basket. “No, they’re just because . . .”
“‘Just because’ muffins,” he says, like he’s trying the phrase on. “She’ll love them. Although you might need a taste tester. You know, for purely academic purposes. You’d hate to hand them over and find out they’re bad.”
“They’re not bad.”
He holds out his hand and motions for me to give him one.
Slowly I relent, then sit on the stone bench beside him.
“New recipe,” I say. “Let me know what you think.”
He unwraps the paper around the bottom and, without hesitating, inhales half of the muffin. He closes his eyes and nods, letting
out a little hum of approval.
It’s embarrassing how happy it makes me to see that he likes it.
“Why haven’t you applied at a bakery?” he asks around the bite. “This is the best thing I’ve ever had in my life.” He presses his lips together and then pops the other half of the muffin into his mouth. “I need more homemade muffins in my life.”
“You’re dating in the wrong age range for homemade muffins,” I say dryly.
The comment is out before I can stop it.
He looks at me funny. “What?”
My muscles tense. I didn’t mean to say that out loud. I really need to be better about keeping my sarcasm to myself. While
I have many thoughts about Miles’s dating life, none of them are actually my business. Up until now, I’ve done a good job
of keeping them to myself.
I hold up a hand, trying not to squirm. “Sorry. Didn’t mean that. Who you date is your own business.”
He still looks confused. And who can blame him? I’ve been having multiple conversations on this topic for almost a week now,
but only in my own head. He has no idea what story I wrote for him that first day.
A story I only now realize may very well be fiction.
Though . . . I can’t ignore what I saw with my own eyes.
Not. Your. Business. Claire!
I scramble to change the subject. “I don’t have any formal training, you know, in baking, so I’m not sure anyone would hire
me.”
His expression shifts. “Sometimes experience is enough, don’t you think?”
I shrug. “I’m just out here winging it, really.”
He smiles and reaches for another muffin. I shake my head but hold out the basket. “I’m telling Lorraine you’re stealing her
treats.”
He leans back against the bench. “The only thing that would make this better is a cup of coffee.”
He drinks his black. Usually two cups a morning. I glance over at him. “You’re kind of my first friend here.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “Oh? Are we actually friends now?”
“Aren’t we?” I ask.
“I mean, I think so,” he says. “I’m just shocked you’re admitting it.”
I huff out a laugh.
“With a ‘how we met’ story as good as ours, we have to be friends.” He takes another bite. “You should eat one of these.”
“I already had two before I walked outside.”
He chuckles softly to himself and swallows his bite.
My phone simultaneously dings and vibrates on the bench between us. The noise is so loud, we both look at it.
I pick it up and silence it, but not before we both see the notification for the dating app, which happens to show up in a
bright pink bubble.
“Is that . . . ?”
I hold up a hand to silence Miles, who snaps his mouth shut, obviously wanting to comment on the app.
I let out a dramatic sigh. “My daughter made me a dating profile.”
He pulls out his own phone, clicks around, then says, “‘Flirty, fun, and fabulous forty-something.’” He glances at me, eyebrows
raised.
I snatch the phone from his hand and see my profile pulled up on the screen. “Of course you’re on this app.”
“It’s a nice photo,” he says. “You look happy.”
I glance at it. “I was happy.” I click the phone off and hand it back to him, aware that the air between us has shifted.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks. “I mean, now that we’re friends and everything.”
I half smirk but roll my eyes. “You’re going to keep bringing that up, aren’t you?”
“Of course.”
I shake my head. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“That’s fair.”
“But . . .” Maybe I should? I think the words but don’t say them out loud. Maybe I should because maybe it’ll get easier to say it out loud if I do.
“But . . . ?”
“I’m newly divorced,” I say.
He tilts his chin upward. “Ah.”
“But we’ve been apart for over a year.”
A quiet nod.
“So . . . my daughter is trying to help me, you know, get back out there.”
“I see.” He turns the phone over in his hand. “Well, if I could be so bold—you know, as your friend—I would say that the first few dates back can be awful.”
I laugh. “Sign me up.”
“But—” He holds up a finger. “I think it gets easier.”
I pull a face. “Yeah, you don’t seem to be having any issues.”
Confusion spreads across his face. “What makes you say that?”
The image of John and the silver sequins assaults my mind—and I wonder if I’ll ever be able to erase it. As it is, it has
a tendency to pop up when I least expect it. Like now. When John is nowhere in sight.
Or maybe there’s a protective mode of my brain that’s intent on reminding me of the similarities between my new neighbor and
my ex.
“Two different women in two weeks?” I widen my eyes at him, letting my expression speak for itself. “I’m not stalking you,
but maybe don’t make it so obvious.”
“Two different women . . . ?” His confused look changes to what looks like realization, then amusement. He actually has the
nerve to laugh.
“That’s funny?”
“I mean . . . you’re assuming a lot, but it’s fine,” he says. “I’m not in the habit of worrying about what other people think.”
I sit with that for a second, noting the pang of jealousy that he can so freely let go of someone else’s opinion. If I’m wrong,
he doesn’t correct me, but he has no need to. It’s an interesting approach.
I wonder if I could try that for myself.
“I’ll just say this,” he says. “I’m good with people.”
“Mm-hmm.” I quirk a brow in his direction. “I’ve noticed.”
“Really?” He side-eyes me. “Thanks.”
I get the feeling he could turn anything into a compliment. If only that made me like him less.
“And we’re friends, so I can help with this.”
“With what?”
“The dating,” he says, like it’s obvious. He props his ankle on his opposite knee and opens his phone. “You don’t know anyone
here, and I’ve already navigated this minefield, so let me help.” He pops the last of his second muffin into his mouth. “Maybe
I can even help you realize that not all guys are pigs.”
I scoff.
“Some of us really are decent, Claire,” he says. “I’ll help you find the decent ones.”
“You think you know which guys are the decent ones?” My tone is skeptical, but it does nothing to deter him.
Instead, he opens the app, clicks around for a second, then holds it up. “Let’s take Hunter B. for example.” He flips the
phone around and swipes through a series of group photos. “What do you notice about Hunter?”
“Uh . . . I’m not sure,” I say. “I don’t know which one he is.”
“Exactly. Is he the tall guy who just completed the 5K or the short, bald guy holding the sign?”
I shoot him a look, which he ignores. He holds the phone up again. “And let’s take a look at Chaz.” His eyes jump to mine. “First of all—Chaz?”
I laugh.
“Second of all”—he glances down and reads—“‘My ex was crazy’ with three exclamation points.”
I wince.
“There’s a whole language out here, and I can teach you.”
“Like a dating mentor.”
“Or like a friend.” He clicks the phone off. “You’re new here. You’re fresh off what I’m assuming was a bad divorce, and I want to make sure