"What?" she asks.

I grimace.

"Navy, all it takes is that magical, adorable, dimpled smile of yours and guys are smitten. You're as cute as a kitten, anyone ever tell you that?"

I hiss at Kat, my breath a puff in the cold, "I have not been smiling."

"You haven't stopped smiling all day. That's what happens when you let go of old baggage."

The thing is, I don't think I've let it go. In fact, I'm pretty sure it was just specially delivered into my proximity in the form of a tall, attractive Marine who's been MIA for the last five years.

She goes on, "And welcome new possibilities. The hottie in 7G possibilities. Man-bun-barista possibilities. Gym stud possibilities," she says as the warm heat in the gym seals us inside.

"Hey, Kat," calls a shirtless guy with abs that are a work of art. It's no wonder she was quick to say yes to help Dannielle. "Heard you're subbing," he says. "Brought a friend, this is Omar."

Kat smiles at them both and then nods at me. "Date number three."

"What?" the gym rat asks.

"Oh, sorry. Tyrell, this is Navy. Navy, meet Tyrell and Omar. I better get started. You guys grab some mats up front."

By the time I've twisted, lifted, stretched, and planked myself into having a purified liver, I've learned that Omar is a personal trainer at the gym and wants to give me a free session. He also gives me the address for his website and we trade emails.

"Sweating is so sexy," Katya says when she meets me for a juice at the front of the gym afterward.

"Unless you're me." My tank top is permanently adhered to my skin with sweat. "I'm like a hog when I work out and you glisten. There's a difference"

We leave the warmth of the gym as Kat says, "If I hear you say one more self-deprecating thing about yourself, I'm firing you."

"It's as cold as a slap to the face," I say not sure if I mean her comment or the air. I don't mean to say shit about myself; it's more of a default. A filter to keep from showing the real me. I'm afraid if I reveal the confident girl bursting to get out and am rejected, or still feel as stuck as I do, I'll be laughed at again. The trill of laughter, the knowing glances, the concerned calls... Everyone knew I was dating a cheater and didn't tell me, but when I found out it was doubly humiliating. I'm smart enough not to let that happen again whether when dating or in my career or in regular life. "You're threatening to fire me?" I ask in a small voice.

"You're my personal trainer for life."

"I'm not certified to be a life coach." I rush to keep up with her as she practically jogs back toward the apartment.

"You're the one who kept me on track during college. Who encouraged me to go to grad school. You made it so I didn't screw up and throw away my education. You were always my inspiration and in the last few months, maybe even years now, you've been spiraling into this pit of self-doubt and loathing. Enough."

Her words hit me hard. I pause midstride. Maybe it was the receptivity her closing meditation created during class. Maybe it's just being out on a cold Sunday in January. Perhaps it's just time for me to change. To get unstuck. To figure out how. I wipe my eyes. "Yeah. You're right. I'm sorry I've-"

"-had so much spinach in your teeth. That's what friends are for. To tell you these things. I only wish I'd realized it sooner. Oh! How convenient for you to have a revelation right here."

I look up at the soft glow of the bookstore at twilight, yearning for a paper escape. A beach read, a fiery girl who plays hard to get, a second chance romance-anything that's one-hundred and eighty degrees from where I'm at now.

"Number four. Your book boyfriend. Maybe he'll be your OTP."

I peer through the glass. He's average height, with light brown hair. He wears a gray sweatshirt and jeans. I don't see any sign of tattoos, piercings, a man-bun, or even massive sex appeal. He seems, in a word, normal, trust worthy, nice. The kind of guy that would be perfect for me.

"Will you go out with him? Just once. You two can get totally nerdy together." She giggles.

"I don't even know what he likes to read, but fine," I say, grasping at my resolve with shivering fingers.

We keep walking and Kat says, "You see, I used to theorize that there are two kinds of people in the world, swans and peacocks."

"Those are birds not people."

"Bear with me."

"Let me guess, I'm a pigeon."

She ignores me. "Yes, someday I'll get married, but it's mostly for the experience and the dress. I'm a peacock and you'd better believe I'll be parading around in my finery on my wedding day. But I also like to fly solo-I need my independence, like Mew. However, swans mate for life. You're a love for life kinda gal.

"Are you really likening our relationship experiences to those of the avian kingdom?"

"I am," Kat says as a pigeon pecks at something questionable by a sewer drain.

"There's so much wrong with your theory. First, you can't be a peacock because they're male. You'd be a peahen, which just sounds weird. Second, your name is Kat. Birds and cats? Seems like a conflict waiting to happen. If we're going to do any animal comparison, men are like dogs. This isn't a bad thing because as we know, I really, really would love a puppy. But men, they like to bury their bones, they drool and bark, they're territorial. They're cute when they're puppies and then get hairy and shed when they're old."

"You've thought about this a bit?"

I bark a fake laugh. "Some men are like Dachshunds and do a lot of digging, hiding their bones all over town. St. Bernards are calm and loyal, but will drool all over your face. In fact when it comes to kissing some of them are too pointy, too mushy, too slobbery, practically licking your face off."

"You haven't been kissing the right ones."

But I have, well, once, that's how I know the difference. "Shall I go on? They snore too. Dobermans, mastiffs, and Rottweilers are strong and make you feel safe, but watch out, they're extremely territorial. There are a select few who retain their wolf-like tendencies-the alphas, who'll be loyal companions for life, but they're rare." I sigh. "Also, have you noticed people tend to look like their dogs? I was reading an article the other day-"

We're nearly to the corner before crossing to our street when Kat grips my arm so hard my rambling turns into an ow.

"Okay. I'll shut up. I'm just trying to-"

Kat whispers. "Number five."

"Huh?"

I follow her gaze to a formidable figure approaching with a confident gate, squared off chin, strong shoulders, and an intelligent, piercing gaze that doesn't waver from me.

Chapter 8.

Number Five I turn in the opposite direction, but Katya has me in a yoga grip. The heavy footfalls of Carrick's boots stop next to us.

"Hello, number five," Kat says as she spins me around.

"What's that?" Carrick asks.

"Funny to run into you again," Katya says. "Navy was just telling me all about you."

"I don't imagine they were good things since she ran off-"

If this were one of my novels, I'd fire back all bold and brassy because there's nothing good to say. Instead, I mutter, "I just forgot something." I forgot how insane you make me, filled with contempt and confusion and something else that I can't identify, but it's hot and liquid and makes me want to scream.

"Did you find it?" he asks.

I shift from foot to foot. "Sure did."

"What did you forget?" Kat asks off-handedly, glancing at a text on her phone.

This just went from zero to awkward.

"Stuff," I blurt, looking away.

Carrick extends his hand to Kat and says, "We haven't met. I'm Carrick."

"And I'm Katya, Navy's best friend." Her phone beeps again.

In the moment she looks down, Carrick's expression retools itself from a painful memory and back to the present. I was his sister's best friend. My boyfriend was his best friend. The young elite living on the arm of Massachusetts all of those years ago wove a tangled web.

"Sorry guys, I have to go," she says with a smirk, "I forgot something at the gym," she calls over her shoulder. "Nice meeting you. Hope to see you again soon!"

"More like she's got a booty call," I mumble.

"What was that?" Carrick asks over the city din, stepping closer.

His eyes, glowing, digging, hungry, dog-like, turn me into a dripping icicle. "Nothing. Gotta go," I say through chattering teeth.

"It's been a while. Do you want to grab a coffee or something else?"

"Something else."

The steady stream of foot traffic surrounding us and a wall of newspaper boxes at my back prevents me from rushing past him to the haven of anywhere that's not here.

He grips the back of his neck and inhales. "Listen, I know what this is about."

I fold my arms in front of my chest. "Should I have let it go by now? Because to tell you the truth, I'd just like to go."

"Wait. It's been a long time since we've had the chance to talk. Just a coffee, please?"

Unfortunately, there's a coffee shop on the corner.

The awkward silence follows us inside as we creep forward in line. Finally, the girl at the counter asks what we'd like and Carrick says, "Medium coffee just milk and a vanilla latte-"

"A tea actually," I correct.

"You used to love vanilla lattes." Carrick says.

I shake my head and tell the girl, "I used to love a lot of things."

He pulls out his wallet.

"People change and I can pay for my own drink, thanks."

"They do and I want to," he answers in a soft voice.

The sneaky thought that he's changed flits in and out of my head. A little yap from a woman carrying a Shih Tzu returns me to my senses.

"What's kept you in the Big Apple?" he asks while we wait.

My beloved husband, an Italian investment banker, our beautiful brownstone, my successful career in publishing. Oh, also the power lunches, galas, soirees, you know the usual.

I shrug. I don't know, actually.

When I don't answer he says, "I ended up in the Marines after... I wasn't feeling very peaceful. I went to college on the west coast, and then went to Europe. Just got back last week."

I know he went into the military, but wasn't aware he was in Europe. After a while, I stopped inquiring. "Impressive. Your parents must be proud." My voice is a sheet of black ice.

He snorts. "What have you been up to?" In our parents' circle, this question is often phrased and what do you do?, which translates to tell me how you spend your time so I can estimate your worth. I remember the game well enough.

I balance between choice a: a snarky answer to the effect of why do you care, though I'm sure later I'll think of something more biting-I always come up with the best comebacks after the fact-and b: the truth. It's hard to come out of hiding after doing it for so long. There's always a choice c: say nothing.

When I don't answer, he clears his throat and says, "Navy, everything that happened your senior year, I'm sorry. I know now that should've told you."

"You've already apologized. Many people should have, could have told me. But they didn't."

"And I know they regret it."

"Do you?"

"Claire did."

She never had a chance to tell me as much. I play the knife's edge of sadness over her death and anger at her not having been the friend I thought she was. And guilt. There's a lot of that too. I was so upset I wouldn't talk to her, but if I had, she wouldn't have gotten in her boyfriend's car after he'd been drinking on prom night.

Carrick passes me my tea and we move toward the only available seating along the bar by the window. He sits squarely on the stool. I perch on the edge.

"You look like you're going to fly away," he says.

My response is flippant silence.

"I fled. I'm sorry. I should have been there for you." His eyes meet mine and I look away. My eyes flit back. He's still looking at me. His admission hangs in the air between us. His fingers link between mine under the counter. His touch burns like fire, like ice, like love and hate. I close my eyes, remembering the other reasons I feel guilty, and squeegee away the tears.

I blink my eyes and sniff at the apology in the furrowed lines of his brow, the softness in his eyes, and the quiet patience of his lips.

He leans closer, imploring me with the sadness in his eyes that matches my own. "I'm sorry, Navy," he whispers. His palm presses into mine, holding my hand tighter.

His edges blur, the distance between us disappears, and our lips graze. It's as easy and as familiar as breathing. It's a moment of tender forgiveness, of unmet longing.