I hate that I’m physically attracted to someone I don’t like. I hate that I let him get under my skin. I hate that I wanted him, and, most of all, I hate that the opportunity to have a wild and carefree night with him is gone. He’s gone back to New York now.
Tristan fucking Miles.
The reason I haven’t slept, the reason I had to get myself off while watching YouPorn last night.
And the reason I feel so fucking sexless today that I just want to cry.
It was nice being hit on . . . being made to feel desirable.
To feel like a woman again.
And it’s not him; it’s not about him. It’s what he represents.
A carefree time in my life that’s gone.
I’ve been thinking about it . . . long and hard—all night, actually. And if there was ever a man whom I should have slept with as a get-back-into-the-dating-game kind of thing, it should have been Tristan Miles.
He is uncomplicated and unavailable, the kind of man you have thoughtless sex with. I was physically attracted to him, and yet there was absolutely no chance that I could have developed feelings for him. He’s not the kind of man I could ever fall in love with.
It was the perfect opportunity . . . and I let it go.
Fucking great.
“Claire?” a voice asks.
I look up, dazed. “I beg your pardon?” I ask.
“Let’s talk about the hardest thing in your life,” Elouise says.
I frown.
“What is the hardest thing that you have had to do?”
I stare at her for a moment. “Little League.”
Elouise’s face falls, and everyone listens intently.
“Explain that to me.”
“Um.” I take a nervous, deep breath. “My husband . . . um . . .” I pause midsentence.
“Start at the beginning.” Elouise smiles.
“Five years ago, my husband was riding a bike early one morning.” I smile as I remember Wade in his full riding kit. “He was training for a triathlon.” I pause.
“Go on.”
“He was . . . hit by a drunk driver at five fifty-two a.m.”
Everyone watches me.
“He died at the scene. He was thirty-six.” I twist my fingers together on my lap. “And I thought that was going to be my worst day.” I smile as I try to make sense of what I’m about to say. “But I was wrong.” I stay silent for a moment.
After a while, she prompts me, “Go on, Claire.”
“Watching my three sons grow up without a father, day in and day out, is far worse.” My eyes fill with tears. “Every Saturday,” I whisper, hardly able to push the words past my lips. “Every Saturday . . . we go to their games. And when they do something good, they look up into the stands to see me.” I stare straight ahead as I pause.
“Take your time, dear.”