Enemy's Secret

"Yes, honey?"

"Is being an adult as fun as being a kid?"

I pause, caught between a chuckle and a sigh. Sometimes Madison says such surprisingly insightful things, it just about bowls me over.

My first instinct is, "Of course, Maddy," but then I get to thinking. I made a promise to myself a long time ago that I would only lie to my daughter when absolutely necessary - Santa, the Easter Bunny, stuff like that. Right now, even if the truth isn't as happy as I'd like it to be, it still is the truth. Madison deserves the truth.

"It's different," I say. "Complicated."

Maddy nods. "So, it's not."

"I didn't say that."

"It's OK, Mom."

And with that, she leaves. I watch her skip off, waving to a friend.

And here we have Instance 57 of failed parenting...

But what should I have said? That it's fun in different ways, and even more fun sometimes, but it's more painful and scary too, because it's often the adult hurts that take the longest to heal. That we don't have to fear knee scrapes and monsters under the bed, but harm from much vaguer sources.

Someone behind me honks.

Right - my kid is long gone into the school. Time for me to go.

I head over to Starbucks. There, with my Grande Latte with extra cinnamon, I camp out in my usual corner booth with my laptop and do a bit more research for the case, call up a few colleagues. Normally, I'd let myself rest on all the evidence we have already, but this time I want to make sure that my time with Landon hasn't messed with my professional judgment. That I'm not banking on a slam dunk for a case that's still at the free throw line.

I keep my phone at the edge of the table, behind my laptop, out of sight. If only I could keep it out of mind.

Landon's already texted twice.

I haven't responded. I can't seem to send him the text calling off tonight.

I have literally no excuse - Madison already has a sleepover scheduled at her friend Annie's house, so all I have to do is drop her off and not worry for the rest of the night - other than the real one: I'm still not sure what we're doing is right.

And yet, time ticks along, and even though I haven't responded to his earlier three texts, when Landon texts me See you in 10?, I respond, See you in 20.

Next comes closing my laptop, throwing out my cup, going into the bathroom to change into something more date-y, and leaving Starbucks with more bounce in my step than I should.

Once I'm in my car pulling out onto the street, even catching a glimpse of a particularly poofy poodle prompts a smile.

If I didn't know better, I'd think I was starting to fall for him.

But I do know better. I know what Landon's capable of. I know how far this can go - and how far it can't.

I know how far this is from a good idea.

And still, I keep driving for it, this unavoidable conclusion.

After I've parked, I walk to where we arranged to meet: Trefoil Arch, Central Park.

Before he sees me, I take a few good moments to admire him. The nice light blue polo shirt he fills out to perfection. The tanned sculpt of his features.

Those dark eyebrows of his are lowered, the way they do when he's lost in thought.

When he glimpses me, his whole face transforms. Lifted eyebrows, wider smile, even his eyes change in a bunch of infinitesimal ways I couldn't pin down if I tried. You can't fake a smile like that.

"This old place," Landon says with a chuckle as I approach, although he only glances at the twist of tall grass and bulrushes before his gaze settles back on me. "Do you remember..."

"Of course."

"First kiss," he says. He steps towards me, gaze on his goal: my lips. "Why not..."

I put my hands against his chest. "Landon."

He stops, forehead crinkling in confusion.

Damn it, how is he still hot even when he's confused?

Looking away, I take a breath to regain control of myself.

I will not let him dictate how today goes. I will not.

"Weren't you the one who agreed to come here as friends?" I remind him in a voice that's way steadier than I'm feeling.

Chill, you're at a park. Yes, you slept together, but you can still be in control. Maybe.

"Hmm." He grunts. "Doesn't sound like me."

Under my glare, he starts to chuckle. "OK, OK. Just forgot."

"No problem," I say.

My gaze scans over his shoulder for another focus, anything other than the demand in those eyes.

"You look great, by the way," he says.

"I was working," I say, offhand, as if I hadn't changed into this yellow and black sundress in the cramped Starbucks bathroom before heading over here.