PART 4:

I’m sorry, Ryan said. That’s rough. It was a while ago. I’m over it. Another lie. She wasn’t over the betrayal. She just learned to build her entire life around preventing it from happening again. What about you? Victoria asked. Have you dated much since? She caught herself. since Emma’s mom. Ryan’s jaw tightened slightly. Not really.

A few attempts. Nothing that went anywhere. Why not? He was quiet for a moment, turning his coffee mug in slow circles. Honestly, most people don’t get it. Being a single parent, they say they do, but then they get frustrated when I have to cancel because Emma’s sick or when I can’t stay out late or when I need to check my phone constantly in case the babysitter calls.

That sounds exhausting. It is. So, I mostly stopped trying. He looked up at her. You’re actually the first date I’ve been on in almost a year. Something about that admission made Victoria’s chest tight. She’d been on 27 first dates in 2 years. He’d been on one in 12 months. Why me? She asked. Ryan smiled.

You put in your profile that you were terrible at mini golf. Anyone willing to advertise their failures seemed like someone who might not expect perfection. Victoria laughed, but the sound felt hollow. If only he knew, she wasn’t advertising failures. She was constructing an entire false identity designed to filter out everyone except the kind of man who wouldn’t care about money.

Also, Ryan continued, “Your pictures looked real. Not filtered, not posed, just you.” Those pictures had taken 3 hours to get right. Sarah had made her delete 47 versions before they found ones that looked authentically unpolished. They talked through lunch. When they finally left the diner, the afternoon had turned sharp and bright. “Son on snow, the kind of light that made everything look clean.

” “There’s a bookstore a few blocks from here,” Ryan said. “You mentioned you like mystery novels. Want to check it out?” They walked to the bookstore through streets that smelled like coffee and woods. Ryan walked like someone comfortable in his own body. Not the studied athleticism of men who perform masculinity at expensive gyms, but the unself-conscious ease of someone who used their body as a tool everyday.

The bookstore was small, crowded, perfect shelves that reached the ceiling, a cat sleeping on the counter, the kind of place that existed outside algorithmic recommendations and bestseller lists. Victoria found herself relaxing in a way she rarely did anymore. She pulled books off shelves, read back covers, showed Ryan ones she’d already read and loved.

“You really like mysteries,” he observed, watching her examine a Tana French novel. “I like puzzles, trying to figure out what’s hidden.” The irony of that statement wasn’t lost on her. They left with two books each. Ryan insisted on buying hers despite her protests. “You got coffee last time,” he said. “My turn.” Outside the bookstore, Victoria checked her watch.

Real watch this time, not the expensive one. A simple Timex that kept terrible time, but looked right for Tory Brennan. “I should probably head out,” she said, though she didn’t want to. “Yeah, me, too. I need to pick up Emma in an hour.” They walked back toward the diner parking lot in comfortable silence.

The afternoon had shifted into evening, and the temperature was dropping fast. At her car, Ryan hesitated. I had a really good time, he said. Me, too. Would you want to meet Emma? The question came out rushed, like he’d been working up the courage. I mean, not immediately, but eventually. If this keeps going. Victoria’s first instinct was panic.

Meeting Emma meant escalating, meant deepening the lie, meant involving a child in her deception. But she found herself saying, “I’d like that.” Ryan’s smile was worth the lie. almost. Their third date was coffee. Fourth date was a walk around a lake. Fifth date was dinner at a different diner on the other side of town.

6 weeks in, Victoria met Emma. Ryan’s apartment was small, clean, but lived in. Toys organized in bins, artwork taped to the fridge, a life built on a mechanic’s salary and a dead woman’s memory. Emma was tiny, serious, with dark curls and her father’s eyes. She examined Victoria like a scientist studying a new specimen.

You’re Tory, she announced. I am. Dad said you’re terrible at mini golf. Victoria laughed. He’s not wrong. I’m good at mini golf. I can teach you. I’d like that. Emma nodded, apparently satisfied. Do you want to see my books? Victoria spent the next hour sitting on Emma’s bedroom floor while the six-year-old showed her every book she owned, explained which ones were her favorites and why, and narrated elaborate theories about what happened to the characters after their stories ended.

Ryan watched from the doorway, and when Emma was finally distracted by dinner cooking, he pulled Victoria aside. “She likes you,” he said quietly. “How can you tell?” “She showed you her books. She doesn’t do that with everyone.” Something in Victoria’s chest cracked open. She’d been around children before.

Charity events, employee family days, carefully staged photo opportunities. But this was different. Emma wasn’t performing. She was just being herself, sharing her world with someone her father had decided might be worth knowing. They ate spaghetti at a table that wobbled. Emma talked non-stop about school. Her best friend Mia, a squirrel she’d named Chester, who lived in the tree outside her window.

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