PART 2:

She’d stopped getting manicures two months ago, let her nails grow uneven, clipped them herself. Details. So, Victoria said. Reading class ran over. Ryan nodded. Emma’s learning to read chapter books. She’s obsessed with this series about a girl detective. Gets genuinely upset when we have to stop. That’s sweet.

It is until she’s trying to negotiate just one more chapter at 9:00 on a school night. But he said it with warmth, the kind of warmth that only came from loving someone so much their annoying habits became endearing. “How long have you been doing this alone?” Victoria asked. The profile had mentioned he was a single father, but hadn’t explained why.

Ryan’s expression shifted. Something shuddered. 3 years. Emma’s mom died when she was three. I’m sorry. Thank you. He took a sip of coffee, changed the subject with the practiced ease of someone who’d learned to redirect this conversation a hundred times before. What about you? Your profile said you work for a nonprofit. And so, Victoria launched into her carefully constructed fiction.

She talked about her fake job at a fake organization that supposedly helped low-income families with financial literacy. She described fake co-workers, a fake boss who micromanaged. Fake office politics that felt real because she’d pulled them from stories her actual employees had told her. She was good at this now. The lying.

It came easier than it should have. Ryan listened. Actually listened. He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t try to one up her stories with his own. Didn’t let his attention drift to his phone or the TV mounted in the corner showing some sports game with the sound off. When their food arrived, Victoria noticed how he ate.

Not rushed, but not precious either. He cut his eggs with the side of his fork, mixed them with his hash browns. He added hot sauce, the cheap kind that came in the squeeze bottle on the table, not the artisal stuff Victoria had in her penthouse kitchen. Halfway through the meal, Ryan’s phone buzzed. He glanced at it and his whole face changed.

“I’m sorry,” he said, already standing. I need to take this. He stepped outside. Through the window, Victoria watched him pace in the snow, phone pressed to his ear. His free hand ran through his hair, a gesture of stress or frustration. The conversation lasted maybe 2 minutes. When he came back inside, he was quieter.

“Everything okay?” Victoria asked. “Yeah, Emma’s babysitter.” My daughter wanted to say good night. He sat down, picked up his fork, put it down again. She does this thing where she can’t sleep unless she knows I’m coming home. It’s been 3 years and she still he stopped. Sorry. You probably don’t want to hear about my kid on a first date. I don’t mind.

Most people do. I’m not most people. Ryan looked at her. Really? Looked at her. No, he said slowly. I don’t think you are. They talked for another hour. The conversation drifted. books, movies, childhood memories. Ryan had grown up in a small town in Montana. His father had been a mechanic, taught him everything he knew.

He’d moved to Aspen for work, met Emma’s mother at a hospital fundraiser, built a life that felt solid until cancer made it all collapse. He talked about Emma with the kind of detailed affection that only parents possess. How she organized her stuffed animals by size every night before bed. How she narrated her entire thought process out loud while doing homework.

how she’d recently become convinced that if she learned to read fast enough, she could finish every book in the library before she turned seven. “She’s ambitious,” Victoria said. “She’s ridiculous,” Ryan countered, but he was smiling. Victoria found herself relaxing in ways she hadn’t expected. Usually, first dates were performances.

She’d be calculating, watching for red flags, maintaining her character. But something about Ryan made it easier. Maybe because he wasn’t performing either. He was just himself, tired, sincere, clearly still in love with a woman who’d been dead for 3 years and trying to figure out how to live anyway.

When the check came, Ryan reached for it immediately. Let’s split it, Victoria said. I was late. I should pay. You were late because you were being a good dad. I’ll get my half. They went back and forth. Finally compromised. He’d get this one, she’d get the next one. if there was a next one. Outside the snow was falling harder.

The parking lot was turning white. Where’d you park? Ryan asked. Around the corner. I’ll walk you. They walked in silence. The snow muffled everything. Made the world feel smaller, quieter. Victoria’s breath came out in clouds. She’d forgotten gloves. A mistake Tory Brennan might make, but Victoria Hail never would have. Her assistant always kept spare gloves in every coat pocket, every bag.

She shoved her hands in her pockets. “So Ryan said when they reached her car, the beatup Civic that had cost more to make look cheap than most new cars cost outright. This was nice.” “It was. Would you want to do it again? Maybe next week.” Victoria surprised herself by how much she wanted to say yes. “I’d like that.