“So, you are trying to date her?” Tyler asked, point-blank.

“Okay,” Mary whispered to herself, “maybe I’ll only shave one eyebrow.”

“Ah...” John started. “Mary and I—I think we’re in really different stages of life.”

Stages.

Of.

Life.

Mary had never before been aware of the oxygen in her bloodstream until it all evaporated at once. She shrank an entire coat size, feeling dizzy. If it was possible for words to bludgeon a person over the head, these ones just had.

Stages of life? Stages of life? Good God, he made her sound like she was two chess moves away from a nursing home! They were both in their thirties, for shit’s sake, and he was acting like he was still a spring breaker, while she spent her weeknights knitting with the gals.

Stages of life?!

Mary turned on her heel and strode back to her bedroom, quietly closing the door behind her.

A memory came back to her. John’s eyes sweeping up and down their pretty young waitress at the restaurant. His eyes sweeping up and down Via and Fin when he’d met them the night he’d brought tacos.

Had he ever looked at her that way? Mary didn’t think so. Men weren’t slick about these things. One could always catch them in the act. But she’d never once caught John checking her out. Always his eyes were looking squarely into hers or down at his own shoes. Never did they dip to her chest or ass or lips. Not that she really wanted him to ogle her. But still, it made something extremely clear. He wasn’t attracted to her.

Maybe he didn’t actually think she was too old, but Mary was certain that he was more attracted to younger women. Twenty-two-year-old waitresses with high ponytails. And why wouldn’t he be? He was young and hot. She was sure that he wanted to be young and hot with other young, hot people.

Mary knew she was beautiful. But she’d never felt more out of touch. More single.

This is what you want? Buried between two strangers?

Mary winced and pressed the heels of her hands to her temples.

“No,” she said aloud. “You don’t get to make me doubt myself.”

She wasn’t sure if she was talking to her mother or to John.

She gave herself one long moment to picture the hug that Cora would have given her at that moment, so tight it hurt, her chin digging into Mary’s shoulder, her voice in Mary’s ear.

Mary Freaking Trace. That was what Cora had always called her in moments like this. MFT for short. She wouldn’t let herself be cut down by the perceptions of others. She was MFT.