“What do you really know about him, Jackie?” she asks quietly, one hand outstretched. “Have you been to his home? Do you know his work history? Is he financially solvent? Can he keep a job? Has he been to school? Had any trouble with the law?”

I say nothing because I don’t really know any of those things, just what I’ve seen. What I’ve felt.

Anne holds my gaze. “He could be violent.”

“No.”

“Married.”

I don’t say anything because I suppose he could be violent. And he could be married. Or he could have a girlfriend and I just don’t know. I wouldn’t know. Because she’s right. I’ve never been to his place. I know he went to college, but I don’t know if he graduated. I don’t know exactly how long he’s worked as a surf instructor or if he’s bounced from job to job. I don’t know. And yes, there are things I’d like to know, things I maybe should know before I go falling in love with him—and maybe this isn’t even love but infatuation. But it’s so intense and so sexy that I’m not ready to give it up or move on. Move on? Move on to what?

“Madison Park is hard,” I say quietly. “I’m lonely here. I feel trapped sometimes in my house, in the affluence and conservatism. I don’t feel as if I belong anymore, not the way I once did.”

“You just have to keep meeting people, making new friends—”

“Divorced friends,” I interrupt bitterly.

“You are divorced.”

“But that doesn’t mean I want to make new friends.”

“They’d at least be free to go out with you when Daniel has the kids. They’d know what it’s like to be single again, understand what you’re going through.”

Whereas Anne doesn’t. Even if she wanted to. And sometimes I get the feeling she doesn’t want to. She doesn’t want the stress my divorce has introduced, or the change. After all, it wasn’t just my world that changed. It was all my friends’ lives, too.

It’s quiet now, and neither of us talks. I can hardly look at Anne, my temper is so hot. Inside I seethe, but I am afraid to say a word, afraid to let this get bigger, more confrontational, than it already is.

After a minute has passed, Anne speaks again. “I just worry about you.”

“Well, don’t. I’m an adult. A woman. I know what I’m doing.”

Anne’s silence tells me she doesn’t agree. “I just think,” she says slowly, quietly, “that you deserve better.”

Chapter Twelve

Twelve