“Then I want you to be delirious with the kind of joy that can only come from having someone you love and who loves you back in your life.”

“I have that,” Dominique stubbornly continued. “His name is Justin.”

“You know what I mean,” Anita huffed. “And you’d better hear what I’m saying.”

They talked a bit more, made plans for Dominique to join them for next Sunday’s dinner, and then Anita told her she was leaving so that she could get home before it got too late.

Dominique picked up her briefcase, headed to the building parking lot, and pondered what both her mother and Jake had said about balance, being grown and doing what grown folk do.

There’d been one man after Kevin and the theft fiasco—Charles, the “tune-up” man. Dominique had met him one evening while at a restaurant, dining alone at the bar. He was an excellent dresser. That’s the first thing Dominique had noticed about him. He was also a businessman from Miami who travelled to Los Angeles two to three times a month. He’d approached her seeking companionship when he was in town and she’d agreed. Their dinner, movie, and concert dates quickly turned into him fine-tuning her feminine flower during his brief stays. He even occasionally accompanied her to magazine events.

Charles never met Justin, and Dominique never met any of his family. According to him, he was a lifelong bachelor with no interest in marriage or kids. And even with all that they had in common—successful careers, love for fashion and the arts, and a penchant for fine dining—his declaration suited Dominique just fine. Or so she’d told herself. She had labeled the arrangement perfect: private and unobtrusive. Then one day about a year ago she’d received a phone call. It was Charles, calling off their relationship. His reasons had been vague but one day the truth smacked her in the face, courtesy of Google. On a whim, she’d put his name in the search engine and got back a wedding announcement for her troubles. The Miami Herald article in the society section came complete with wedding photo: him and a twenty-something socialite, the daughter of prominent doctors. Dominique Clark convinced herself that she didn’t care and, in classic Clark (Kent) fashion, had gone into the phone booth otherwise known as the Capricious office and made Superwoman her middle name. Always a hard, focused worker, she’d become even more so: accepted a board position of a local charity and agreed to be the consultant for a nonprofit organization’s online magazine. From morning to night her hours had been filled but her bed—from then to now—remained empty.