Ah, he’s sorry. Because that makes everything okay. Want to prove you care? Show. Up.

I’m so mad, I’m tempted to delete his last messages without even reading them. But I’m not that firm, so I read on.

Vivian? I tried to call you but your phone is off

I hope you’re not at the restaurant already

I’m doing my best to get to you, but traffic is horrible tonight

Please forgive me, I don’t know how to apologize

Don’t bother, I reply in my head.

This is what I deserve for opening up to a man again. Our first real date, and he stands me up with some half-assed excuse that makes no sense.

Lucas never struck me as the lying type, but then again, neither had Tegan’s father. Maybe there’s something wrong with me. I must be genetically programmed to only be attracted to bastards.

And, okay, Lucas blowing me off for a date is not the same as my daughter’s father telling her to her face that he wants nothing to do with her. But Lucas knows how hard it is for me to trust, to be vulnerable, to put my happiness into somebody else’s hands. And on the first occasion he has to prove he cares about me, he’s a no show.

Disappointed in a way that aches inside, I unplug the phone and go back to my table. The wine has arrived; I take a long sip, and then ask for the bill, doing my best to ignore the pitying look the server spares me.

I pay in cash to be quicker, grab my coat, and march straight out of the restaurant, hoping I won’t have to wait too long for a free cab.

I’m pacing up and down the curb, searching the street for a free taxi, when a car screeches to a halt on the other side of the road—Lucas’ SUV.

He gets out in a rush, all flustered—the opposite of how I feel. A cold calm has settled over me. I trusted him, and I was wrong. End of story.

The walls I’d struggled to let down are back up, strengthened with new fortifications I won’t let any man through ever again.

“Vivian.” He stops in front of me, panting. “I’m so sorry.”

He’s wearing a fleece sweatshirt and sweatpants. Riiight, he had a work emergency. Like he would be caught dead in front of his clients wearing anything less than a three-piece suit.

“No problem,” I say, falsely cheerful. “You had a work emergency, right?”

Lucas seems relieved. “Yes, totally out of the blue, and I’m so sorry I couldn’t let you know before. You must hate me right now—”

“What kind of emergency?”

His eyes get wary. “I can’t discuss clients.”