Alec was waiting for me at the bar. Thin gray sweater, snug. Black denim jeans, spotless leather shoes. I hugged him like an old friend, and when I did, I had a moment of wanting to never let go. I forced myself to push the moment away rather than let it escape from me, just to give myself a little control over something.

On Halloween night, I told Alec I could use a friend to talk to, but the truth is I almost canceled tonight. I had the dream again last night, and with everything else in my head, I’m being turned inside out. I’m not sleeping well, have lost a good bit of my appetite, and am trying to quell my anxiety by running miles on end, the combination of which is threatening to crumble my sanity and my bones into dust.

At the last minute, I opted to keep the date. The hell with it, I thought. I look like shit and am barely keeping things together. I need someone to see the real me.

So here I am with this man who is little more than a stranger, and I have this incessant, looping thought that he’s the only person in the world who can save me from myself. I don’t even know what that means, but the irrationality of the thought does nothing to keep it from fading.

We’ve spent the last thirty minutes with pleasant small talk, of which I’ve been letting him do the most. During a brief lull in the conversation, he clears his throat and asks, “How are you, Rose?”

Such a simple question. In fact, one he even asked when we first saw each other tonight, and I replied with my usual fine. But how he just asked it was different from before. This time, his words were laced with concern.

I exhale, as if accepting I’ve been caught in a lie.

“Life is hard,” I say.

“Yeah. Yeah, it is. Anything in particular?”

I want to tell him nothing. I want to tell him everything. I start somewhere in between.

“I’m sure you’ve heard about the Milwaukee cop coming to visit me.”

He nods, his gaze steady and assuring. “I might’ve heard something about that. Small town and all.”

Yeah, I think. And Tasha Collins makes sure word travels fast.

“Something about your husband’s death?” he adds.

“Yeah.”

“We don’t have to talk about it.”

I look around the bar, which is three-quarters full on a Friday night. It’s loud enough in here no one can overhear us, and I don’t recognize any of the other faces. Still, we’re exposed.

Turning back to him I say, “I… They have questions about his death.”

“What kind of questions?”

Exhale. Close my eyes. Get the words out while trying to keep my heart from racing. “They aren’t convinced it was accidental.”

I don’t open my eyes. It’s safer in here.

“But you already know this, don’t you?” I add.

I hear him say mmm-hmm.