Maybe we are. Maybe we’re better off by ourselves, with our dogs and our friends, than with a guy who maintains a little black book as he flies, or with a playboy who reappears in our lives.
As I ponder dating and mating and truths and lies, a beautiful russet-coated Irish Setter mix rushes into the park, bounding through the beasts. Her name is Ruby, and all the canine heads turn and immediately follow her.
Right behind Ruby is her owner, who is perfectly paired with her pet. Nicole has a mane of silky red hair that matches her dog’s gorgeous coat. She’s tall, beautiful, and brimming with confidence. When she spots us, she waves and calls out a hello. She heads over and gives me a big hug, then says hi to Delaney, too. The mastiff follows her and wags his tail as he rubs his haunches against her thigh.
“He has a crush on you,” Delaney says, gesturing to the big dog.
Nicole laughs and scratches the dog’s chin. “He’s just a lover. He loves all the ladies, doesn’t he?”
“Sounds like someone else I know,” I mutter.
Nicole arches an eyebrow. “Gavin? Is he trying to win you back again? Didn’t he send you an email asking for another chance?”
I shake my head. “That was a month ago. I suspect he had a layover in New York and wanted a lay more than a do-over. I ignored him.”
Nicole’s mouth forms an O. “Ooh, he’ll need some aloe vera for that burn.”
Delaney jumps in. “But it’s not him this time. She’s beyond Gavin. Penny saw someone she used to have a thing for many years ago.”
Nicole parks her hands on her hips and gives me a sharp stare. “Now, what did I tell you about that, young lady?”
Nicole often dispenses relationship advice. The first adage she ever shared was about her long-lost engagement ring.
I scratch my head and try to remember which love lesson might apply to my situation. “Is this like your what-it-means-when-you-lose-a-ring scenario?”
She raises a hand and shakes her index finger. “No. But that advice is not only golden—it’s platinum. Like the ring that went bye-bye.”
Delaney pantomimes a rim shot.
The redhead takes a quick bow. “Thank you, ladies. Be sure to tip the waiters on the way out.” Then she squares her shoulders. “But seriously, Penny. It’s this: life is too short to waste on exes. They’re usually exes for a reason.”
Later that evening, as Shortcake curls up on my lap on the couch while I assemble a new playlist of indie tunes on my phone, I return to Nicole’s advice, wondering the true reason why Gabriel is an ex.
I’ve never known the reason. Maybe I don’t want to know.
But if I’m being honest with myself, and I like to think I am, I suppose I do want to know.
That’s why I reach into my purse, unfold the sheet of paper with his number, and enter the digits into my phone. I take a breath and do something I haven’t done in a decade.
I send him a message.
Chapter Four
Gabriel
The knife gleams in Tina’s hand.
“Like this?” My neighbor curls her fingers above the red onion in her left hand, holding the sharp blade in her right.
“Perfect,” I say with a wide smile, as the soaring chorus of a rock song crashes through the state-of-the-art sound system in her apartment.
Tina lowers the shiny metal and cuts a fine, thin slice. I hold my arms out wide as the singer croons about love lost. “See? You will be my sous in no time.”
Tina arches a silver brow. “Just like you will become my student.”
I laugh and drop a kiss to her wrinkled forehead. My new neighbor is a world-renowned cellist. After three decades traveling the world and playing classical music so beautifully that audiences wept, Tina retired recently, finishing her career with the New York Philharmonic. Because of her nomadic life, she never learned to cook for herself. That wasn’t an issue when she was married. But she’s now a widow, since her husband died last year. When I moved to Manhattan and into the building earlier this summer, Tina and I hit it off, and soon she was passing along tips about which washing machine in the basement was always on the fritz and which delivery service was the most reliable, while I wound up helping around her home. I’ve fixed her sink disposal, changed some lightbulbs, and hung a picture frame.
When she confessed she’d never once made a meal on the stove, I set about rectifying that with cooking lessons. One of the first things I taught her was how to hold a knife properly, and she’s got it down pat now. As she finishes chopping the vegetables for her stir-fry, I glance at the wall clock.
“I need to go soon, Tina. But this weekend, don’t forget, I will take you to the farmer’s market in Union Square and we’ll pick out the best vegetables for a pasta primavera.”
“Is that an official date, then, with the sexiest chef in Manhattan?” She winks, and I shake my head, bemused. She will never let me live down my stint on that reality show. It entertains her to no end. “And then I’ll teach you how to play Bach’s Cello Suite Number One.”
I laugh. “Somehow, I think you’ll learn to cook much faster than I’ll ever learn to hit one correct note on a cello. You are the true master. But maybe you can tell me who we’re listening to,” I say, pointing in the direction of her speakers. “I like this music.”
“Ah,” she says with a nod. She sets down the knife on the cutting board. “You’re learning fast that I’m good for more than Brahms and Tchaikovsky. This is Pizza for Breakfast.”