I’d have myself talked out of it, determined not to think of it at all, and then something would come up to trigger it.

Okay.  Many things.  There were just so many.  That was the whole problem.

Kevin spoke five languages.  Heath barely spoke.

Kevin called me five times a day.  Heath had never called me once.

Kevin could read me like a book.  Just like Heath.

Kevin knew his way around my house like he had it memorized.  As had Heath, though Heath had spied on me.

I found myself worrying the first time Kevin came to my house and made himself at home.  He went right into the kitchen, grabbed my corkscrew, picked out just the perfect bottle of wine, and worked it open.

I told myself firmly it was all a coincidence.  The paranoia was Heath baggage, obviously.

’Tato hated Kevin with a passion.  So much so, that by the second week we were dating, I found an excuse to have Raf take my dog to his place for a few weeks.

’Tato had adored Heath.

It was all breakup baggage, I knew.  The comparing.  The obsessing.  Heath shouldn’t have made enough of an impact to leave me with baggage, but here it was.

I tried my best to ignore it and move forward with my life.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

“I’d like to spend the night tonight,” Kevin told me over dinner.

My whole body stiffened. I knew this was coming, eventually it had to, of course, but I didn’t feel ready for it.

We’d been dating for almost a month.  I probably should have felt ready.

I just didn’t.

“Kevin,” I started to say.

His hand covered mine across the table, and he gave me what I thought was supposed to be a reassuring smile.  “Not for that.  I wasn’t trying to be crass.  I’ll stay in your guest room or something.  I just happen to have a day off tomorrow, and I thought it’d be nice to share breakfast with you.  In your home.”

It struck me as an odd request, it really did, but I was too relieved at what he wasn’t asking for to give it much thought.

“Sure,” I said awkwardly and went back to eating.

We were trying a new French restaurant that night, as we did on most of our dates.  Kevin was a foodie, and his favorite just happened to be gourmet French cuisine.  He even ordered in French.

How lucky was that?

The rest of the night went down basically how he had sold it.

We made out for a bit on my sofa.  We’d worked up to making out, but that was about it.

He was a good kisser.

I didn’t feel a Heath level of attraction for him, but I knew better than to expect that.  It was not normal the way Heath got me going, and I didn’t plan to set myself up for disappointment with every future relationship by expecting such a thing.

But kissing Kevin was nice.  That was something.

And then we went to bed.  Separately.

He’s a man of his word, I thought as I drifted off to sleep.  He hadn’t even tried to take it further.

I woke up turned on and to the smell of bacon.

I recalled vaguely the feverish dreams that had my sheets twisted up around my hips.

Stretching, I smiled and wondered if Heath could actually cook.

And then it hit me.

Fuck.

That wasn’t Heath cooking for me.  It was Kevin, and I felt guilty as hell for the slip-up.

I got dressed and tried my best to forget how I’d woken up.

We had breakfast.  Kevin made a killer omelet.  There didn’t seem to be a thing he was bad at.

“I got us tickets for that romantic comedy you wanted to see.  Matinee tickets,” Kevin said as we were finishing up.

Kevin loved romantic comedies.

I had that tick again.  Opposite.

We were leaving the house, headed to the show in Kevin’s car, which was parked at my front curb, when the strangest thing happened.

Deborah of the Dickhead Dillons, my least favorite neighbor, crossed the street and approached us.  She was a small woman, thin, with a haggard face and eyes that seemed never to blink.  Today her dark hair hung lank and oily around her face, clearly in need of a wash.

“Um, hey,” I said to her, awkwardly, because I’d stopped trying to greet her ages ago.  She was one of those people that didn’t wave back.  I’d never understood how you could do that, just ignore a wave or a greeting, but it seemed to be a consistent attribute for crazy people.  I mean, how hard was it to stop pretending you didn’t see anyone around you and just wave?  Why wouldn’t you want to be friendly in the most casual of waves with the people that lived next door to you?

Because crazy.

She didn’t hey me back, just launched into one of the strangest speeches I’d ever heard in my life.

It was so disconnected and hard to make sense of that I didn’t catch what she was talking about for a solid two minutes.

And when I did, I raised a hand and stopped her.  “Are you telling me that my ex is suing me?”

Eyes wide, she nodded.

“For what?”

“For money.”  She said this part like it was obvious, which I suppose it was.

“But how does he think he’s going to sue me for money?” I tried.

“Remember when you beat him up, back when you first separated?”

I sighed and nodded.

“For that.  Damages for that.”

Kevin had been silent for the duration of our strange exchange, but I felt his hand on my waist tense when she said that.