By the end of the first week of January, I've met with two fertility doctors at two different clinics. For whatever reason, neither of them clicked for me in a way that felt like fate or destiny stepping in. I don't know why I'm convinced it needs to feel that huge, but that's my mindset. From the minute I step into the clinic, it needs to feel right, or I'm not doing it.

I've just finished showing a house when my phone buzzes with a text.

I've got a dentist friend in Utica. Divorced. No kids—yet. Nice guy. Just starting to date again. Any interest? I can set you up.

I stare at Kelvin's message, feeling conflicted, which is all I seem to feel lately. As though I'm doing life in the dark, no path clearly lit.

The men from the app weren't working out, but maybe dating wasn't the wrong course of action. Maybe how I was meeting the men was the problem. Kelvin's typically a good judge of character, and he knows me well.

This weekend? I text back to Kelvin. My mom takes Amir most Saturday nights, so I could make that work.

I'll set it up. Kelvin texts back. I'll send you the meeting details.

###

We meet at a cocktail bar in downtown Utica. It's not The Flirty Englishman, and I'm determined that I'm not going to call Trent to rescue me, regardless of how the date goes. Maybe part of my problem was that Trent's been my safety net since I started dating. Maybe I never gave any of the other men a chance.

Michael is tall with dark hair and light blue eyes. He's conventionally handsome, and he's managed to straddle the line between casual and dressed up with his jeans and button up shirt. Once we get the small talk out of the way, he carries a conversation that doesn't feel forced. Maybe I was dating the wrong way all along.

"We could end it here," Michael says when we finish our second cocktail. "Or there's a dance club next door, if you want to extend the evening."

I can't remember the last time I went dancing, but I've also never had a guy suggest it. "Do you like dancing?"

"Um, actually," he says letting out a self-conscious laugh, "last year Kelvin talked me into participating in the benefit for Little Falls."

"You were in that?" I ask, surprised. I'd been part of the organizing committee, but after my dad died unexpectedly, I'd stepped away near the end.

"Just part of the group number," he says, "but it sparked something in me. I've taken a few lessons since. Turns out, I like dancing."

"Let's do it," I say, hopping off the stool from the high table we've been sitting at near the window.

He takes my hand and leads me out of the cocktail bar and down the street to the dance club. As soon as we enter, I second guess my decision. The music is thumping, and it's going to be impossible to talk.

Once he leads me onto the dance floor, I realize we can use non-verbal communication instead. We move to the music together, and it's pleasant, if not electrifying. It's the first time in a long time that I've felt like a date might have even a hint of potential.

When there's a brief lull in the music, I shout to Michael that I'm going to the bathroom, and he says he'll get us drinks. He points to a spot near the bar for us to meet, and I agree before weaving my way through the crowd toward the bathroom.

I'm almost to the bathroom hallway when someone grabs my elbow, and I turn, ready to give whoever it is a piece of my mind when I'm met with a familiar face.

"Trent?" I say. "What are you doing here?"

"What are you doing here?" he asks, looking past me and then focusing on me again.

I haven't seen him drunk since Lila decided to leave town. Before things fell apart between the two of them, we all used to drink together. After their misunderstanding, he's never gotten drunk with me, and I've only just put that together now, as we stand face to face on the edge of the dance floor.

"What are you doing here?" he repeats.

"I'm on a date," I say.

"Here?" Again, his drunken gaze checks the bar. "With who?"

"A guy Kelvin set me up with," I say. "Who are you here with?" Part of me internally cringes at what he'll say, but he gestures to a few guys chatting up a group of women.

"Guys from work," he says. "I didn't know you were back dating."

"Kelvin offered, and... I took your advice, I guess."

His gaze sweeps over me, and he licks his lips. "You look fucking lethal tonight. I hope he knows how lucky he is."

"I should go," I say. "I'm supposed to meet him at the bar, and I still need to go to the bathroom."

Trent releases my arm, but I can feel him watching me as I weave the last little distance through to the bathroom.

When I come out, Trent is waiting. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"

"Right now?" I ask, uncertain. I've also had a few drinks, and red flags are being thrown left and right, and I'm afraid I'm going to run them all over.

"Yeah," he says. "There's a room most people don't know about."

He doesn't wait for me to agree, but takes my hand, leading me around a corner to an area with a few high chairs and one couch. As soon as we've rounded the corner, he presses me up against the wall, caging me in.

My heart is thrumming, but I'm not worried or anxious, I'm excited. This is such a bad idea, and I'm just buzzed enough not to care.

"What did you want to talk about?" I whisper.

"How fuckable you look in this dress, for one," he says, staring down at me. "And then how your little proposal the other day has been a complete mindfuck."

"What do you mean?" I ask, arching toward him a little.

He puts his lips right next to my ear, and I shiver. The dark, rich vanilla tones of his cologne make me feel drunker than I am.

"The idea that you want my baby inside you might just be the hottest fucking thing any woman has ever said to me," he murmurs. "And I can't stop thinking about it."

His calloused palm is on my leg, just where the short hem of my dress sits, and I'm almost desperate for him to drag it up and under, to feel how turned on I am too.

When he goes to pull away, I put my hand on the back of his neck, and I rise on my toes to kiss him. There's the briefest hesitation and an audible indrawn breath of surprise, and then he's kissing me back. His lips slide over mine, warm and soft. His tongue dips into my mouth, and I angle my head to take him deeper. A moan of wanting escapes me.

He squeezes my ass and brings me tight against him. His hand slides into my hair, but it's not like when he plays with it on the couch, this is demanding, insistent, as though he's been waiting for permission to get a little rough, and I've finally given it.

This is such a bad idea, and I could not care less about the consequences as he draws back, groans, and then kisses me again. His fingers sneak up the hem of my tight dress, and I want to beg him to keep going.

A playful giggle erupts beside us, and we break apart as two girls, who were clearly looking for somewhere to talk wander off laughing.

"Fuck," Trent says, his forehead resting against mine. "We shouldn't have done that." He steps back. "This is why I don't drink around you. I didn't mean to..." The look he gives me is tortured. "I don't want this to change things between us."

"It won't," I say quickly.

"What happened with Lila, I can't have that happen between us."

And I don't know if he means that we can't get drunk and make out or we can't have our friendship fall apart. Maybe he means both, but I'm too buzzed off the alcohol, off the kisses, to think clearly.

"It won't change anything between us," I say, but it feels like a lie.

"I gotta get out of here," he says, but he grabs the back of my neck and plants a kiss on my forehead. "I'm sorry, okay. I'm so fucking sorry."

Then he's gone, and I'm left standing in the room, feeling branded, as though he's written his name everywhere he touched, impossible for anyone else to find a corner that's not been marked by him. 

Well, well, well. What do you think?

Stats:

Unique readers: 74

Engaged readers: 134

Total reads: 4694