I think back on the work week and shudder. Meetings, teamwork sessions, talking. “The thing is,” I say, “it’s not so much the brainstorming that I object to.”
Jude tilts his head, curious. “Wait. I thought that was exactly what you objected to.”
“No. It’s all the small talk. Do you have any idea what sort of small talk people make with a widower?”
Jude, at the ripe old age of thirty-one, has never been married. He shakes his head. “I have no idea. Why don’t you tell me?” he asks earnestly.
But grief is no one’s favorite subject. It’s been four years since Violet died and my heart doesn’t ache anymore. I count that as a good thing. Yes, a part of me will probably always miss her, but I’ve healed. I’ve moved on because life goes on. Still, I don’t want to be a project. “You know how it’s been. Everyone’s been wanting to set me up since a few months after she died. My co-workers are still determined to do so. Every brainstorming session at work is basically one long prelude to So, would you like to meet Louise? She’s a librarian. Can I introduce you to Olivia? She lost her husband to a stroke too. How about Penny? She’s dating again after a divorce.”
As the bartender brings my gin, Jude smiles sympathetically.
I thank the bartender, then lift my glass. “Cheers.”
“Cheers,” he says, tipping his glass to mine. But he doesn’t take a drink. “Is that such a bad thing, though?”
I knock back a swallow as I consider his question. I’m not interested in chasing love around. I tried a few of those setups a couple years ago. I was always that widower, that man, that are-you-doing-okay-now guy. Sympathy is lovely and all, but wrap it up with dating, and I felt like a fool. Like I was trying to live someone else’s life, seeking out romance after I’d had a big one. At age forty, is that who I should be? A man about town? It doesn’t feel like me.
I don’t know how to be that guy. And I certainly don’t want to be that man at work. There, my identity isn’t tied to my love life, or lack thereof, and that’s how it ought to be. I don’t want to mingle my professional and personal lives.
Besides, I’ve grown accustomed to my widower ways. To work and more work. To the salve of keeping busy with books and photos and planning the best auctions and private sales the London art world has ever seen.
That should be enough.
Jude’s question’s a good one, though, and he deserves an answer, especially since he’s the only one I discuss all this, well, feelings stuff with.
“The thought of being dependent on someone else is a little horrifying,” I say plainly.
“I can understand that.” That’s Jude’s specialty—he’s deeply empathetic. Great skill, being an actor. “But you don’t have to be dependent. You could just date. Screw the work setups, though. You don’t need your colleagues to be your matchmaker. The internet is a fantastic one. You could finally try online dating. That’s how a lot of people meet these days. Even people your age.”
“Thanks. Thanks a lot.”
“I mean it,” he insists.
“Yes, that’s clear.” I sigh heavily. “Apps just seem . . .”
He picks up the thread. “They aren’t your style. You’re too old-fashioned?”
“Yes.” If the shoe fits.
But that’s not the only reason I haven’t downloaded Tinder or Fender or BubbleWinder or what-have-you. Do I dare to voice it, though?
Jude takes a long pull of his beer, sets it down, runs his thumb along the rim. “Do you actually want to date again?”
That’s the real question. One I’m not sure I have the answer to. But I know this much. “I enjoy companionship of the female variety.”
“Yes, I know. Curves and whatnot are your thing.”
I place my palms together in prayer. “Bless curves. Bless them all night long.” I stare at the shelf of liquor behind the bar, my vision going a little blurry, but not from sadness over the past. More from sadness over the future. Does it even hold anything more in the romance realm for me? Or have I used up my allotment of love? “Sometimes I wonder if maybe you only have one great love in your life,” I say. “Would it be so bad if that was all that happened to me?”
His blue eyes go thoughtful. “Do you truly believe that?” Then he adopts a devilish look. “I mean, I’ve been in love fifty thousand times.”
I laugh lightly. “Yes, I know.”
“But at the moment, I’m avoiding it like I avoid googling myself.” He squeezes my shoulder. “You, though? Different story. You should at least think about it again. Getting out there.”
“Should I? Dating has changed. Or so I imagine. I was twenty-two when I met Violet. That was eighteen years ago.” I’m not whining—simply stating facts. The world only turns forward. And I haven’t spun the dating wheel in nearly two decades.