This gave Thomas pause. He set the newspaper on the table and narrowed his eyes—whether at me or at the thought of a man looking like a honeydew, I didn’t know.

“The melon or Dr. Bunsen Honeydew from the Muppets?”

“Does it matter?”

“Hmm…interesting.” He nodded, mostly to himself, then said, “The other one you sent to me, Mr. Moore….”

“Ah, Patrick. Yes, I remember him. He was two months ago; he had a nice forehead.”

“Yes, Mr. Moore with the mother who tied him to the bed to keep him from getting up in the middle of the night when he was a child.”

“She used Velcro.”

“Yes, yes. Well….” He cleared his throat, obviously uncomfortable with discussing details about his patients, even though Patrick had told me everything during our first—and only—date two months ago. “When you’re three years old, Velcro might as well be ropes or ties. Anyway, he made a breakthrough. He wanted me to let you know.”

“That’s great.”

“He said you won’t return his calls.”

My smile faltered and I tried not to sound brittle. “I have enough male friends. I’ve decided to give them up for Lent.”

“Lent isn’t for another two weeks.” He countered immediately—never one to let any sort of discrepancy or inaccuracy go unchallenged—but he looked thoughtful, contemplative. “Sandra, does this mean you’re taking a break from dating?”

“Don’t worry, Thomas, I’m sure I’ll continue to send you all my adult referrals.”

“I’m not worried about that. Did something happen?” He leaned forward an inch, his brow pulled low in meditative concern.

Yes, something happened. I was kissed by a man. He is younger than me, and it was good. And I want more man kisses, not more crying boy-buddies.

The waitress brought our waters, and I stalled by rearranging my water goblet so that it was perfectly centered on the small square paper napkin.

When she left and my glass-centrist tendencies were assuaged, I said, “Not really.”

“So, something did happen.”

“It wasn’t a big deal.”

“Was it the honeydew? Do you have feelings for him? Are you going to see him again?”

“Why the million questions, Thomas?”

He pulled his reading glasses from his nose and began cleaning the lenses with a small, square cloth from his pocket. “This was all very amusing about two years ago, Sandra. But now, it has become concerning.”

“I’m sorry, please clarify. By this do you mean my love life?”

“Yes. Of course.” He nodded once, then steamed his breath on his glasses and rubbed them again. “The question you should be asking yourself is why you only select men to date who are in desperate need of psychotherapy?”

“I don’t know. Why does every gainfully employed, responsible, single man in Illinois have crippling emotional baggage and mommy issues? And you haven’t mentioned anything about my shirt. Do you like it?”

“Then maybe that’s the problem.”

“My shirt?”

He ignored my question. “You’re dating a type. Instead, maybe you should just date someone because you’re attracted to him.”

A vision of Alex flashed into my head, throwing me completely off balance. I stuttered a few incoherent syllables of nonsense then sighed, nonplussed.

“What? What is it?” Thomas narrowed his eyes at me and paused the lens rubbing.

“It’s just….” I glanced over his head. “Something did happen last night, and you seem to have an uncanny gift for offering advice with creepy timing.”

The waitress placed our meals in front of us. When she was out of earshot, Thomas dipped his head and prompted, “Go on.”

I squirmed. But, before I was forced to answer, my cell phone rang. Eager to escape Thomas’s interrogation, I pulled it from my bag and answered without glancing at the screen.

“Sandra speaking.” I didn’t have to look at Thomas to know he was frowning. He hated people who answered cell phones in public for non-emergencies.

“Did you get my texts? What are we going to do about Marie’s good news?” My friend Ashley’s adorable Tennessee twang greeted me and, as per her typical efficient use of cell phone interaction, she spent no time on gratuitous niceties, like hello.

“I didn’t get your texts; hold on, I’ll check them now.” I pulled the phone away from my ear and, sure enough, I found seven texts from Ashley. The first several were just emoticons of people dancing and winking. The last two were pointed questions about my plans for our mutual friend and knitting group co-conspirator, Marie.

I brought the phone back to my ear just in time to hear her say, “What do you suggest?”

“Dinner? Dancing? Strippers?”

Thomas tsked and rolled his eyes. I winked at him.

Our friend Marie had just sold one of her articles to a big-name magazine and, as was our knitting group’s habit, we would of course take her out to celebrate.

“Let’s go with all of the above, please.” Ashley sounded so prim, but I knew her better. Behind her demure blue eyes and mousy but stylishly cut brown hair was the heart of a pervert—a prim pervert, but a pervert nevertheless.

“Should I make reservations somewhere?” I shifted the phone to my right hand so I could spear a seasoned potato wedge with my fork.

“How about that Indian restaurant near you? You know, the one where you take all your horrible first dates?” Ashley’s voice was a little muffled, and I could hear hospital sounds in the background. We worked together at Chicago General where she is a nurse practitioner, or ARNP, in pediatrics, and I am a psychiatrist with a focus in pediatrics.

“Um….” I glanced at Thomas, who was separating his eggs from his sliced tomatoes. He didn’t like his food to touch. “Why don’t we go out for pizza?”

“We always go out for pizza. Besides, you’ve been raving about the butter chicken forever, and next Tuesday is your night to host. We’ll go to dinner. then walk to your place after.”

I didn’t respond right away. For a split second, I worried what Alex might think if I showed up midweek with my knitting posse, just days after our kiss encounter.

But then I realized it didn’t matter what he thought, because nothing was ever likely to happen between us again—and I promptly got over it.

“Sure, that makes sense. And the shrimp korma is also good.”

“Noted. I have to go before Dr. Botstein flies through here on his broom.” Ashley, as was her habit, promptly hung up before we could engage in any gratuitous niceties, like goodbye.

I glanced at the phone and saw that I had three missed calls. Each was from one of my various male friends/former first dates. I set the phone on the table face down and stuffed two more potato wedges in my mouth before reaching for the ketchup and dumping a half-cup on my plate.

“That was one of your knitting friends, I presume.” Thomas’ usual disinterestedness sounded a bit forced, and this snagged my attention.

“Yes. That was Ashley.”

“And how is the knitting group?”

“Fine, thank you.”

Thomas studiously pushed his tomatoes around on his plate. He didn’t look at me, and he didn’t press the issue, but I noted the tips of his ears had shaded a light pink.

Curious, that.

I often spoke to Thomas about my knitting group, so he had a fairly good idea of the personalities of each of the women. This was the first time I had ever noticed him showing an active interest in my knitting. Usually, he listened patiently as I prattled on about our misadventures.

Regardless, he didn’t press me for more information, and we settled into a companionable silence that marked the end of our discussion.

Thomas didn’t like to talk while eating.

CHAPTER 4

Tuesday’s Horoscope: Accept the good that comes your way, but don’t be quick to assume you know the truth behind it.

“Shitzterhozen.”

I was running late.

Even though it was below freezing outside, I was sweating. Jogging in a polar fleece and feather down jacket is the fastest way to pit stains.

“Shitzterhozen!”

A meeting with a—male—work colleague had gone over time. He and I never dated, but he did consider me one of his best friends. I liked him and wanted to help him. Therefore, I was listening and providing gentle encouragement toward self-empowerment as he confided what was troubling him about his girlfriend. He just needed someone to listen, and I was happy to assist.

Usually I was on time or early for our Tuesday night knitting group, so I was sure my tardiness would be forgiven, but I was the one with Marie’s gift and, as such, my lateness would be noticed.

I halted ten feet or so from the entrance to the restaurant and ducked two steps into the alley next to it. While I labored to catch my breath, I tried to stuff Marie’s gift into my jacket without tearing the paper. I hoped that I could sneak it in without her noticing, and wished that I’d developed a hand signal with Ashley that meant Quick! Cause a zany and effective distraction!

All my stuffing efforts were futile. The paper ripped, just a half inch, but it was enough to send me into a frustration-fueled mini-rage.