On that August night 15 years ago, I raised my glass to Gino, the handsome lawyer I’d been dating since moving from New York to Boston to research my novel. “Here’s to our six-month anniversary,” I said with what I hoped was an alluring smile. He looked nervous, a little sweaty, unlike his usual composed self.
Wait, was he going to propose? As a long-divorced woman this side of 40, I wasn’t desperate to remarry, but if I were going to make that leap again, it would be with Gino. He was kind and smart and made me laugh.
But instead of lifting his glass, Gino set it down. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think this is going to work.”
“What isn’t going to work?”
“This,” he said, gesturing. “You…
