I run home just long enough to change out of my suit and into some old jeans, work boots and a t-shirt before driving to Martha's house. She bought the tiny old cottage when she left her husband last year. His affair with a young nurse was forgivable, but taking out a second mortgage on their home and borrowing against their retirement accounts to finance his young mistresses' vacations and lavish gifts was not. You can mess with Martha's heart, but not her money, apparently.

She left him saddled with their big old house and two mortgages and bought the sweet two bedroom fixer-upper on Hummingbird Lane last year. I've spent part of almost every weekend at her place since, painting or repairing one thing or another.

We're kindred spirits, she and I. We are thirty-five years apart in age, but somehow both at the same life stage - trying to move forward after betrayal and heartache, although admittedly she's doing much better than me. The unusual friendship works for us. She needs help and I need to be needed. So I help her repair her decaying old house, and she helps me repair my decaying old heart.

I pull my car in the drive and step out just as a woman across the street is buckling a child into a car seat. That house has been vacant since Martha moved in a year ago, but I recognize the old navy blue sedan as the one that's been parked in the drive the past few weeks. I guess someone moved in.

The woman notices me and stands to wave, flashing me a big smile. The first thing I notice is her almond-shaped, grayish-blue eyes, standing in stark contrast to her almost-black hair. God, I have got to stop seeing Blaise everywhere I look. It's not Blaise, of course. This woman is older, thinner, with shorter hair.

Martha meets me at the door. I lean in and peck her cheek.

"I've got some fresh coffee and scones on the table," she says as she shuffles down the hall. She has a slight limp and I wonder if her arthritis is bad today, but I know better than to ask her about it.

"Thanks, you're the best." I inhale the aroma of the coffee. "You got a neighbor," I observe, just making conversation.

"Yeah, she moved in a few months ago. Keeps to herself mostly. She has a sweet little girl. A toddler, probably just a couple of years old."

A toddler. A couple of years old.

My stomach sinks and my chest constricts. Mrs. Jones must sense my sudden shift, because she reaches over and puts a soft, wrinkled hand on my wrist.

"I'm so sorry, dear, I didn't mean..." she says, sorrow in her eyes. She's the only one besides Carrie and I who knows the story, most of it anyway. There are some things I don't think I'll ever be able to share. Some things are best locked up and buried deep.

"It's fine," I interrupt her, "It's been years. I'm fine." I smile warmly at her, trying to convince us both.

"Okay," she responds, softly. I can tell she feels contrite and expect her to give me some space while I roll through her to-do list, but she lingers.

"Odd, though. I haven't seen a man."

"What?" I ask, confused.

"The neighbor. There's a woman and a child, but I never see a man. I think she's single." Martha clarifies, watching me closely for a reaction she won't get. I don't know how many times I have to tell her I'm not interested in women right now.

Except. I think of Blaise. For months I've obsessed over her, unable to get her out of my head. Then weeks passed and I started to forget the details of her face, the sound of her voice, her unique mint and lavender scent. I started questioning if she had ever even existed to begin with.

But I know she exists. I saw her again, touched her, even. She's real. And she's really off limits. At least now I have some closure. I can wish Blaise the best and let her go.

She was a good distraction for me. A reminder that Carrie is not the only woman in the world. I can't have Blaise, but maybe this is a sign I'm closer to moving on. But not yet. I won't try to bring anyone in on the mess that is my life right now.

"Calm down over there Miss Matchmaker," I tease. "I'm not interested. Now where is that to-do list?"

She laughs and hands me a yellowed piece of paper. "You're never interested." She rolls her eyes and turns away from the window. "Except..."

Her voice trails off. I shouldn't ask, but the curiosity gets the best of me.

"Except what?"

"A certain blue-eyed brunette came into Roasters this morning." I drop the list on the floor and scramble to pick it up.

"I don't know know who you're talking about." I can feel the blush working its way up my neck and know I'm doing a terrible job covering right now. Martha laughs.

"Sure you do. Your girl on the bench. Who is she to you?" I look up, startled. I expect her to look away and at least pretend to be bashful when our eyes meet, but she doesn't. She just stares straight at me expectantly. She really has no shame.

"Well?" she asks, tapping her foot.

"You are a nosy woman, you know that? She's nobody. A stranger. I don't even know who you're talking about." I turn my back and huff.

Martha laughs behind me again.  "You're a shit liar, you know that?"

I move around her and grab the tool box from the closet.

"You are blushing!" Martha bursts into laughter when she sees my face. "Oh my Lord, boy. You have a crush on her."

"I don't even know her."

"But you like her. You like her like her." She pokes me in the ribs.

"You are such a child," I grumble.

"I'm old enough to be your mother. And oh my word, boy, you are blushing!" She's almost doubled over in laughter. She's having way too much fun at my expense.

"Dammit, woman, would you stop? God, you're worse than my mama and sister combined." I take a step away from her and put my arms up in a defensive gesture, but laugh along with her. She is a loon.

"Now leave me alone so I can work on this drain." I gesture toward the kitchen sink. "Mind if I shut your water off for a minute? I think I need to snake your pipe."

She grins as she leaves me in the kitchen, but I hear her from the other room. "I'm pretty sure your snake is interested in someone else's pipe, dear."