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whenever my nostalgia for him took my breath away.
    It happened more often than I cared to admit.
    Our story, if it could be called that, lasted a year. In that time, he’d never taken me out to dinner or for drinks. We’d simply never gone out in public. I was his little secret. I was conscious of the fact that he saw me as just a girl like any other who warmed his bed in a city that wasn’t his own.
    He’d never tried to make me believe I was something I wasn’t, and one way or another, I’d managed to accept it. And yet, it wasn’t enough to prevent my disappointment at not being his woman. The woman he would introduce in public without any shame. The fiancée he would one day introduce to his family with pride.
    It wasn’t me.
    I would have never been the one.
    I’d even seen him with another woman, but I knew better than to let him know.
     
    I’d just finished my night shift, and before going home, I’d decided to pick up a DVD. Andrew hadn’t called, and I thought he had some business dinner. They happened often; events like that were why he was currently in San Francisco.
    I was happy to see him whenever I could. It’d been two months and I knew I’d already bypassed “not growing attached.” I cared about him a lot and was pleased with whatever he was willing to give me. The important thing was being together.
    To feel his hands on my skin. His lips on mine and enjoy his body moving on top of mine.
    I laughed. I’d become one of those pathetic women who contented themselves with crumbs. The same women I’d judged for years.
    And yet . . .
    Andrew had rocked my world and especially my soul. I’d given myself to him without hesitation, knowing perfectly well that sooner or later I would get hurt. Deeply hurt.
    When I left the video store, I decided to take the long way home, thinking a walk would do me good. The March evening, while chilly, was pleasurable.
    It was during that walk that I saw them.
    Andrew was with a beautiful blonde girl. She was tall, sophisticated, and walked on vertigo-inducing heels as though it was the most natural thing in the world. The opposite of me. They looked so in sync, as though they’d known each other for years. I asked myself if she was the fiancée whose existence he’d denied.
    The girl stopped and turned her head toward him. They said something to each other. She shook her head, and Andrew tenderly placed a hand on her cheek. I saw nothing else. That had been enough, and I turned my back, walking home with my heart racing. Despite knowing we weren’t exclusive, what I’d just witnessed had not been OK.
    But if the me before Andrew would have ended it, the me after him hoped to hear from him as soon as possible.
     
    I shook my head and turned out the light in my bedroom. How foolish I’d been to fall for a man who would never be able to give me what I truly deserved. I went to back to the living room.
    “Hey, Zoe, I left you some pasta in the microwave. Should I warm it up for you?” Alys asked from the kitchen.
    “Yeah, I’m starving. You’re a sweetheart.”
    “I know. If only Scott would see that too!” she grumbled.
    Exhausted, I let myself fall into a chair. “He still hasn’t called?” I asked.
    “No. I really don’t understand. We had such a nice time at dinner. He walked me home and said, ‘Talk to you soon!’” she recounted with frustration.
    “Well, four days have gone by. Maybe he’ll call you on Friday,” I said as she placed a giant plate of macaroni and cheese in front of me, which I inhaled.
    “If he really liked me, he wouldn’t have waited this long. Damn it, I must repulse him!” she said hopelessly, putting her face in her hands.
    “He was the one who asked you out. Don’t worry, he’ll call.”
    “You think?” she asked, her eyes replenished with hope.
    “Oh, sweetie, I’m certain of it,” I declared as I stacked macaroni on my fork.
    “Let’s hope you’re right.” She watched me, a smile now on her face.