at me.
“Because you were friends.”
The answer should have made things clearer.
Instead, everything became more confusing.
For six months, I’d believed I knew exactly how Claire and I had entered each other’s lives.
I was 25 and almost ready to give up on dating apps entirely.
Claire was 45. She had seemed different from the first message she sent me. Direct. Funny. Completely sure of what she wanted.
The 20-year age difference made me hesitate, but not for very long.
Our first coffee lasted nearly four hours.
She remembered that I hated cinnamon in coffee.
I remembered that she bought terrible refrigerator magnets whenever she traveled.
By our third date, she knew my boss’s name, my favorite pizza place, and how I’d gotten the scar on my wrist.
With Claire, I’d never felt like I had to wonder what she meant.
Apparently, what I’d been wrong about was
