HERE’S A MESSAGE on my answering machine when I finally return to my apartment the next afternoon. I’ve been hiding at Christy’s, and yes, I told her the whole story. She and Will fed me, let me put Violet to bed and opened a good bottle of wine. I slept in the guest room and went straight to the diner this morning.

The light on the answering machine blinks, waiting to tell me the big news. It takes me a minute to push the button.

“Hey, Maggie, it’s Malone. Uh…thought we were getting together tonight. Call me later.”

Really. He thought we were getting together. Not when another woman is carrying his child, that’s for damn sure.

I flop down in a chair and hug a worn throw pillow to my stomach, my eyes hard. Chantal made no bones about the fact that she found Malone attractive. That she’d put the moves on him before. And she mentioned something about him having a crush on her once, long ago. Or more recently, as the evidence indicates. Yes, God forbid that Chantal doesn’t get a man. Every damn male in town is required to adore her, aren’t they? I clench my teeth hard, willing the lump in my throat to dissolve.

The edges of the throw pillow are frayed, the material thin from years of use. I really should make it a new cover, but why bother? In fact, as I look around my cramped little apartment, impatience rushes through me. Why do I have all this crap? Does anyone really need six TableTop pie tins? So what if they’re collectibles? Suddenly, I hate collectibles. Collectibles. Why not just call them what they are? Old junk. Why own them? To collect cobwebs? If that’s their purpose, they’re doing an excellent job.

I jump up, grab some garbage bags and newspaper and start wrapping with a vengeance. I should have a yard sale. Or bring this crap to an antiques dealer. Suddenly, I want to have a spartan, clean living space. Just floor and futon, Japanese style. Or Swedish, maybe, with just a streamlined dresser for my clothes.

And clothes! I practically leap into the bedroom and rip open my bureau drawers. How many sweaters do I really need, anyway? About a third of them are my father’s cardigans, which I’ve stolen over the years—maybe he’ll want them back. And God, look at how many stained T-shirts I have. Working in a diner is no excuse. Surely I can afford clean shirts. When I dribble gravy or coffee on them and can’t get the stain out, into the trash they shall go. Maybe I should have T-shirts made up for the diner. Yes. That’s what I’ll do. That will eliminate the question of what to wear every day. Just a black T-shirt with red writing. Joe’s Diner, established 1933, Gideon’s Cove, ME. Perfect. The summer nuisance will love them.

Ruthlessly, I stuff half a dozen shirts into a trash bag, vaguely noting logos of places I’ve been, sayings I thought were cute. Stupid cluttering crap. I barely pause at the blue rat, stuffing it with far greater force than necessary into the giant black trash bag. Good. Bury it. Stupid cheap thing.

After Skip traded me in for a classier model, I moved in here, renting the place from some summer people who had bought it as an investment. When Gideon’s Cove failed to be the new Bar Harbor, they sold it to me for an affordable price, and Dad and I overhauled the place and found Mrs. K. as a tenant. It was so safe here, so cozy and tiny. But now it seems crowded and stuffy, just as my mind is crammed with memories of my romantic failures.

Skip, of course, is at the head of the class. But there were others, too, before Malone, before Father Tim. A couple of years after Skip was Pete, a very nice guy from a few towns over. We dated for a year, practically living together at the end. When he asked me out for dinner one night, I imagined that he was going to pop the question. And I imagined myself saying yes. We were very solid, very content, I thought. It wasn’t a huge romantic love, but I thought it would last.

Instead, Pete gently informed me that he was moving. To California. And he would really miss me.

If he’d asked, I would have said, No, no, I can’t possibly come with you. I love Maine. I don’t want to move. My life is here. My family. Our breakup would have been sad, regretful but required, because I honestly wouldn’t have left home for that guy. My heart was not broken. Still, it would have been nice to turn him down.

I pull out a green sweater that still has a few golden hairs on it. Colonel’s hair. He must have rubbed his head against me while I was wearing this. My eyes fill—sudden, desperate longing for my dog flows over me like a river. This sweater can stay, I decide, putting it in the “keep” pile. I blow my nose and continue purging.

After Pete was Dewitt, my boyfriend of four months. He asked me to put some distance between myself and my sister, successfully ending our romance with that one sentence. Unfortunately, he then told everyone that I had an “unnatural thing” going on with Christy and implied that I’d never find someone because I was fixated on my own sister. Asshole.

“Maggie?”

“Jesus! God! You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that!” I squawk.

Malone leans against my door frame and smiles. I have to look away.

“Sorry,” he says. “I knocked. Must not have heard me.”

“Well. So. You’re here. That’s…” The animal magnetism he exudes shrouds my reasons for being mad. Oh, yeah. Chantal. Got it. “Okay, Malone, so what’s up? What’s new? Anything new?”

His smile fades. “Not really. Missed you last night.”

“Did you. Hmm. Well. Something came up.”

So he’s not going to admit anything. You’d think even Malone would acknowledge something…Hey, by the way, Chantal and I are having a baby. Wanna grab some dinner? Fine. If he’s not going to say anything, I’m sure as hell not going to admit I was lurking under his window the moment he learned of his impending fatherhood.

Swallowing bile, I feel so tired of having my relationships make me look like a fool. Skip, those other dweebs, Father Tim, and now Malone. I just can’t take it. I won’t be made an ass of again. I just can’t. I finish stuffing the contents of my drawer into the trash bag, willing myself not to feel anything but anger. However, the image of Malone lying on my bed the night after Colonel died shoves its way into my head. How could he be so—

“Everything okay, Maggie?” he asks, a slight frown between his eyes.

“You know what? No. Everything is not okay, Malone. Here. Come in the living room, okay?” I shove my way past him into the mess I’ve made in the next room. “Sit down. Have a seat.” I take a deep breath and sit on the other side of the coffee table, not wanting to be too close to him. He hasn’t shaved today, and the memory of what it feels like to be kissed by Malone, that scraping sweetness, makes my knees wobble. Disgusted with myself, I force an image of him with Chantal. In bed with Chantal, kissing her with the same intensity that he kissed me. There. Wobbling over.

“What’s wrong?” Malone asks quietly.

“You know, it’s good that you came over, Malone. It’s…look. You’re here. So. The thing is, Malone, I—” My throat tightens inexplicably. “Malone, this isn’t working for me. This thing you and I have going on. Whatever it is.”

Though his expression doesn’t change, his head jerks back a fraction, and for a tiny second, I feel bad for him. He’s surprised. Didn’t see it coming. Well, I know the feeling, don’t I?

I keep talking, taking a grim pleasure in the fact at least that I’m not on the dumped end of this breakup stick. “You know. I mean, you’re very…attractive, I guess…I mean, I think so, anyway. But aside from that…physical stuff…well, to tell you the truth, Malone, I’m looking for a little more.”

He just stares at me, not frowning exactly, but almost—concerned. “Did something happen, Maggie?” he asks, and the kindness in his rough voice causes fresh fury to slap my heart like a rogue wave.

“I don’t know, Malone,” I snap. “Did it?”

His black brows come together. “What’s going on?” he says, and now there’s a note of irritation.

“You tell me.” I stand in front of him, hands on my hips, daring him to admit what he’s done.

“Are we fighting here?” he asks, scowling. “Because I don’t remember us having anything to fight about.”

Fine. He’s being a coward. Fine. “I’ll make it simple for you, Malone. You’re really just not my type.”

Score a direct hit—his mouth closes abruptly, his face is fierce and dark. “And just who is your type, Maggie? Father Tim, maybe?” he growls.

I cock my head. “Well, funny you should say that. Aside from the priest thing, yes, actually. He’s a true friend to me. We talk, we have fun, we laugh together. We tell each other things. That’s more of what I’m looking for. A friend and a lover. That’s not so surprising, is it?”

“A friend? By that, do you mean someone to wait on hand and foot? Someone you can feed and clean up after?”

“It’s called caring, Malone. When you care about someone, you do things for him. Hence the soup and pie I made for you the night you went for a swim in the forty-degree Atlantic! But you don’t want that, do you?” My voice rises in anger. “So yes, I want someone who’s not closed off from every human feeling, Malone. That’s what! Someone who can speak in full sentences. Someone who can actually answer a personal question when asked, someone who—”

“I get the point,” Malone says, standing. “Fine. Take care.”

He slams the door behind him, and I burst into tears once more.