Recently divorced Anna Waite is learning to appreciate life after first love. With the support of her best friend Kira and a solid sense of humor, Anna tackles the world of dating. This is her coming-of-middle-age story.

THE DATE WHERE I GO TO THE ANIMAL SHELTER

Three days ago, I sat on the beach with Dylan, talking, laughing, and—dare I say it—flirting. Just a handful of days since I stuffed things into the almost normal drawer, feeling like we could get back into the swing of our friendship. Ignoring longing stares and comments about kissing. Pretending my heart didn’t pitter-patter at the sound of his voice.

And then ­almost normal shifted into The Change. Capital T. Capital C.

Gone is the man who sends texts heavy with meaning. The one who asks about my day or teases a smile from my lips. Now, when he sends a message, he talks about Worth the Wait. How’s the checklist coming along? What day would you like to open? Did you apply for a license?

Three days into The Change and I’m glad. Thrilled. Because I need to focus on my venture, not stall out for a good set of deltoids and blue eyes that inspire a hallelujah chorus from all the holy angels. Just me, my boys, and my business.

After my date with Isaac, I’ll finish the checklist Dylan sent me. Then go home to make a batch of Business Associates Brownies. Which are just like Friendzone Brownies, minus the nuts.

“Hey, you made it.” Isaac stands next to my car, leaning down to peer into the lowered window. “Is this your new van?”

I roll up the window and step out before answering. “Yep. Found this beauty on the lot and managed to snatch her up before someone else got her.”

“Her?” His eyebrows scrunch as if personifying a car never occurred to him.

“Definitely a girl.” I tap the roof, heat radiating from the maroon exterior. “I named her Man Eater, but that seemed bold, so I changed it to Hall and Oates. Devin thought I said Haulin’ oats, so now we just call her Oatmeal.”

“Huh.” More confusion, this time of the measured voice and fake smile variety. “You named your car?”

“Of course. Otherwise, what would I call her?” I hit the lock fob and walk with Isaac, turning back to shout, “Be good, Oatmeal.”

Along with The Change in Dylan, I’ve had my own awakening. A reassessment of sorts. No more imitating an ideal. I am unapologetic, imperfect, and awkward Anna Waite. Someone who names her car and gets stuck on the back of fire trucks.

Take it or leave it.

Isaac opens the glass front door, guiding me inside Wild Paws Animal Rescue. An older woman sits behind the counter and smiles at our approach. “Isaac, you brought a friend.”

Her emphasis on the word friend makes my insides clench, but he chuckles and puts an arm around my shoulders. “Diane, this is Anna.”

We share pleasantries, Isaac smothering my shoulders with his giant biceps and Diane’s gaze jumping between us before she hands over a list. “Finish up what you can, and I’ll handle the rest.”

“Thanks. We’ll get through this in no time,” Isaac says, taking the paper. I glance over his shoulder, which is really under his shoulder since he still has his arm around me, and read: Walk the dogs, clean the kennels, feed the animals, change the litter boxes…

The longer the list goes, the more tired I feel. Why am I even here? Not just at the shelter, but on this date. With nice, interested Isaac. A man that I can’t see myself seriously involved with, no matter how beautiful he is. If he doesn’t even name his car, then what hope do we have?

The swinging double doors lead us to a room with rows of cages, and several noses protrude from the bars. My sneakers squeak, squeak, squeak on the linoleum floor as high-pitched whimpers echo. An unpleasant aroma of wet fur and ammonia assaults me. I cringe against the scent and try to find some enthusiasm.

“Would you prefer Jabba the Pup or Chew-Barka?” Opening the kennel door, he attaches leashes to the two dogs inside.  

“Uhh… Jabba, I guess.”

From the kennel emerges a pony-sized dog. Jabba the Pup is… not a puppy. He prances, his flopping jowls bouncing in time to his movement. Tan fur covers his body and dark brown splotches splash in random bursts like paint splatters.

“Hey, Jabba, I’m Anna.” I pat his soft head and he leans into my touch. His warm, brown eyes stare lovingly into mine, and it feels nice to have an adoring gaze leveled at me. So what if he’s a big, slobbery beast?

By comparison, Chew-Barka looks more like a rat with a toupee. “We can switch if you’d like. Jabba is a lot to handle.”

His ears twitch at his name, but Jabba remains focused on me. My hand travels the length of his back, and he presses against my legs, almost toppling me. I laugh. “It’s okay. I’ll take him.”

The fenced yard features dirt with patches of grass. No trees or shade offer relief, and I almost expect to see a tumbleweed blowing by. My pity for Jabba grows. The sun bakes down, leaving a layer of sweat glistening on my skin. His tongue hangs out, the panting hitting double time.

My attention stays on the dog—is he comfortable? Are his paws too hot?—and Isaac reaches for my hand. His fingers curl around my wrist, then slide to my palm. He smiles at me, in a nice way, not in a Jabba-adoring way, and my thoughts shift to a new problem: how to extricate myself from Isaac’s grip.

He clenches my hand tighter. “We need to talk.”

Just the words every girl wants to hear. His smile strains at the edges, and his eyes dodge around the yard. My stomach rolls and I take a note of all the exits, preparing for a quick escape. If Isaac mentions the R word—Relationship—I’m hopping the fence and heading for Oatmeal. He hasn’t made a secret about wanting more and I want less.

“What’s up?” I ask, attempting nonchalant. It comes out very chalant.

“At the fire station, there are some guys who…” he drifts off and kicks the dirt, looking away to stare at Chew-Barka.

“Who what?” Maybe this isn’t about updating our relationship status on Facebook.

“Who review the security footage. A little while ago, they came across something.”

“Oh, no.” I know exactly where this is going. The make-out session with Isaac before being trapped on the firetruck. My hip gyrations turned pants-less hula maneuvers.

“Apparently your boot heels got stuck in Lola’s ladder.” He ducks his head and releases my hand to rub the back of his neck. “I’m really sorry. I should have noticed you struggling.”

“You had to go. It was an emergency—”

“That’s no excuse. Leaving you stuck was a horrible thing to do.” He clutches Chew-Barka’s leash in a white-knuckled grip. Sweat dots his bald head, whether from the heat or from distress, I don’t know. “If I can’t forgive myself, how are you going to forgive me?”

“Isaac,” I start. Silence swirls between us and he moves in front of me, re-taking my hand in a plea for forgiveness.

The utter absurdity of the situation causes a bubble of laughter to catch in my throat. It’s not his fault. Awkward follows me like the chainsaw guy in a haunted house.

The two dogs grow restless, wanting to finish their walk. Chew-Barka lives up to his name, yapping wildly. He dances circles, his dark toupee flopping in his excitement. The sound of pouring water distracts me and I turn to see Jabba relieving himself, creating a mudslide puddling on my sandaled foot.  

I pull my hand away from Isaac to sidestep the growing river of pee, and my laughter boils over. This is my life. Getting trapped on ladders and navigating urine.

“I’m a walking disaster,” I say through my bouts of giggling.

“Okay?” He shakes his head, standing to his full height, his eyes pinched in confusion. “I made them delete the video. No one gets to see my girl like that.”

The laughter dies a fast death, and the stomach jitters return. My girl? He skipped a few (dozen) qualifiers to that statement. Like my potential girl. Or my we’re-still-getting-to-know-each-other girl. Or my I’m-super-nice-but-she’s-not-into-me girl.

“Isaac, I’m not your girl.”

“Well, not officially.” He winks, his golden eyes glinting in the sun. His warm smile encourages me to take the easy path, a simple relationship with nice Isaac.

But I can’t.

“Not ever,” I say softly. This time I reach for his hand, letting the leash slip to my wrist. “You’re a really great guy and I—”

Suddenly, my body jerks sideways, smashing to the ground as the tether on my wrist stretches tight. Jabba’s legs pump at full speed, but with my resistance, it looks more like he runs on a treadmill. A dust cloud billows from his efforts, and between the incessant tugging and the dirt flying in my eyes, my feet fight to gain enough traction to stand.

“Jabba, no. Jabba!” Isaac calls. But it’s no use. Jabba’s too interested in the fancy poodle on the other side of the fence.

Dust mixes with my saliva, and I cough through the muddy grit. The taut leash leaves no room to release it from my wrist. And this is where the awkward catches me, springing out with a chainsaw to slice away any chance of a normal break-up date.

I resign myself to lie prone on the ground, one arm yanked to its full length and my legs curled in the fetal position. It’s not so bad, despite the grimy haze fogging my eyeballs and my arm going numb. Plus, the delight of eating mud. At least Jabba helped cut the tension.

A piercing whistle sounds, and Jabba sits. It gives me the chance to slide the leash off and stand, swiping the muck from my face… with my dirty hand which rubs it in deeper.

“Are you okay?” He asks.

A quick perusal shows road rash up my arm, a bloody elbow, and yep, right there, my pride squashed in the ground. “I’m fine.”

“Let’s take care of those scratches.” His lips turn up at the corners, a gentle expression, if not a little less bright.

After we put the dogs in their kennel, Isaac uses supplies from the first aid kit to fix up the damage. “What did you mean by not ever?”

“You’re a good man, but I’m not a dog person. You deserve someone who likes to play with puppies.”

“We could still be great together,” he says. “I like cats too.”

“I know.” Patting his cheek, I take a moment to appreciate his dark skin and smooth jaw line. For the last time. “I’m just not the girl for you. Sorry.”

“I’ll walk you out.” His shoulders slump on the short journey and he opens my car door. “Be sure to rest and take some ibuprofen.”

Always the paramedic. He really is a nice guy. “Take care of yourself, Isaac.”

I climb into the van and check my phone, seeing a text from Dylan.

Dylan: Can we talk? In person?

My heart beats faster. If it was business, he’d just text the information. Right? That’s been the pattern since The Change. This must be something else. Something more? Or maybe… a pit opens in my gut because maybe it’s something less.

I start to reply when my phone rings. Thoughts of the mysterious text take most of my brain power and I answer the call before realizing who it is.  

“Finally,” the ex-hole says in an annoyed tone. “We need to talk.”