Standing in the center of the room was a giant of a man. He was demonstrating the “stop, drop, and roll” technique, but he wasn’t barking orders. He was laughing. He had a way of commanding attention that was gentle, almost magnetic.
“Mom! Did you see the fireman?” Ivy had squealed, running up to me afterward. “I asked the smartest question about smoke detectors!”
I looked up, and there he was. Marcus. He was walking toward us, helmet tucked under his arm, wiping soot from his cheek. When our eyes met, the noise of the gymnasium faded into a dull roar. It wasn’t a thunderbolt; it was a sigh of relief. He looked at me not as a harried single mom, but as a person.
“She certainly did,” Marcus said, his voice a deep rumble. He didn’t look at me; he crouched down to Ivy’s level. “You’re very brave, Ivy. Do you like reading?”
When she nodded enthusiastically, he smiled. “Next time I’m here, I’ll bring you a book about the station dog.”
That was the difference. Every other man I had dated saw Ivy as an obstacle, a scheduling conflict. Marcus saw her as a person.
Our first date wasn’t a candlelit dinner. He suggested the Science and Industry Museum. “If we’re going to do this,” he told me, “I want to know both of you.”
I watched him spend three hours explaining torque and leverage to a six-year-old, lifting her up to see the exhibits, never checking his watch, never sighing. By the time we left, Ivy was holding his hand as naturally as she held mine.
But then, there was Dolores.
