hough her new guy Kevin says he broke up completely with his ex, our writer noticed that he was acting very distant at the diner. Is this relationship coming to a close?

Wednesday, 9:05 p.m.
It’s Kevin on the phone. He says he’s sorry for the way he behaved at Little Louie’s. He says, “You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time” and he doesn’t want to risk losing me.

I’m happy to hear from him. But I want to proceed with caution. I’m old enough to know that Kevin’s sullen mood may not be a fluke, but part of a lifelong pattern. I’ve had the benefit of years

	God, what a kiss. The man is an expert.

of self-examination, both inside and outside the therapist’s office. I’ve learned all the standard techniques of non-combative, empathic communication, using “I-messages” and “mirroring,” and everything else Craig and I were forced to practice in a desperate attempt to keep our sinking marriage afloat. I’m a ready-made companion. I’ve worked out the big kinks. When it comes to relationships, I’m no amateur.

I’m not so sure about Kevin, though. He may be a silver-tongued devil when the mood is light but when communication really matters, the guy doesn’t talk, just retreats into a black cave. I’m not interested in chasing after him.

“Can you help me understand what was going on there, at Little Louie’s? Why weren’t you talking to me?”

He lets out his breath in a long whoosh. I wait for a response. Finally, he says he wants to meet me. For coffee. Now.

I look at the clock. I was hoping to get to bed early tonight. So for the second time this week, I do something completely uncharacteristic for a compliant people-pleaser like myself. I actually turn him down. “How about tomorrow morning? 7:30. Starbucks on the west side?”

He makes a little pouty noise but agrees to meet me tomorrow.

Thursday, 12:55 a.m.
I guess I’m not as tough as I thought. It’s almost one in the morning, and I cannot fall asleep. My mind is like a radio receiver, clicking from one station to the next, my thoughts a rapid procession of fragments and static, self-doubt and worry. I can’t believe I’m single. I can’t believe I’m dating again. My marriage was lousy, but at least Craig was a known variable. Who the hell is Kevin? Is he going to break my heart? Or am I going to break his?

I slide out of bed and step into the bathroom. Half an Ambien should do the trick.

Thursday, 7:30 a.m.
The pill worked almost too well. I feel off-kilter as I make my way to the west side of town, drowsy and a little dizzy. Kevin’s waiting for me outside Starbucks, cocking his head boyishly and smiling. “Can we start with a kiss?” he asks, pulling me close.

God, what a kiss. The man is an expert. His skin is warm and he

My guy doesn’t talk—just retreats into a black cave.

smells like cloves and something citrusy. Mmmm.

I force myself to stay grounded.

“Friends?” He extends a hand and pulls me in for a second delicious kiss.

I remind him that we’re supposed to talk, and he says he’d rather spend the time kissing. That’s cute, but it’s not what I had in mind. He relents and finds us a relatively private table toward the back of the room.

He puts his hands to his chin as if he’s about to pray and closes his eyes. Oh, great. What’s this? He’s still seeing Miss Seattle? He wants to break up with me? He’s married? I brace myself for bad news.

Kevin tells me he has struggled with depression since he was a teenager. It comes without warning, and it can last for weeks. He admits that he occasionally thinks about suicide but has never attempted it. “But once, when I was at my lowest, I remember walking down the street and wishing someone would just drop a piano on my head and put me out of my misery.” He manages a small smile.

I ask him if he has seen a psychiatrist or therapist. Never.

“Why not?”

“I’ve always been too embarrassed,” he says. In his family, only lunatics and weaklings go to shrinks. A real man can tough it out.

I assure him that plenty of real men go to shrinks and, furthermore, plenty of real men are on Prozac. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. I pull a pen from my purse and on a napkin scribble the name of a well-regarded psychiatrist. “She’s a good doctor. She’s also cute.”

“Cute? Are you trying to get rid of me?”

I assure him that I’m not, but as I drive toward my office I find myself wondering whether Kevin’s latest revelation has made him irredeemably unappealing to me.

Sara Susannah Katz is a writer in the Midwest.

Read Single In The Suburbs, Part 43