Free The Good Neighbor by Amy Sue Nathan Page A

that cap. I loved that newlywed mom-to-be and the hope that came with every kernel of popcorn and every sip of Coke. That Izzy Lane was the avatar for the eternal optimist. That Izzy Lane had not deleted her dreams. Her sense of adventure was real and true .
    I needed that Izzy Lane right now.
    I needed that cap.
    *   *   *
    Unfinished and cold, my basement was a constant reminder of the way my parents had spent my childhood. The owners of a hardware store that sold tools, paint, lumber, and even rolls of linoleum flooring did not have a finished basement.
    I flipped on the light and left the door open, still convinced something untoward lived beneath the stairs.
    The cap was somewhere among the cardboard boxes and Rubbermaid totes (labeled and not) my parents had left behind. It was easy to identify the boxes that I’d packed up when Bruce and I had split, the ones with the marriage mementos I thought might one day be meaningful to Noah. I zeroed in on four boxes labeled CHESTNUT HILL . Eeny, meeny, miny, moe. I tugged at meeny, not moe, something that always got me into trouble in games at school. I half expected to be greeted by Malibu Barbie or Mod Hair Ken, but I unfolded the top and on borrowed luck a red brim stuck out at me like a hand stretched out to help.
    With the Phillies cap on my head, I walked around the living room. I felt silly. What was this? Method blogging? Did I think I’d become the younger me who didn’t know about being left by a husband and leaving a dream house and encouraging her parents to leave their home so she could move in?
    I needed reinforcements.
    I texted Jade, afraid if we talked she would hear the fragility in my voice.
    The intro post was easy. What should I write for my next one?
    You haven’t written it yet? It goes live at 6 am.
    Don’t worry. Any ideas?
    Start with how you met Mac, how you juggle work and parenting and dating and add in some fun things to do on dates so there’s some real reader takeaway. It’s about you, but it’s about the reader.
    You’ve been thinking about this.
    That’s my job. No, it’s your job. Get busy, Pea. xo Pea?
    Yes?
    Start at the beginning.
    The beginning was the problem. I’d only been on a few dates in the past six months. Wrinkled-trench-coat guy who liked to hunt and fish and camp. Oh, deer! Dermatologist with acne scars who’d never love anyone but his first wife. Or his second. Handsome social worker who didn’t drive and never called again even though I bought a fiberglass bike helmet and cooked him quinoa for dinner. Philly over Forty was supposed to be hip and hot. I chuckled. I had not gotten the hip-and-hot memo, nor had any of my dates. Maybe if I had read Pop Philly I’d have known what was popular, elusive, on the cusp of elegant, awesome, and fun.
    Because fun for me? Saturday night in Target without Noah. Pushing the cart without someone riding on the end of it. Buying a one-gallon skim mocha latte and lamp-heated popcorn and skipping the red cart up and down every aisle with the abandon of a girl with a gift card.
    Something told me that wasn’t what Jade, the readers, or Andrew Mann wanted.
    I had to get organized. It was part of my real job to be organized, keeping files on the students, for the different teachers, for the district, for myself. This was just keeping make-believe files.
    One file for everything Mac and I had done and were planning to do. One file for how Mac looked and talked. Another for sweet things he said and my replies. Then I’d need another file to keep ideas for future dates, to make sure that if there was a repeat, it was because it was “ours.” The pages filled. Mac was reliable, trustworthy, funny, and fun. He was handsome and tall. Jewish. He wasn’t afraid of commitment. He was professional and dedicated to his work, but not a workaholic. He was a dentist; he rarely traveled for his job.
    Is that what these