Free Happily Ever After? by Debra Kent

hung up the phone and disconnected the wire from the wall.
    ’Til next time,
    V
June 22
    I started the day at the mall, and ended with a Jeep full of shopping bags. I don’t care if my body is less than perfect.
     It still deserves to be adorned.
    It’s been so long since I’ve dated that I decided I needed a refresher course. I went to the library in search of helpful
     hints for newly single women and found
The Ten Commandments of Dating.
I vaguely remembered that this book was met with considerable criticism when it first appeared, and as I flipped through
     its pages, I understood why.
    Commandment Three: When he finally calls, tell him you’re unavailable.
    Commandment Seven: If he leaves a message on your machine, don’t return his call for forty-eight hours.
    Commandment Nine: Don’t even consider having sex until you’ve dated at least a year.
    Is this author deranged? Does anyone actually follow these commandments? What’s the point of waiting ayear to have sex? Why would anyone cancel a date with someone they actually like? I was mystified. Yet oddly intrigued. I
     took the book home and plan to read it tonight.
    ’Til next time,
    V
June 22, later
    Hunter is signed up for the second session at the Gibson Prep School camp and now Pete wants to go too. Actually, it’s not
     really a camp, not in the traditional sense. There’s no pool or playground, no hiking or arts and crafts. It’s more like summer
     school without grades or tests. There are two classes a day with an hour break for lunch. Hunter is taking a class on the
     Civil War, and another on the Vikings.
    I called the camp but the secretary insisted that there were no openings. I offered to pay double the fee. She put me on hold,
     returned five minutes later, and told me that she could, in fact, make an exception, given my willingness to compensate the
     camp appropriately.
    ’Til next time,
    V
June 23
    I wish I could freeze this feeling forever.
    It is 12:09 A.M. I have been with Michael Avila for sixutterly transcendent hours. I’m too wary to say I’m in love, but I’m definitely enchanted.
    Even with all my new clothes, I couldn’t find anything formal enough for the ballet. I finally settled on a long black skirt,
     cream-colored embroidered top, short black velvet jacket. Michael looked sleek and delicious in a jet-black tux.
    Michael gave me a bouquet of pastel roses, Asiatic lilies, and alstroemeria, and when I went to hug him, he kissed me on the
     cheek and it felt soft and warm. He told me that I looked even prettier with short hair, that it brought out the green in
     my eyes. I
felt
pretty under his gaze. I felt tall and slim and attractive and special and sparkly.
    I think he was expecting to meet Pete, but I’d arranged for Pete to sleep at Drew Steuben’s house. (Pete had begged me to
     let him stay with Hunter, but I’m still feeling icky about Lynette and Curtis.)
    We started the evening at Bellamy’s and I took it as a rather romantic choice, since this was where we had our first date,
     the one my mother had engineered. Though pricey, the food at Bellamy’s is consistently good and is prepared by actual trained
     grown-ups— noteworthy in a town where most restaurants are staffed by college kids whose culinary repertoire is limited to
     “three minutes on full power.”
    Michael suggested we order two dishes to share, another happy signal. Roger
hated
sharing food. He thought it was unhygienic. We started with a bottle ofMöet Et Chandon and appetizers: sauteed almonds and marinated roasted olives (yum!), then moved to the chicken fricassee with
     ginger, scallions, sweet peppers, onions, and shiitake mushrooms (sublime), and gnocchi with wild mushrooms, truffles, and
     scallions (perfect). For dessert, one crème brûlée, two spoons (his choice, above my protestations that I needed to watch
     my weight).
    By 8 P.M. we were settled into our plum-colored velvet seats at the Performing Arts Center.
Appalachian