On our next dinner date, I got to experience how cold it is in Atlanta in February. Not Nebraska cold — nothing short of Antarctica qualifies for that — but cold enough for a jacket.
I’ve brought my Burberry. My beloved black cashmere trench. The one that is far too pretentious for Omaha, where people keep their money in BRK, not apparel. It hangs in the back of my closet waiting for the right city, the right evening, the right man. The belt cinches my waist perfectly. If only my Kirkland‑brand parka could make me feel the same way.
This evening, we’re dining on a quiet, outdoor, heated patio. The kind of place where the lights glow softly and golden, and the air only gets warm from the heat we brought. Ryan holds my hand as we talk, his thumb brushing the back of my fingers in that absent‑minded, intimate way that says he’s comfortable — and also very aware of me.
He tells me about his daughter. She sounds as intelligent as my son – a driven only-child. She grew up in Annapolis, even taking her own little boat to school. A boat? To school? That’s something a kid from Nebraska will never be able to say, even when the Platte floods.
Her love of the Chesapeake led to a patent — a device she and Ryan designed together to clean the water as she pulled it behind her boat. I love the ingenuity. I love the father‑daughter partnership. I can’t wait to meet this young woman and hear what she plans to do next.
From the environment to innovation, the stories keep coming. His dad is also an inventor — the Big Wheel, the Sit‑and‑Spin, a handful of patents. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
My dad taught me how to change the oil in my Chevrolet Citation. I didn’t try to impress Ryan with my automotive intellect that evening. I’ll save that for the day we’re stranded on the side of the road, hood up, my hair in a ponytail, and me emerging victorious with a wrench.
But tonight, his mind is also occupied by Robert, whose days are numbered. It’s a deep conversation — friendship, loyalty, the quiet bravery of caring for someone at the end. Ryan talks about his EMT days in college, how those skills have resurfaced now in medications, hospice arrangements, and the tender logistics of the last days. Tears gather in his eyes, yet he summons the server with playful banter as he pays the check.
I excuse myself for the ladies’ room, grabbing my trench coat ready for our departure. The bathroom mirror catches me as I tie the belt, and a thought sparks — bold, mischievous, entirely unlike the cautious woman who once worried about being trafficked.
When I step out of the restroom, I’m wearing nothing under that Burberry. I knew how to turn that frown upside down.
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