In a way he was still doing his time.

I knew how deep the cut was when people refused to see beyond their own perceptions and judgments of you.

Despite myself, I think I really did feel bad for him. However, and I would never admit it out loud, I was incredibly curious to know what it was he’d been sentenced for. Clearly, it was a misdemeanor in conviction terms, right? Or Mr. Carmichael wouldn’t be so assured of his stability. Maybe that was naive of me, but I was blissfully ignorant in my naïveté and quite happy to be.

It helped that, as promised, Logan attempted to be more considerate with his noise levels. There was one instance over the next few weeks of loud sex, but there was no music or partying. When we passed each other in the stairwell, we offered a polite nod of acknowledgment, mostly because ignoring each other would be bad manners.

Life was returning to a sense of normality and I was even working at night again.

What I wasn’t doing was getting out much.

After the disastrous date with Bryan, which was really the fifth in a long line of disastrous dates, I felt more than a little gun-shy, but I was also bored. Chloe’s fiancé was home for a bit and Aidan was in focused “training mode.”

So when Chloe called me up at the beginning of the week to ask me if I fancied getting fixed up with a colleague of hers, I reluctantly said yes.

To my pleasant surprise, John was handsome in an old-fashioned kind of way and nervous upon meeting me in a way that was endearing. Half an hour into our dinner date, however, I was growing concerned by the quick rate at which he was consuming wine. It seemed he needed the alcohol as fortification to converse with me, and it also seemed he just didn’t know when to stop.

And John and alcohol apparently weren’t a good mix.

His dark eyes had been friendly and kind when he approached me in the restaurant. They were warm, even if his gaze did dart around the room anxiously as we chitchatted while deciding what to eat.

By his third glass of vino, however, a mocking light entered the backs of his eyes.

“I’ve seen pictures of you, you know,” he said.

I looked up from my pasta, wondering what on earth he meant. “Excuse me?”

He grinned, the smile off-kilter, lazy with wine. “On Facebook. Chloe shows me her pictures on Facebook. I’ve always thought you were very pretty.”

I blushed at the compliment. “Thank you.”

John suddenly ogled my chest, and I tensed. “You could dress a bit sexier though – don’t you think? You’ve got a cracking figure, but we can’t really see it.”

Hiding my flinch at the far-too-close-to-the-bone comment, I looked at his almost-empty wineglass and wished I had it in me to say something, but I didn’t want to cause a scene in the restaurant. I met his glazed stare with one of quiet reproach. “I like my style just fine.”

He held up his hands defensively. “Oh, I didn’t mean to be insulting. I was just suggesting that you might not be single if you dressed a bit better.”

I almost choked on my food.

“And you might look better with your hair down. You look a bit uptight with it up like that.”

I squeezed my eyes closed, trying to block him out, because unfortunately, his criticisms were a trigger…

The butterflies swarming in my stomach threatened to upend all the nothing in it. I’d never felt so nervous. I hadn’t been able to eat all day.

My first school dance.

I stared into the mirror, fidgeting with my hair and my dress and wondering if I should have worn my hair up and if I should have worn the black dress instead of the purple one.

“Why is there a boy at the door?”

I whirled around, my pulse instantly racing at the sight of my mother leaning against my doorframe. She was frowning at me as she swirled a glass of red wine in her hand.

“I thought you were having dinner with Mrs. Ferguson this evening.”

Mother scowled at me. “Clearly I’m not. What are you hiding? Why are you dressed in that hideous monstrosity?”

“I got asked to go the school dance.”

She snorted. “By the short boy at my door? He has acne.” She wrinkled her nose in disgust.

I flushed and looked away. “His name is Michael and I like him.”

“Does he come from a good family?”

“Why?” I looked up, scared because Michael’s dad was a dentist and his mother was an actress on a soap opera. It was hard to know if that made them a “good” family or not.

“Because,” she sighed impatiently, “I need to know if, despite the acne, this boy is worth my advising you out of a dress that makes you look like you have four thighs instead of two.” She stared at me suspiciously. “Have you been sticking to that diet I told you to start?”

I trembled. “The nurse at school said it’s not meant for a fourteen-year-old.”

“Why the bloody hell does the nurse at school know anything about your eating habits?”

“I – I fainted at school.”

Mother rolled her eyes. “Dear God, how maudlin.”

My finger curled into the fabric of my dress, crushing it. I was slender, and still it didn’t seem to be skinny enough for my model-thin mother.

“Well?” she snapped. “Who is this boy?”

“His mother is Andrea Leeds.”

“The actress?” Mother tilted her head in thought. “I suppose it could be worse. Well, you can’t wear that.” She put her glass down on my desk and sauntered over to my wardrobe. “Let’s see if we can’t find you something that gives the illusion of a figure. Boys want girls who look like girls, you know, Gracelyn. You won’t ever be sexy, but we can but try to make you feminine.” She stared doubtfully at my wardrobe selection. “We’ll also need to do something with your hair. You look like a bloody waif. You’re getting it cut next week.”