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One day in early August, driven by a feeling she couldn’t quite pinpoint, Missi took a peek at Richie’s wallet.
At 45, she was three years sober and on the leeward side of a stormy divorce.
Richie liked to say he didn’t “do drama,” but drama seemed to follow him nonetheless.
It got to feel as if every text from him was an announcement of some new disaster: He had to check his daughter Sarah into rehab; he had to put his beloved shih tzu, Thumper, to sleep.
The two women didn’t work together regularly, but they knew each other. Maybe he could put her and the girls on his university insurance.
Maybe, he told her, with the benevolent confidence of a wealthy man, she wouldn’t have to work.
Among all the duds—the desperate and depressed and not-quite-divorced—a 45-year-old man named Richie Peterson stood out.