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For a brief moment, as I stick my face under the spray, I allow myself to fantasize about how amazing it would be to find everything I’ve always wanted the second time around.
But I’m not delusional. I’m never going to find a man who checks off all my wish list criteria: Tall, strong, sexy, Latino, Spanish-speaking, driven, loyal, and honest. Those last two are going to be the hardest, I bet. It seems like the men who are loyal and honest these days are a dying breed.
But that could just be my disillusionment talking. As my mother always said, there are tons of fish in the sea. There’s bound to be a good one out there somewhere. Except she never found one, so there’s that to consider.
It’s with that thought in mind that I return to my bedroom. My phone is like a beacon on the nightstand, and my fingers itch to check my email, see if there are any bites on my profile. But I don’t want to be overeager. Even if nobody is here to see it, I can, and that’s not an attractive quality.
So I drop to the floor and do twenty pushups. I’m proud of myself. It’s taken months to reach the point where I don’t have to do them on my knees. I transition to crunches next, followed by squats. Then I admire the cuts in my muscles for a moment. I’ve dropped nearly forty pounds since the split, and I feel great. Better than I have in ages. Like a lot of women, I’ve never much liked my body, especially since having kids, but I can honestly say that I do now. Sometimes it just takes something radical to happen to change your entire outlook on life.
Settling into bed, I pull the covers up and grab my phone. It’s the work of a minute to pull up my email and scroll through the latest junk that always seems to find its way there. And then I see it. The subject line gets my heart racing.
LatinLover80 winked at you.
2
Holy. Shitballs. He’s hot!
Hotter than hot. LatinLover80 is sexy and cool and seriously blowing my mind. I click on his profile, noting every detail. He’s younger than me by a couple years. I almost balk at that. Of course, I do. I’d always imagined myself dating older men. I’ve always liked them a bit older; therefore, hopefully, a bit more mature. Then I think of my husband and how well that worked out and toss the notion out the window.
Keep an open mind, Julie.
He’s taller than my husband by several inches. Has a good job from the looks of it. A higher education too. He’s got a kid, and he’s good with me having kids.
“Well, he’d better be since he reached out to me first,” I mutter to myself.
It says he lives in my area, no more than thirty minutes away. A thrill of anticipation streaks through me, and I imagine meeting up with this guy. What would it be like? I haven’t been out with another man in seventeen years. I don’t remember how to date. I hate conversation. I’m awkward. I’m a mom. My schedule is wonky. And then I think of the kids.
They still want their dad to come home. They’re praying for a miracle. Which means there’s no way I can bring another man into the picture without hurting them. I haven’t thought this whole dating thing through, have I?
My mind races as I try to think of any way I can keep it secret. Have a life outside of my kids. Something just for me. Outside of work, which is flexible, I have hours in the day that I can work with, leaving the evenings for the kids.
I’m sure I can work it out somehow. I hope so anyway. I need some happiness in my life right now.
While I’m studying LatinLover80’s pictures, smiling at how adorable and sexy his smile is and liking everything I see, growing more attracted by the minute, a little red number one pops up over the email icon in the corner of the screen.
My blood pressure skyrockets. Opening that email feels like something akin to opening an envelope during the anthrax scare back in ’01. I want to open it, but I’m terrified of what’s waiting for me inside. Death perhaps? With the way my heart is pounding against my ribcage, that’s a very real possibility.
“Seriously, Julie, stop being a lil’ bitch and open it,” I scold myself. It’s not as if the person on the other end can see that I’ve seen it. Somehow, that scares the piss out of me. I’m the type of person who feels compelled to answer as if it’s rude not to. It’s just another in a long line of things I’m training myself to change. I don’t owe anyone but myself and my kids a damn thing.
With that attitude foremost in my mind, I click on the envelope icon and nearly scream.
There he is. LatinLover80 messaged me.
The pressure in my head expands. Heat rushes through me from head to toe.
I open the message with the tap of a shaking finger. It’s short and simple.You’re cute.That’s all it says, and yet I feel like I might pass out. Like the bubble of anticipation reached its zenith and exploded, taking with it my mind and reducing me to a giddy schoolgirl. From the fifties.
I’m cute.
Gah!I grin so wide my cheeks hurt.
“You’re pretty damn fine yourself,” I breathe. Then I take another trip through his pictures, biting my lip and grinning like a fucking lunatic the entire time.
I’m cute. I say it repeatedly to myself as I click back over to the message and stare at the words until the screen on my phone turns black. I’m trying to think of a response, something short and sweet to match, but everything I come up with makes me feel like a dope.
I’m no good at this at all. Flirting, that is. I’m so out of practice, and it all seems forced. Too contrived. Too cliché. Not that his message was anything spectacularly original, but still…
With some reluctance, I set the phone on the table and tell myself that I’ll answer it tomorrow, with a fresh mind. Because no doubt, as soon as I respond, he will too, and I can’t take that risk this late at night. If I wait, I’ll be less likely to make a fool of myself. So that’s what I do.
