8 Chapter 8: Mariana

"No really, Mom. We're doing fine." I plop myself down on the couch and prop my feet up on the coffee table. "Theo is sleeping better, and since we don't have a lot of team functions to go to, things have really slowed down."

"I know," my mom complains through the phone. "It just feels weird to not be there every month to help out. I kind of miss it."

I smile. My mom has tried really hard to not overwhelm me since the separation, and I love her for it. As much as it's uncomfortable, I need to figure out how to be a single mom on my own.

Santos provides well - really well. But I never expected anything less from him. He was born to be a father. Frankly, he was born to be a husband, too. He really is the best husband.

Except for the whole sleeping with anyone on two legs thing. That's just not something any spouse can come back from.

"Mom, you are welcome to come anytime. You know that."

She sighs. "So you don't mind if I come stay next month? It doesn't even have to be a full week. A weekend is all I need to get my fix of my grandbabies."

"You can stay as long as you want."

"Really?"

"No."

She giggles. "Okay, okay. I'll look at my schedule and get back with you about when a good time is for both of us. I still wish you would just move home."

I twirl a strand of hair around my finger. "I know, I know. But I'm not going to take Santos's kids that far away from him."

"I get that you want to keep this amicable, Mari." I brace myself. This isn't the first discussion we've had about her hatred of my soon-to-be ex-husband. "And you are absolutely right. But there is a part of me that wants you to keep the kids from him so badly because of how he hurt you."

"Mom…."

"I know it's not right," she continues. "And I know you wouldn't do that because you are doing what's right for your babies. But you're my baby. And I just want to hurt the person who hurt you."

I smile. She means well. My mom doesn't have a mean bone in her body. But she loved Santos like her own son, so she feels betrayed by him, too. I try to remind myself that if someone hurt one of my kids this deeply, I'd feel the same way as she does. That doesn't mean I want to talk about it, though.

"I know, Mom. Do you feel better now that you said it out loud?"

"I do. Thank you for letting me get it off my chest."

I shake my head at her ridiculousness. "Well let me know what weekend you decide to come. It's not like we're doing a lot around here, but I'll make sure it coordinates with the game schedule so you get to see the kids as much as possible."

"Okay, baby. I'll get back to you this week sometime."

"Sounds good."

We say our goodbyes and I toss my phone onto the couch next to me, looking around the room.

It's quiet when Santos has the kids. Almost too quiet. And there's nothing to do. I've deep cleaned the entire apartment from top to bottom. I've done four loads of laundry and put it all away. I even threw dinner in the crockpot already, so my regular chores are done.

I tap my fingers on my leg and the Kindle shoved between couch cushions catches my eye. Ooh. I could read for a bit.

What is the name of that author I like? The one who writes about all those bearded brothers? Penelope Reads? Penny Reads? Penny Reid! That's it!

I search through the books for sale and find what I'm looking for, hoping to get lost in the world of beards, motorcycles, and some strange character named Cletus.

Ten minutes later, I give up. It's not that I'm not entertained, I just can't get my brain to stop thinking about what Marcus said the other day.

I need to get myself out there. I need to give myself a reason to pull myself together. One step at a time.

My phone alerts me of a text, and I smile when I see it's Marcus.

Marcus: Create the account. I totally met Tripp on Bumble.

Me: I thought you hated Tripp.

Marcus: I do now. But I still had a glorious three months with him before he became a pompous asshole.

Me: You are not making a good case for this.

Marcus: No one says you need long term. A glorious three months would do you some good.

I roll my eyes. But dammit, he's right.

"Fine!" I say aloud to myself. "I'll get a damn Bumble account."

Me: Fine! I'll get a damn Bumble account.

Marcus: YAY! Keep me updated.

Huffing in frustration, and because I need to do this quickly before I lose my courage, I grab my phone and pull up the app store. It only takes a couple of minutes to download it onto my phone. That's the easy part. Making a stay-at-home mom with three small children sound interesting on a dating app… that's the hard part.

First things first, I find a random selfie I took to upload as my profile picture. The kids are in the background, but once they're cropped out, it's not terrible. I won't be winning Miss Photogenic any time soon because of it, but it'll serve its purpose.

Now for information about me.

32 years old. Three kids. Hobbies…

I look out the back window in thought. I have no idea what my hobbies are. If I did, I'd being doing them instead of doing this right now. What did I like doing before I had kids? Hmm. I liked skiing, but I haven't done that in years. I liked going hiking and taking pictures of nature. I guess I still like doing that.

Okay, moving on. What I'm looking for in a partner. If I'm being honest, I want another Santos, just a faithful one. I snort a laugh to myself.

"Good luck with that," I murmur.

I guess 30-40 years old is okay. Divorced, widowed, or never married works. Non-smoker. Ugh. This is way more detailed than I expected.

Twenty minutes go by. Twenty minutes of trying to put together my ideal man on a stupid phone app, and I can't think of anyone better than my husband. But I push through because I'm tired of sitting in yoga pants and being stagnant in my life.

Plus, I'm lonely. And not just feeling alone. A bone-deep, soul-crushing loneliness that puts me in tears whenever I think about it. There is a possibility I will never be kissed again in my whole life. Never be spooned in the middle of the night. Never connect with anyone intimately. My entire life, for the rest of my life, may just be me. Raising my kids until they're gone and I'm not just lonely, but I'm actually alone.

I feel myself falling deeper into that pit of despair that sucks me in sometimes. Suddenly the screen in front of me is blurry, and I have to wipe the tears off my cheeks as they fall.

I miss Santos so much I can hardly take it. I miss the way he always has a smile on his face. I miss the way he sings off key in the shower. I miss the way he would smack my ass on his way out the door and say "I love that this is mine." I miss his smell, and his voice, and his presence.

I miss my life with him, and I'm so pissed off that he did this to us. That he ruined everything. That he took the most important thing in the world to me and obliterated it with his dick.

Taking a deep breath, I push the tears back down where they belong. "I deserve to be respected," I say out loud. "I demand respect. He didn't respect me, and that's not good enough."

I spend another ten minutes answering the most random questions as honestly as possible until I'm officially a Bumble member. As potential connections start popping up, I scroll through the pictures until I find someone interesting.

Thirty-five years old. Divorced father of two. Non-smoker. Catholic. Not a professional athlete for a living.

I snort at my glee over connecting with a white-collar worker.

Taking a deep breath, I click "send a message."

Here goes nothing.