“I’m not watching your videos, momma.”
“I wish you would. That woman is so knowledgeable, and she’ll teach you how to please yourself—”
“I NEED TO LEAVE!”
I may have held on too long, held her too tightly, but . . . I missed her. And I missed hugs.
My ex may not have been good for much, but once my business started turning a good profit, he’d been free with his hugs. He’d been stingy with everything else, though. I’d recently tried to remember the last time we’d kissed and I couldn’t.
In retrospect, given all the facts, I should have realized his abhorrence for good food was the first sign that his soul was black as midnight. I could have blamed my blindness on being so young when we got married, but I wouldn’t. I didn’t shirk my responsibility. I accepted and I learned from it, and I moved on. This last year had been all about guilt and making amends, learning to be better, learning how to do better. Next year would be all about moving on.
The second sign of his dark heart was his antipathy about my satisfaction in the bedroom.
And the third sign was how he treated our children.
Actually, that hadn’t been a sign. How he treated my sweet children was a neon billboard, but I’d been too stupid and stubborn and—
“Momma. Please. I have to go.”
Sighing, I released my daughter, a stab of guilt making it difficult to breathe, and nodded. “All right. But be safe.”
Jennifer gave me one more smile and I admired my beautiful daughter—beautiful inside and out—and couldn’t help but feel sad that she’d been forced to be strong in spite of her father, not because of him.
She turned for the foyer and I trailed after her. “Are you warm enough? Can I send you home with anything?”
“No. I’m good. Thank you, Momma.”
“Okay.” I fretted. Watching Jennifer leave never got easier. I longed for the days of her childhood. I would have done so many things differently.
So many things . . .
Before I knew it, my girl was out the door, in her car, and waving from the driver’s seat. I waved back, pulling my cardigan tighter around my shoulders and rubbing my arms as I fought a shiver.
It was cold. Cold to the tune of twenty-seven degrees and on the verge of snowing. Best she goes home now, before the roads get slick.
Once her taillights disappeared down the driveway, I closed the door and locked it, allowing myself one more nostalgic sigh before turning for the living room, glancing at the Christmas tree, and crossing to the couch.
I was alone. Picking up a cookie, I walked to my bedroom.
Vilma Louise—the life coach I’d been following on social media since my separation—said that I needed to reclaim my feminine power. I’d given it away over the course of my bad marriage, given it to my husband every day I didn’t demand his respect and support, demand that he be a husband to me in all the ways that mattered.
After I’d discovered Vilma Louise, I’d made a few reckless choices. One in particular that—though I didn’t regret it, didn’t regret him and what had happened between us—I realized now it hadn’t been healthy behavior.
Sure, he’d administered my first orgasm with a man. And that same night he’d also given me my second, third, fourth, and fifth. But he wasn’t . . . well, we weren’t suited. And that was that.
Vilma Louise had warned her followers many times, saying the worst thing to do after the end of a marriage was jump into bed with someone else, to try filling the void with another person, and I’d done just that. But now I knew better. The next person I had sex with would be someone who wanted me, not someone I’d thrown myself at in a moment of weakness.
I was done being weak for men.
Therefore, Mr. Repo and our night together were firmly in the past. As part of my healing process, I found pleasure in myself whenever I noticed being alone. It was part of learning to love myself, who I was. I needed to be not just enough, but more than that. I was my best friend, my best partner, my best lover.
I took this advice very seriously and credited it with the permanent, satisfied smile I wore most days.
With the warm feelings still floating around in my belly from five hours of Hallmark movies, I crossed to my dresser and took out a black nightie trimmed with red lace, divested myself of clothes, and took my time slipping it on.
Then I let my hair down, eying myself in the mirror and wondering for maybe the hundredth time since separating from Kip whether or not I should dye it red. I’d always wanted to be a redhead. I’d talked about it for years, but Kip said no one would take me seriously if I did.
Well, screw him.
I decided then and there that I would make an appointment with Darla after Jennifer’s wedding in the spring and dye my hair red as a cardinal’s feathers. I left my bedroom dressed only in the nightie, because why not? I was by myself and it was five days after Christmas. I’d taken the entire week off from work. I could walk around this house naked as a possum if I wanted. No one would see or care.
I tiptoed to the living room, grabbed another cookie, and washed it down with a cup of eggnog—the good stuff with generous amounts of rum and brandy, not the store-bought imitation for Baptists and Seventh Day Adventists—then packed away the remainder of our picnic.
But I did grab the bottle of brandy and a lowball glass.
As soon as the living room was tidy, I claimed the chair closest to the gaslit fireplace, snuggled under a blanket, poured myself two fingers of brandy, and picked up my e-reader.
Since Jennifer’s relationship with Cletus Winston, I’d become friendly with his only sister, Ashley. She was helping me plan Jennifer and Cletus’s engagement party and the wedding. Anyhow, Ashley was a reader and she’d given me a list of the best sexy books to read during my alone time. Suffice it to say, Ashley Winston-Runous was now one of my favorite people on the planet.
The wind kicked up, whistling through the trees and rattling the windows. I noticed the snow coming down just before I lost myself in my book. About a half-hour later, the lights flickered off, then on, then off again. I glanced around, seeing they weren’t coming back on, and shrugged. I had my fire, blanket, and brandy to keep me warm. My e-reader was fully charged and backlit. If needs be, I could sleep by the fireplace.
An hour passed. Then another. Maybe another after that. I didn’t know. I lost track of time. It was a real good book. The plot was better than the sex scenes, so I kept on reading. I was just coming to the second to last chapter—where all the good stuff happens—when a knock sounded on my front door.
Startled, I glanced at the clock over the fireplace. It was past midnight.
Now who in tarnation—
Another knock followed, louder this time and lasting for a longer period of time.
Frowning, I reluctantly set my e-reader to one side and wrapped myself in the large blanket. The unknown person knocked a third time, even more insistent than before.
“I hear you, I hear you. Keep your britches on,” I muttered, making sure the blanket covered me from neck to ankle, then squinted through the peephole.
Oh my God . . .! It was dark, and I couldn’t see his face, but I knew who it was. Startled, I stiffened and reared back, my heart jumping to my throat.
“Diane?” he called, his Texas drawl meeting my ears and melting bones.