Papi: Based on a True Story

by J.C. Valentine

  Papi

  by JC VALENTINE

  Copyright © 2016 by J.C. Valentine

  Cover design by Brandi Salazar Editorial Services

  Interior book design by J.C. Valentine

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the above author of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Para Benny

  Por lo que vale, todavía tengo amor para ti, Papi. Echo de menos tu cara, tu boca….tu todo. Así es que si te encuentras en mi camino otra vez, no me digas que me extrañas. Dime que salga afuera y te bese.

  Gracias por iluminar mis días, bebé, por muy breves que hayan sido.

  “When you finally reach the point where you feel good about yourself without the need for someone else’s approval, you’ve discovered true happiness.”

  ~J.C. Valentine

  1

  Divorce isn’t the end of the world. It’s all about getting back in the saddle and riding that horse like you have nothing left to lose. Because you don’t. The minute I unloaded my P.O.S. lying, cheating, scumbag husband and left it up to his gutter-trash mistress to take care of his sorry ass, I decided to never, ever allow a man to control the weather in my life again.

  I used to be that woman who gave her all, sacrificed for her man. The dutiful wife who was a lady in the streets and a freak in the bed. But that didn’t keep him, and after a long and tiring battle with myself, I realized that I’m solid on my own. I don’t need a man to be the confident, sexy, unstoppable woman I am today. So, I guess thanks are in order. I would never have realized the diamond I am if my husband hadn’t flipped the script.

  So why am I on a dating website you might ask? Well, after wasting half my life on a lost cause, pretending everything was fine when it clearly wasn’t, I’m out of practice and short on prospects. Back when the dating pool was fresh and new, all I had to do was pick up a phone and dial a friend. In a matter of hours, I’d have a date and eventually a boyfriend. Now all of those friends are either long gone or married with kids, and so is just about everyone they know who’s worthwhile.

  So dating website it is.

  It’s kind of strange. I’ve gotten so used to being a private person. Putting all my personal info out here is like rubbing salt on an open wound. It goes against my every instinct and hurts like hell, but I’m determined to get back on that saddle.

  So far, everyone I scroll through is so not my type. Not that I know what my type is, per se, but I’ll know it when I see it. And it’s none of these guys. Balding. Never married. Doesn’t want their partner to have kids. Wants kids someday themselves. Too young. Too old. And while I know looks aren’t everything, I admit most are crossed off my list on first sight.

  I’ve already spent the last couple hours—after dropping the kids at school—scrolling through profiles of potential new partners with no luck. I’m still shaking my head, wondering how some of these men expect to snag a woman with the shit they write.

  I’m tired of gold diggers. All women want is a man who will spend money on them. How about instead of me taking you out, you take me out for a change. Hit me up if you’re down.

  Puh-lease. This pompous prick is going to die alone.

  I shake my head at the nonsense and reach for my cup of tea only to realize I already drank it all. The tingling in my arm and the ache in my right elbow lets me know that I have spent entirely too much time on the computer for one morning as it is. It’s for the best. I should be working right now anyway.

  Before I sign out, though, I decide maybe it would be better if I just let the men come to me. One look at the generic shadow figure where my profile picture should be reminds me that I need to put in a little more effort if I expect not to die alone like the prick.

  So, I take out my cell phone, noting that for the cool eight hundred I paid for it, it has surprisingly shitty resolution. I position myself in the chair, hold the phone aloft, and tilt my head, doing my best to position my thumb over the camera button while trying not to drop the damn thing on my face. In my early thirties, I’m far from being old…but how the hell do the twenty-year-olds do this?

  It takes a bit of finagling, but I manage to snap off a couple shots. When I check out my handiwork, I throw out a few choice words that I’m always reminding the kids never to say. Damn double chin. I need to do a few tongue-to-roof-of-the-mouth presses. I never noticed one eye is more almond shaped than the other. And what am I doing with my smile? I look like a psychopath.

  Hold the phone up again. Tongue-to-roof-of-mouth press. Smile, but not too big. Relax the eye muscles. Blink. Sigh. Snap. Snapsnapsnapsnap. Reject them all and start over.

  This goes on for way longer than it should, until—finally—there’s one that is salvageable enough for public consumption. I don’t look too stalker-ish, too mom-ish, and the red lips say, ‘Hey, I’m sexy and I know it.’

  I hate using the internet on my phone, so the process of signing into the site takes longer than I’d like, and once I go through the lengthy process of downloading and uploading because I enjoy doing everything the hardest way possible, I’m staring at my brand new picture. Not too shabby, if I do say so myself. Definitely better than those bathroom pics and duck faces everyone seems to be so set on taking.

  Right. It’s time to get to work.

  The rest of the day blows by on a breeze. I perform my usual duties around the house then get in some work online—thank God for telecommuting! Before I know it, it’s time to pick up the rug rats and get dinner in the oven. Tonight is fried chicken and fries from the frozen section because my kids are junk food junkies and it’s easier than fighting with them over something they’re never going to eat. Sometimes, as a mom, you need to know when to pick your battles. This is one I lost a long time ago. When in Rome…

  After dinner, I paint the youngest’s nails because she wants to look extra pretty for school in the morning, and I braid the oldest’s hair because she wants waves. We put together a unicorn puzzle to pass the time, followed by an hour of My Little Pony episodes that I’ve seen at least five times already. The theme song is permanently tattooed on my brain, and I have no doubt I will be singing it on repeat when I settle in for bed tonight.

  When bedtime rolls around, I tuck in the munchkins, then let myself into my son’s room. Being a teenager, it’s pretty much the only time I ever get to see him anymore. I call him The Breeze, because most of the time, that’s all the indication I get that he’s been in a room with me. I sense him seconds before he’s gone again. Almost like an apparition. It’s a running joke between us.

  I find him folded into a human pretzel in his lounge chair, his face illuminated by the light of the tablet that might as well be sewn to his hand for all the time it spends there. In the seconds it takes me to enter the room, I soak in how much he’s grown from the tiny five-and-a-half-pound baby to the now nearly six-foot young man he is today. He’s growing out his hair, which has almost reached his collar now and even sports a bit of beard and mustache. Soon he’ll be shaving. Then he’ll be leaving. It’s enough to make a mother cry.

  “Hey, kiddo. Just telling you goodnight and I love yo
u.” It’s a routine now. The same time and same words every night.

  He grunts something that vaguely sounds like, “Okay, goodnight. Love you too.” We give a brief and somewhat awkward side-hug, and then I am closing the door behind me. Good talk, I mutter to myself as I gather my pajamas and head for the bathroom, mourning the loss of the little boy who used to sleep on my chest at night because he needed to hear my heart beat against his ear to sleep. Now he’s six feet of moody male, sweet but aloof, caught up in his own little world with little patience for his mother’s interference. I often joke with him that if he doesn’t leave the cave from time to time, he’s going to become a vampire—pale and wasted looking, and with the way he sits in that chair, a hunchback to boot.

  We laugh about it, but I do wonder sometimes…

  The hot shower burns my skin, but it’s just what I need to help shrug off the melancholy that sets in at the same time every evening. I’ve gotten used to sleeping alone, but the quiet beforehand isn’t my friend, and if I’m lucky enough to fall asleep fast, the dogged dreams are always there to greet me.

  I’ve long since decided that I don’t want to reconcile. When the man you were prepared to spend the rest of your life with betrays you, tells you you’re expendable, it’s time to start fresh. I’m ready for a change in my life, ready to reinvent myself, find someone who cherishes me the way my husband promised but failed to do, so the dreams are just that—dreams. I can no more control them than I can the weather, but it’d be nice to escape them every once in a while. Maybe be transported to a sunny beach somewhere, with a nice Latino man who rubs suntan lotion on my warm skin and speaks filthy Spanish in my ear.

  Shiver.

  I’ve always had a thing for Latinos. I can’t place my finger on why, but it’s the main reason I took Spanish in high school. I can’t speak it for shit now, and I only know the basics because I’ve forgotten most of it, but none of that has watered down my love for the language or culture.

  It’s a shame I never got to take that trip to Mexico I always dreamed of. An even bigger shame was marrying a Mexican man only to find he knew nothing of his heritage, his own father having forgotten the language in favor of Americanizing himself when he came over in his early twenties. So in many respects, he’s as white as I am.

  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.

  Releasing a resigned sigh, I turn out the light and tell myself to go to sleep.

  And end up spending the next three hours tossing and turning because I can’t stop thinking about LatinLover80 and that sexy smile and how much I’d like to run my tongue across those luscious lips.

  Days pass. I’ve forced myself to put LatinLover80 on the back burner. Why? I don’t want to look overeager for one. Two, I’m awkward as hell. Three, he’s out of my league. Too hot for a woman with three kids and a husband, even if we are on the fast-track to divorce. We’re not there yet, so how is that fair to LatinLover80? I find myself questioning what business I even have looking for another man when I have yet to scrape my soon-to-be ex off my shoe like a piece of old gum.

  Then I reason with myself that it’s just talking. It’s not like I’m interviewing him for the position of Husband Number Two. Hell, I don’t think I want to get married ever again after this one. So why am I holding back?

  I’ll tell you why. I’m scared. Scared of all of this. Scared of being the single mom, of being used goods, of being boring, too set in her ways, too mom-like, too inexperienced, too tired, too everything. I am so out of my element that it’s almost easier to crawl into a hole and never come out again than reenter life in the real world without the shelter of the person who was supposed to be my lifelong companion.

  But that’s just not my reality anymore. The reality is that I am a single mom who is tired and set in her ways, who knows what she wants and who doesn’t always feel like the prettiest or sexiest woman out there. Hell, I know I’m not. I have a little extra pudge in my hips and stretchmarks…everywhere. My boobs are saggy from breast feeding. I can tell myself every day that I’ve earned my stripes, that I love my body because it was my babies’ home for the first few months of their life, but...