Page 13 of This Life of Mine

Val grins as she sets the tray down beside me. “That’s it, Lin. That’s the scent of rent getting paid.”

“Rent, payroll, and maybe a new espresso grinder. If we sell out before noon, we might also splurge on more gloves,” I add.

“Don’t get reckless,” she says mockingly. “Save that energy for your love life.”

“Ha!” I shout.

“So,” Val begins, her tone casual, but I already know that tone. Itsgirl talk disguised as work chatter.“Your date last night ended with you paying half the bill and telling him never to call again?”

“Yup.” I respond, as I continue frosting.

“He was such a douche. So arrogant. Like he expected me to sit there drooling over his crypto portfolio. We spent nearly the whole date talking about his workout routine. He never once asked anything about me.”

Val cackles. “Oh, God. Agym bro.You have a type.”

“I haveeyes,“ I correct her. “Big biceps. Dimples. Tall enough to reach the good shelves. I was optimistic. Hopeful. Butmostlyhorny.”

She snorts. “Do tell me more.”

“He gave me the impression that I was trying out for the part of a Stepford Wife. He also told me he couldwork with mesince I didn’t quite meet his body type expectations.”

Val pauses, wide-eyed. “Work with you? Like you’re a project?”

“Apparently,” I say dryly, “I’m under construction. I need fewer opinions and more salads.”

She signals disapproval, anger. “Fuck that dude! You are gorgeous. Just because you have a fat ass doesn’t mean you are fat. What a dick! You either attract weirdos or flat-out idiots.”

“Excuse you, my taste is eclectic.” I flick frosting at her, and she dodges.

“Besides, I wasn’t expecting love. I only wanted a good lay. I ended up going to the gym and then reading a book. And I will not get started on what I was reading.”

“I guarantee it was something dark and morbid,” she says.

I smile at the thought.

It’s easier to date for fun and keep it light. Temporary. Uncomplicated. No quiet negotiations over who I’m supposed to be.

I’d spent so many years doing what someone else wanted—what someone else decided was right for me—that once I was single, I refused to perform again.

Fun is safer. Detaching is easier.

And if that meant the occasional bad date and a good book waiting for me at home, I could live with that.

I’m done being the woman people approved of. Done being measured against someone else’s idea ofproper.

My divorce had already made me an outcast in the eyes of others. It took time, but I eventually stopped caring. If they wanted to call me reckless, fast or promiscuous, let them. I’d carried other people’s expectations long enough.

Dating casually wasn’t rebellion—it was relief. No more proving myself or shrinking myself into something palatable.

I’ll admit. At first, I was terrified.

The idea of sex with a stranger felt impossible. For fifteen years my body had only ever known one man. Damage accompanied it—or so I heard.Pregnancy ruined you.No one else will want you. Those words lived under my skin longer than I want to admit.

The first time I took a chance, my body shook. The second time, less. And eventually, I realized something that changed everything: real men don’t catalogue stretch marks or scars. To them, it’s not damage.

Real men want confidence. And at some point, I quit being afraid of being wanted. I became comfortable wanting back.

Val smirks. “You and your distractions.”