Papi: Based on a True Story Read online

  The truth is, I often mourn the loss of my teenage body that I didn’t appreciate when I had it. But it is what it is, and it could always be worse, right? I remind myself that I’ve lost a lot of weight and that in itself makes me feel a bit better. Fitting into a size six had always been a pipe dream before. Not now. And that reminds me that I need to work on my self-confidence a little more. Which also gives me another excuse to add to the list. How can I date someone if my confidence is in the toilet? How would that be fair to them?

  But maybe, just maybe, a date is exactly what I need.

  I’m reminded of what my friend, Jean, told me the other day. “You need to get back out there. You’re gorgeous. The total package, and men are going to be tripping over themselves to have you. I’m telling you, once you go on a date, you’re going to realize you have options.”

  I just nodded at the time, not really believing her. People who love you have to say those things. They’re biased. But Jean might have a point.

  A point that just days ago I was on board with. Get back on the horse, Julie.

  So, after I shower and get the kids their breakfast, I sit down at the computer, sort through my emails, and peek at the message from LatinLover80 again. At those two little words that make my stomach flutter.

  And my fingers touch the keyboard. Press down on the keys.

  Hey. You’re not too bad yourself. ;)

  I hit enter and immediately click to a fresh screen as if running away, although my butt hasn’t left the chair. Insecurities and doubt plague me, and at the same time, I’m giddy with anticipation. Will he answer back? It’s been days. What if he’s already moved on, lost interest? Is it weird to have waited so long to respond?

  I check my email again because somehow that feels less stalker-ish than going to the dating website itself to see if I have any new messages. I do.

  LatinLover80 messaged you.

  I have a mini heart attack.

  OMG. That means he’s online. Right now. If I reply back now, he’ll know I am too. But, of course, he knows I’m online. I just messaged him.

  Taking a deep breath, I return to the site to read it. He’s observant. Sees that I don’t get on the site often. I confirm as much, telling him the truth: I prefer texting over messaging. It’s faster and easier for me.

  He jokingly asks me for my number, but I don’t think he’s joking at all. I think he’s waiting to see what I’ll do. Testing the water.

  I consider it. Tell myself no. He could be a stalker. A serial killer. A rapist. Hell, he could be a damned human trafficker. Someone I don’t want having my number.

  But he could also be a nice guy, someone I want to get to know. And I do want to get to know him. Plus, if he gets weird, I could always delete his number and block him. Right?

  I talk myself in circles until I give in, and before I know it, I’ve sent him my number.

  Dear God, what am I doing?

  I’m being reckless. Naïve, even, though I know going in the pitfalls that I could be facing. No matter how well you try to plan for everything that could go wrong, there’s always the possibility of running into the things you didn’t plan for.

  That’s life, though, a crapshoot of what-ifs. And what’s life worth if you don’t live it a little, take a little risk now and then? Throw caution to the wind, Julie!

  My phone goes off not a minute later, and I stare at it—vibrating in my pajama pocket where it lays against the top of my thigh—silently freaking out.

  I can’t ignore that. A text is immediate, no delays. That’s the beauty of technology, of cell phones—they're always on, and they’re always on you. I immediately think maybe I should have kept it to the emails. At least then I had an excuse.

  But that option is well and truly gone now.

  Sucking in a deep breath, I palm the cell phone and swipe my finger across the screen to unlock it. Sure enough, there’s his text.

  Hey, it’s LatinLover80, he introduces himself, so I know who he is, and then he asks me who I am. Not my username on the website, but my real name.

  “Here we go,” I mutter to myself as I type out a reply.

  3

  When can I see you?

  I’ve been texting back and forth with LatinLover80, whose real name is Alejandro, for the last six and a half hours. Today. Yesterday was more like eight. And the day before that the same. Seriously! What was supposed to be a brief chat session three days ago has turned into an all-day, every day thing. I’ve never talked to anyone this long in my life. It’s crazy. It’s awesome.

  I’ve spent days and nights doing chores, cooking, and wrangling the kids in between reading and sending texts to Alejandro. And I’ve done it all with a stupid grin on my face too. I’m seriously sleep deprived, and I can’t remember the last time I ate a real meal, but I don’t even care. I’m so damn happy, it’s downright insane.

  Even the kids have noticed—how could they not?—and want to know what I’m so happy about. I just keep telling them that Jean and I are having a bit of fun. They don’t question it. They know Jean. We’ve been friends for most of our lives, and we talk nearly every day. But even we don’t talk as much or as long as Alejandro and I have been this week.

  I wouldn’t be surprised if we’ve broken a record for how many texts exchanged in so many hours.

  So far I know he’s single—obvi—and that he has one kid, a little boy, who lives with his mother. He loves his job and travels a lot, which means that he doesn’t actually reside here in my state, and if we hit it off, which I think we have, then I won’t have to worry about him trying to move in and upend my life. That’s important to me. The kids and I have just begun to settle into our new routine. This way, I can have my life with my kids and my life with him and keep them fairly separate if I want to. It might be the perfect arrangement. Commitment without commitment.

  This is looking better and better by the minute.

  Maybe Jean was right. Maybe this was exactly what I needed. Who would have thought it’d be the first time out of the gate, though? I mean, I believe in destiny, but still. For it to work this fast? I’m almost waiting for the gotcha moment. Like, something has to be wrong. Too good to be true, you know?

  But I’m going to roll with it. See where the wind takes me. Because sometimes in life, you just have to close your eyes and jump.

  I stare at Alejandro’s text for longer than I should. I need to respond, but the voice in my head is jumping back and forth, undecided. I want to meet him, but I don’t. I want to see him, see what he’s all about, in person. Taste those plump, juicy lips from the many pictures we’ve exchanged—the first man I’ve kissed aside from my husband in over seventeen years. But I don’t. All of my insecurities are still yapping in my ear, and I can’t help worrying that I’ll be a disappointment to him. The clichéd older woman, and I come with baggage. It’s not the right way to start any relationship, and yet he doesn’t seem to care. When I told him I was separated, not divorced, his words were, “Glad to hear it,” as if it were a total nonissue.

  So why should I worry about something that doesn’t bother him?

  Still, I resist.

  IDK, I’m so busy this week, I tell him.

  I am. It’s not a lie. Between shuffling the kids back and forth to school and preparing for family functions that are coming up, my son starting driving classes, work, and the general day-to-day, I feel overwhelmed as it is. Adding dating to the mix feels like the straw that could break the camel’s back. I wonder if maybe I’m not ready for dating after all. I love the excitement it offers me, that fuzzy, euphoric feeling of exploring uncharted territory, but it also feels like it may take what little energy I have left.

  Can I spare it?

  The question is one I know I won’t have an answer to unless I go out and do it.

  Come on, Mami. Don’t play. I want to see you.

  That’s the other thing. He calls me Mami. The first time he used that term of endearment, I nearly swooned on the spo
t. It’s as if all my childhood prayers are being answered.

  Just one drink.

  He’s pushy too. In the last several hours of talking to him, I’ve learned that Alejandro is a man who knows what he wants. He’s not shy about asking for it either. He’s borderline demanding, and I’m waffling between the stubborn side of me who pushes back when pushed, and the side that likes the control he’s trying to wield over me. I’ve always been the type that needs the extra push, and he is. Hard.

  What if you’re a serial killer? I ask him.

  Do a background check. I got nothing to hide.

  Damn, that’s a good answer. But exactly what a serial killer would say if they were trying to throw their victim off the scent. Paranoid much, Julie? This is exactly why I need to get out more.

  You’re safe with me.

  I don’t respond right away because I need more time to think.

  I need to taste those lips Mami. I want to bite them.

  That familiar shiver that’s been haunting me all day returns. He’s got me all worked up, and we haven’t even met yet. How am I supposed to deny a man who pushes all my feel-good buttons without even being in the same room? My resolve is already waffling, and knowing I won’t be able to hold out much longer, I give in.

  Okay is my simple reply.

  :D

  We set a date for the following evening after he gets off work. So I have all night and all day to sit around and think about it. Great. My nerves should be well and truly shot by then.

  You’d better not sell me into human trafficking, I tell him.

  LOL I promise. You’re safe with me.

  Yeah, that’s what all traffickers say, I’m sure. I tell Alejandro goodnight. He tells me buenos noches. Then he demands another picture before I go. I groan internally, because not only has he already requested several, but I’ve already removed my makeup. Yet I find that I can’t tell him no.

  And that’s something that worries me.

  I can resist all I want, but we both know that in the end, he’s going to get his way. It’s scary how much power he has over me in such a short amount of time.

  It’s scarier still that I like it.

  I’m in way too deep already, which is why I know there’s no backing out or off of this until I’ve satisfied this craving I’ve developed. I’ll meet Alejandro, see what he’s all about, and maybe—definitely—let him taste and bite my lips. If I come out of it alive, then it will be an experience I’ll never forget.

  Lord help me. I’m going in.

  4

  I went with the white jeans. They make my butt look…decent. I did a hundred squats before leaving the house in hopes of plumping it a little more—gravity and I have not been getting along well lately. I wish I would have done a hundred more, but my knees just aren’t what they used to be, and they already ache from those I did.

  So, I resort to isometrics—squeezing my butt cheeks together—while I drive out to the restaurant where we agreed to meet. It has a bar, so thankfully, I won’t feel the pressure to eat. I don’t think I could even if I wanted to—my stomach is all kinds of fucked up. Anxiety is eating me alive, but so is the thrill of adventure.

  To ease some of my rampant emotions, I blast the stereo, cranking up Rick Ross’s “Aston Martin Music.” The sensual flavor and beats help some, and I rap the few lines I’ve committed to memory to take my mind off what is now only a matter of minutes away from happening.

  I’m meeting a man. I’m going to kiss a man who is not my husband. I feel like a teenager again…and I love it. I also hate it. But I love it more.

  God, I hope this works out.

  “I’m going to kiss a new boy tonight!” I shout over the music, because, yes, I really am that awkward. But it just needed to be said, like releasing the pressure on a valve. Never in my wildest dreams would I have seen myself doing this, but life throws you curve balls, and you adapt. So here I am.

  I arrived at the restaurant right on time. It’s winter, so it’s already dark out. It’s also freezing, and the way the plaza the restaurant is located in is situated, it’s going to be a bit of a walk to reach the door.

  My hand shakes, and my heart palpitates as I turned off the music. In its wake, the silence presses uncomfortably against my ears. I turn off the engine next, then release the seatbelt.

  “God please, please, please let this be a good night,” I pray aloud as I open the door and step out. The wind is bitingly cold and hits me hard, wending its way through my coat and raising goosebumps everywhere.

  I slip through the lot of parked cars, concentrating on my path to distract myself from what lies ahead. I hope he’s already here. I hope he’s not. If he is, then I don’t have to stand around and wait for him. If he isn’t, it’s more time for me to collect myself.

  I round the corner to the front of the building, mindful of the slippery patches of compacted snow and ice leftover from the last winter blast, and before I even make it to the doors, I see him.

  Oh God. Standing beneath the restaurant’s awning is the most beautiful man ever. He’s everything and nothing like his pictures, and my reaction to him is instantaneous. Every female part of me lights up like the Fourth of July, demanding to touch and be touched as every word we’ve exchanged rushes forward in my mind.

  He’s tall like I expected, his midnight hair combed back and styled simply but sexy. His features are broad, strong jaw and thick neck that inspire thoughts of me licking and sucking on. I love a nice neck. There’s just something about a man’s neck that gets me hot and bothered.

  He’s wearing a sweater and jeans that hug him just right, accenting a narrow waist and powerful thighs. I love that he’s not a toothpick—so many guys are it seems. He’s not overworked, but just right. The perfect build to make a woman feel comfortable standing beside.

  When he sees me, a slow smile spreads across his face, and damn if it doesn’t light up the night. In that moment, I fall into those big brown eyes, and I’m lost. He is all I see.

  “Mami,” he greets me, and his accented voice is a soft, gentle caress that makes me nearly trip over myself.

  “Hi,” I reply, aware that I haven’t stopped smiling since the second I laid eyes on him. I can’t help it. It’s an instant connection for me. Any doubts I had before have completely evaporated. This is exactly where I want to be.

  He holds the door open for me to pass through, which is…odd. It takes me a second to attribute the disconcerting sensation to my husband, who never opened a door for me in all our time together. Not even when we were dating. In fact, as Alejandro pulls out the bar stool for me to sit, I get flashes of my husband—then boyfriend—walking ahead of me, not holding my hand in public, rarely picking up the tab.

  It occurs to me that I put up with a lot of shit that I shouldn’t have. I excused and made excuses for him, and I don’t even know why. Maybe I’m one of those women who love too much. Give too much to others at the expense of themselves. Even these small gestures are a refreshing change of pace.

  The bartender makes his rounds, and we both order a beer.

  “Are you hungry?”

  I glance at the menu left on the counter in front of us. “No,” I say honestly. “I’m too nervous to eat.”

  “Me too,” Alejandro admits, smiling. It’s a shy smile, and it’s so endearing I want to lean in and kiss him on the spot.

  “You are?” I ask with some surprise. His eyes widen, and he nods, and I swear to God, he just got ten times sexier. “I never would have expected that. You seem so confident in texts.”

  He shrugs. “I’ve never done this before.”

  “Get out of here. Are you serious?”

  “Yep. This is my first time doing anything like this.”

  That catches me off guard even more. He was so eager, so in control in our texts, I just assumed he was a regular pro at picking up women. My immediate, knee-jerk reaction is to distrust him. No way doesn’t he know what he’s doing. But one look in those soulfu
l brown eyes and I readjust my attitude. I see no deception there. All I see is the same shyness that I feel.

  Somehow, in a strange twist, his unease erases every ounce of nerves I walked into this with. I’m instantly calm, my nerves grow quiet, and I settle in.

  “So,” Alejandro says as he leans in just a little, “did you do that background check?”

  I flush and take a drink of my beer. “No,” I confess with a little shake of my head. In all honesty, I didn’t want to. I wanted to just go with the flow, not overthink things like I have a tendency to do, and just see where things went.

  “No?” He seems surprised by this. I shake my head to confirm. His brows go up, and he takes a drink of his own beer.

  “Did you look me up?”

  “I did,” he says.

  “Afraid I was going to be a murderer?” I tease.

  “I was afraid you would not be who you said you were.” He goes on to tell me that his boss, who doubles as his friend, told him all sorts of horrible possibilities that come with online dating. Even advised him against meeting me. “He said you were going to be a man,” Alejandro tells me.

  I laugh outright. “Well, I assure you I’m not.”

  He looks me over, those eyes of his smoldering. “No, you are not.”

  The thinly veiled compliment causes my stomach to dip a little, and I look away, needing a moment to gather my wits. I’ve never been good at receiving compliments. Thank you seems like wasted words, so I choose silence.

  “So what happened with you and your husband?”

  I’ve only told him the barest details about the split in our texts. Alejandro asked what I was looking for in a relationship, and my response was simple: loyalty and honesty. His reply had been, “Now I know why you’re getting a divorce.” Nothing more needed to be said at the time, but now…