Her face lights up on the screen. “Mom! Tell me everything!”
“It’s nothing serious. Just… he’s not what I expected.” The words sound flimsy even to me. Nothing serious? He sang poetry in Latin under the stars without even knowing I was listening.
“You sound different when you talk about him.”
“I do not.”
“Yes, you do. So? Do you like him? Like, actually like him? Because you’ve got that goofy smile you only get when Jason Momoa shows up shirtless in a movie trailer.”
I roll my eyes, but the protest dies in my throat. Ava’s right. This matters more than I want to admit, which is exactly why it’s terrifying.
“I’m supposed to be focusing on myself,” I say, but the words feel hollow even to me. “Building my independence. Not falling for another man.”
“What if you can do both? What if finding the right person actually makes you stronger instead of weaker?”
After we hang up, I stare at the ceiling and try to sort through the tangle of wants and fears competing in my chest. Ava’s question echoes in my mind: what if finding the right person makes you stronger?
I pull out my laptop to work on this week’s assignment, grateful for the distraction. The grant proposal flows easily tonight—something about historical preservation programs that leverage experiential learning to create deeper cultural connections. As I write about the power of hands-on education to transform understanding, I realize I’m basically describing what’s happening to me here.
Learning to fight has taught me I’m stronger than I knew. Learning to ride has shown me I’m braver than I thought. And learning that the quiet gladiator who fixes broken windows sings like an angel? That’s teaching me I might be ready for complications I’d sworn off forever.
When I submit my work, my professor’s feedback from the last assignment still glows on the screen:Outstanding work on cultural preservation funding. Your community engagement strategies demonstrate a sophisticated understanding of nonprofit leadership dynamics. This represents graduate-level thinking.
Graduate level. Me! My professor just validated that I can do this academic thing—that I’m smart and capable, and I don’t need to depend on anyone.
But wanting someone isn’t the same as needing them, is it? And for the first time in my adult life, I’m feeling genuine want—not the desperate need for approval that drove my marriage, but actual desire for a specific man who makes my pulse quicken and my brain turn to mush.
I deserve to feel desired. I deserve good sex before I dry up and get old. The thought hits me with startling clarity as I close my laptop and catch sight of myself in the dresser mirror.
Forty-five isn’t ancient. My body is getting stronger every day, and for the first time in decades, I actually like what I see when I look at myself—a woman still worth wanting, still worth touching. A woman with bright eyes, color in her cheeks, and the kind of confidence that comes from throwing actual gladiators onto training mats.
If Quintus is willing, what’s the harm in some casual fun? I’m in control now—of my body, my choices, my desires. Maybe I can handle physical attraction without losing myself in it.
Can’t I?
The thought follows me through my evening routine and out onto the sanctuary grounds for my nightly walk. The Missouri air carries the scent of coming autumn, and the moon is nearly full, turning the paths silver-bright.
I find myself walking toward the area where I first heard him sing, though I don’t expect to find him there again. That was probably a onetime thing, a moment of private vulnerability I was lucky enough to witness.
But I keep walking anyway, because something about that spot feels charged with possibility now. Like it’s become sacred ground where transformations happen and walls come down.
The training yards are empty, bathed in moonlight that makes everything look like a stage set for some grand romance. I settleonto the same log where Quintus had sat three nights ago, and try to imagine what it would feel like to have that kind of music in my soul. Try to imagine what it would feel like to have someone sing to me with that much emotion.
The thought sends heat spiraling through my chest, and I realize I’ve made my decision. I can handle physical attraction. I’m in control now. If I want him—and I do, with an intensity that should probably scare me—then, if he’s willing, I’ll make it happen.
I walk back to my quarters with a new sense of purpose, and spend longer than usual in the shower, taking care with things I’d stopped paying attention to years ago. Shaving carefully. Touching my body. Looking at myself not as a collection of flaws Scott catalogued, but as something wholly mine.
Something that could give and receive pleasure with the right partner.
In the mirror, I practice what confidence looks like. Shoulders back, eyes direct, taking up space without apology. The woman looking back at me is someone I’m still getting to know, but I like her more every day.
Tomorrow, I’ll make my interest known. Tomorrow, I’ll take charge of my desires for the first time in my adult life.
Tomorrow, I’ll find out if the man who sings to the stars is interested in making some earthbound music with me.
And yet, beneath the bravado, a single question drums in my pulse: what if he says no?
Chapter Nine
