Page 2 of Catching Feels

Is it normal to peruse dating apps when you’re peeing? I’m not sure, but the likelihood of me meeting my next “maybe” while on the toilet is high. Imagine telling that story to your grandchildren. Not that I think the next maybe will be husband material. Hell, I’m not even sure I even want to get married. Finding a man to fool around with is the objective.

Middle and high school were a bust. No one was interested in the girl whose brothers—plural—popped up in on every situation where a guy dared take a second glance at me. Hell, even after they graduated and went on to college, the whispers of the threats they’d made still followed me around our town and our school. I was sure my undergrad years would be promising, but they blew up my phone with warnings about what they would do to any jock or frat boy who added me to the list of girls they nailed and how they’d end up in jail.

Could they have been blowing smoke? Yes. Could they have been serious? Also, yes. But worse than that was I didn’t want to be a number on some immature asshole’s list of ass he tapped. A man who has a list like that clearly has issues, and I know all about men with issues.

My brothers are the men they are because our mother raised good men. Hell, they even give her Father’s Day cards. They won’t admit our father ever taught them a thing, but he did teach me a thing or two. He taught me what I didn’t want in a man. My list of red flags could span a mile, if not more, all thanks to him.

Add to all that the classes I took outside of my exercise science degree requirements, ones of a more personal interest that ended up giving me a second major in Women’s and Gender Studies, and I am now confident in what I, Jillian Hart, want in a man.

Yes, I know it’s more PC to say “partner,” but I’m not looking for that yet, maybe not ever. What I want right now is a man to … experiment with. That sounds cold, but it is what it is. Limited experience doesn’t negate my desire to feel, to touch, to taste, and to be touched and tasted.

Yes, undergrad would have been an epic exploration of all of that if not ruined by the pandemic. Then, after that shitshow, Rome and Hudson were drafted, and Grandma Hart got sick and passed away. That loss? Devastating.

Mom and I traveled as much as we could to watch and cheer Rome and Hudson on as they played. Their seasons, for the most part, are opposite of one another, and Hudson’s is shorter, so he traveled with us when he could. It was awesome. There was no years’ worth of planning and saving; Hudson simply whipped out his card.

Mom still insisted on using coupons, discount codes, and scouring the best price on the web, if available, and always reminded him to think twice before a purchase. He owns a kick-ass house on Skaneateles Lake near the Knights training facility and playing field, Legacy Stadium, in Blue Valley, New York.

“It’s bought and paid for; that’s my savings account,” he always tells her.

Now that prices of real estate have gone through the roof, she agrees it was a wise investment.

Roman went straight from the minors to the majors and bought rental properties, yet he still drives his old pickup.

We used to live in Grandma’s house and had planned to until I graduate in a couple of weeks. Yes, used to. However, a few weeks ago, when we returned to Virginia, we found my father had moved into Grandma Hart’s house—his mother—and had changed the locks. It didn’t matter that it had been at her request that we moved in because her only child—my father—had taken her savings and had been cashing her social security checks, meaning she had been on the verge of losing her home. It didn’t matter that Mom paid the taxes and utilities, and we all took care of Grandma when she was sick for more than eight years. It didn’t matter that Rome, Hudson, and I painted the house and maintained the property because we loved her, and it was home. It didn’t matter that we loved her and knew he never visited her, even when she was dying, because he was her son and Rome’s ex-girlfriend was the sheriff’s daughter.

My plan to go to grad school is now on hold. I’ve been accepted to Montana University’s program, but I really don’t want to be that far away. I’m still waiting to see if I get pulled off the waitlist for Binghamton University in Central New York or Rutgers here in Jersey.

Being as busy as they are, I have yet to bring this up with Mom or my brothers. Why? I know Mom will pack us up and move West, but that’s not fair to her or my brothers, who are only a four-hour drive from each other.

Hudson bought a freaking RV, and Mom loves driving the damn thing. He has a whole setup for it on his property, which is amazing.

He recently lied and told Mom that he sold a half-acre to a teammate whose family lives in the South so they had a little place here. The truth is he and Rome are having a house built where everything is on the main level, and the upstairs is a loft where we can all stay one day. The front, all windows facing the lake, and “we” are giving her the deed to it on Mother’s Day. The reality is, I’ll never make the money they do, even with a Doctorate, and it sucks I can’t ante in a third, but wallowing in that feels gross.

I will not begrudge their success, and I don’t, not even a little. I’ll celebrate their success, born of hard work, and bask in the love they have for the woman who deserves all the Father’s Day cards she gets because she played both roles.

Mom and I rolled into town this afternoon, and she made me drive the huge RV. Okay, it’s not that huge. It’s not like a rock band bus, but it’s bigger than Grandma Hart’s seven-year-old Prius. She was so proud of that car; it was the first vehicle she’d bought brand new. She gave it to me when she could no longer drive, and I have sworn I’ll drive it until the wheels fall off.

I focus back on the app and swipe through the profile pics until I see abs—perfect abs—the kind that all others should be measured by.

I click to read the bio.

Profile name: SportsManSam

I’ve surfed the biggest waves … in my bathtub, scored a touchdown in a hockey game, and hit a home run in chess. My secret talent? Outrunning cheetahs on the track. They’re fast, but I have better sneakers. When I’m not busy winning Olympic gold in musical chairs, I enjoy coaching unicorns in the art of pole dancing. Hit me up for a lesson.

Oh. My. God. That’s freaking priceless! I laugh to myself and decide, Screw it. Then I slide my finger back on the slingshot and release to?—

“Jillian,” Mom calls to me through the door. “I’m going to the RV to get some sleep.”

I set my phone down, wipe quickly, flush, wash my hands, and hurry out, catching her before she leaves. “You’re not going to watch the highlights?”

“I watched it all in real time. It’s been a long day.” Then Mom yawns as she gives me a hug, which does as yawns do and makes me yawn, too.

“Oh no, you can’t leave, too.” Cora’s worried whisper comes from behind me.

Stepping back, I give Mom a peck on the cheek. “See you in less than an hour.”

“Take your time. That purple mattress your brothers bought me was way too expensive, but I have to admit, it is a dream.”

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