Page 15 of Sleepless Nights and Hockey Fights

@singlemomcatlady: Sorry, that sounded bad. I’m just not sure dating apps are for me.

@PitterPatterLetsGetAtHer: Sometimes it’s easier to talk to somebody online instead of face-to-face. Just saying. The anonymity can be kind of freeing.

@singlemomcatlady: I guess I can see that. I mean, it’s probably good that the guys on here don’t know I’m a two-time Olympic gold-winning sumo wrestler. Wouldn’t want them to be too starstruck.

@PitterPatterLetsGetAtHer: Seriously? Me too! What are the chances?

I laugh and check the time, seeing it’s after nine.

@singlemomcatlady: Ha! Well, nice chatting. I’ve got to get my kid to bed. Good luck with the coworker.

@PitterPatterLetsGetAtHer: Thanks. And, sumo wrestling fame aside, I hope you find what you’re looking for. Goodnight, cat lady.

I grin down at the phone as I close the app, but when my finger hovers over the Catnip logo to delete it, I can’t quite bring myself to do it.

“Matty! The bus is pulling up!” I shout from the front porch early the next morning where I’m standing watch.

I hear his shoes clomping on the entry floor before I see him. He whizzes past me as the bus brakes squeal and hiss to a stop.

“Matty! Your lunch!” I thrust the insulated lunch bag at his retreating back and he turns to grab it.

“It’sMatthew, Mom. How many times do I have to tell you?”

“Right. Sorry! Go!” I shoo him toward the waiting yellow bus, and he barely makes it on before the doors close. I’ve been doing my best to use his preferred name, but it’s hard to break a twelve-year habit. To me, he’ll always be Matty.

“Another close one,” comes a voice from behind me. I turn to see my neighbor and best friend, Ramona, approaching with two steaming mugs of what I know to be the nectar of the gods. Coffee. I accept one with greedy hands as she stops at my side.

“I seriously don’t know how I’ve kept the gray hair away.”

Romona dips her chin and eyes me over her glasses. “I just assumed you’ve been dying it like I do.”

“You think I’d pick this color if I were dying my hair?” I ask her. I’ve always hated my hair, wishing I had been born a blond bombshell or a raven-haired temptress instead. Red. That’s what my mom gave me. Or auburn, as it has luckily darkened into over the years.

“How are things withMatthewthis week?” Ramona asks before bringing her mug to her lips.

I groan. “Well, let’s see. He’s still avoiding sharing breathing space with me, and his response to pretty much everything I say is, “Iknow, Mom.Jeez.” I do my best adolescent boy voice, one that sits somewhere between boy and man but can’t commit to either. “But I did get one smile out of him yesterday, and he hasn’t gotten in trouble at school in almost two weeks, so that’s something, right?”

Romona reaches over to rub my bicep with a pitying smile. She may not be a mom with all the magical answers, but she’s adamn good friend. “How did the talk with Blake go? I forgot to ask.”

I shrug and try to muster a smile. “Meh. He said it’s probably just hormones. Matty still refused the counselor idea when I brought it up again.” I drop my eyes to my mug, mentally adding calling the counseling center again to my list for the day.

“You know I’d ask Amir for his advice, but the man was born forty years old. I’m pretty sure he popped out with chest hair and that deep bass of his.”

I cough out a laugh, but she’s probably not wrong. Ramona’s husband is not only incredibly analytical and even-tempered, he’s the epitome of stoic masculinity. It’s a good thing, too, because Ramona can be a handful and a half.

“And probably his giant dick too, though I’d never ask his mama that.”

This time I choke on my coffee, which makes Ramona outright snort-laugh. I guess I can always count on her to lighten the mood.

“Jesus, Ramona,” I finally manage, but she only pats her head wrap with a smug grin.

“Speaking of big dick energy,” she continues, “Anything new happening with that hockey player you’re working for?”

I shake my head, turning to let us both in the front door. I can’t possibly talk about Bobby on my front stoop. “No. I told you it’s just business.” The conviction I meant to instill in those words falls a little short.

“Are you asking me or telling me?”

I spin around once we reach the kitchen. “Don’t you have to get to work? I knowIdo.” Which is a lie. Bobby won’t be picking me up for almost an hour. Plenty of time to drink my coffee and chat before getting ready. I have no idea how he got me to agree to his plan to chauffeur me around, much less pay for my car repairs–no matter how overdue they are.

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