To have any chance of making my flight, I had to keep swerving my dented black minivan around idiotic drivers who did not have a plane to catch. That morning in Southampton, Marty had just come back from working out at Big Dick’s Boot Camp, where he hooked up with all his business buddies from New York and Philly who also had second homes here.

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A steamy, liberating tale of self-exploration and self-love that encourages readers to ‘revel in your sexuality’” —Kirkus Reviews Leslie Morgan, bestselling author of Crazy Love and Mommy Wars, was a mom turning fifty, reeling from divorce and determined to reclaim her life. It skittered across the wrought iron tabletop toward him. I stood up as quickly as I could, hoping to disguise my mortification, and grabbed my Rollaboard handle. Lost in the throng of passengers rushing the gate, neither of us even said good-bye. It had been almost two years since I’d seen his actual ass, but I could have drawn you a picture of what it looked like. Tigger, our white Lab mutt, was panting with his pink tongue hanging out, sprawled on the grass overlooking the pool, watching the kids swim as if he were the official lifeguard.

In a radical break with convention, she dedicated a year to searching for five new lovers, seeking the rapture absent in a life of minivans and mom jeans—and finding a profound new sense of self-worth. ” His looks and his voice morphed into the perfect combination of Abercrombie & Fitch model and every country singer on my Apple Music playlist. I blurted out the first words that entered my head. Both sixteen-year-old Timmy and fourteen-year-old Bella were crazy about the pool and the ocean. There’d have been so much dog hair to skim off the water, I would have stuck a fork in my eye.

All I wanted now was to hang out with my two teenaged kids and our pets. He’d slathered 100 SPF sunscreen in white streaks across his bald spot, which now counted for most of his head. The skin was translucent from years trapped in the custom-crafted wing tips every law firm partner in Philadelphia seemed to wear. I had tried my damnedest to reach Marty, opening my psyche to him in the therapist’s office, and giving him every drop of love in my body over our years together. One three-word text did not come close to making up for years of neglect and condescension. The next day, Marty conceded, via email, that he’d move out of our house once the children went back to school.

Although it had been three years since I’d had sex, my wildest dream was to never get into a car, or sleep in a bed, with any man, ever again. I always found bald guys attractive, but I’d never been able to convince Marty of that. Like a pot boiling over, I unexpectedly became so furiously angry, I could hardly stop to inhale. I had not planned to end our marriage that afternoon. In return, he’d kept his hopes, dreams, and body to himself, ignoring me on my birthday, Mother’s Day, and our wedding anniversary. There is no goddamn way I’m leaving our house and I don’t give two fucks when you start seeing her openly. Did he notice, or care, that I’d finally had enough? A week after that marriage-ending fight, when he was back in Philadelphia for work, late one night, my phone lit up with a three-word text from him. It was so damn sweet, two tears popped out of the corners of my eyes. Two weeks later, we told the kids we were splitting up.I clattered past a Hudson News store and didn’t recognize myself in the plate glass window. His eyes held mine, replacing my shiver with the warm cloak of a cashmere sweater. Entire decades had passed during which I thought a man would never look at me like that again. Why was I thinking about taking off my clothes in the middle of an airport? When I never wanted to have sex again as long as I lived? I would feel better getting you another coffee,” I explained, squeezing my suitcase handle from sudden, excess adrenaline. “Very nice of you.” We mopped up the spilled coffee with napkins from my purse and then I looked around for the green Starbucks mermaid. I carried two iced Americanos to a wrought iron table we’d snagged, squeezed between the pastry display and a concrete pillar. And boy, he smelled good, like wood chips mixed with clean laundry hanging in the sun to dry. He examined us as if we were companies he was planning to take over and sell within a few years. Heart racing, blood pounding in my temples, I realized in a rush that this wasn’t a talk. Now I was the one with the poker face, even as the hollow of my stomach clenched. Tears came to my eyes as I tried to pinpoint the exact moment our marriage had died. I felt as if I’d swallowed Drano, but both kids looked at me, tears dripping down their cheeks, with a surprising measure of relief.I had on a stretchy black top and my favorite Lucky jeans. “You don’t need to buy me another coffee,” he protested, mildly, faint smile lines creasing his tanned cheeks. We sat across from each other, awkwardly holding our cold plastic cups. As if he were trying to ascertain how much we were worth in dollars. “I think we have to admit that our marriage is dead, Marty. I’m not sure we can revive it, no matter what we do.” I searched my husband’s face for heartbreak. Maybe years before, when he first refused to kiss me on the lips when I had bronchitis, claiming he couldn’t afford to get sick at work then. With that intuitive kid sense, Timmy and Bella may have already realized, probably even before we did, that our problems weren’t fixable. My kids still remember my first long term relationship after my divorce. Remember how it felt to meet someone no kids dating for the first time Also complimentary comments coming from friends are easier to accept and are not seen as boasting.Despite the traffic and the heat, my heart felt light with joy, because for the first time in nearly twenty years, I was on a trip by myself, with no one in the car to fight with me. But it was cheaper and a shorter time commitment than golf, which took at least half a day and cost about twenty times as much, so I never complained.