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JULIAN

I thought I’d begin making my profile right away on the Mail Order Spouse site, but apparently, my profile has to go through an approval process.

I was annoyed at first, but actually, I appreciate that level of safeguarding.

I appreciate that the people who use the site are protected by clearances and shit.

I had to upload an image of my passport and everything.

In hindsight, it’d be shady if just anyone could sign up and grab a person off here. Human trafficking is bad enough in the world, right? No need to give them access to people like this.

I can’t even begin perusing profiles until my account is approved. Which takes three days. Three long, lonely days.

As the days pass, the more hope fills me.

I imagine coming home to someone waiting for me.

Someone to talk to in the evenings and spend quiet time with.

I think about this especially as I drive home from practice.

I imagine what it’d be like to open my door and see my wife waiting for me with a smile.

Which means I’m all the more disappointed when I get home from hockey and my apartment is as empty as it usually is. Or as it is now, as I get ready to leave.

I stop in front of the door and look around. These walls barely know my voice. I talk so little to so few people. I’m not sure I’ve had anyone in my space since the movers who brought my boxes up. That means, for the past five months, it’s just been me between these walls.

That feels sad. I don’t hate being alone. It’s not that kind of lonely. But I don’t want to be alone, and my choices up to this point in my life have been compromising myself to make a woman happy while increasingly feeling resentful and gross… or being alone.

I’m not willing to live that life. Regardless of what Karens and Chads think, I don’t owe anybody my body. Not even in a relationship. Their pleasure is not my responsibility. Quite frankly, I don’t give a shit if people disagree. We’re not living in the 1800s anymore.

I give my space another once-over. “Be back in a couple hours,” I tell the walls and windows. Then I roll my eyes and head out.

My condo is only fifteen or so miles from the arena, but with traffic, it usually takes me half an hour to forty minutes.

No matter the time of day. If I’m cranking out of here by the first rays of the sun on a Sunday, I can usually get somewhere pretty quickly.

But if I’m leaving that early, it usually means I’m meeting the team at the airport.

I use the drive as quiet time, which almost always makes me laugh when I think about it.

My life feels like one big quiet time. Maybe that’s not the right thing to call it.

It’s transition time. The time it takes to get from my condo to the arena allows me to get into a hockey mindframe. Even if all I’m doing is conditioning.

I also use this time to call my mama every week. Otherwise, we deal with an angry Mama whose child is neglecting her. I smile as the phone ringing fills my car.

“Hello, baby,” Mama greets. “On your way to hockey?”

“I am. Weights today.”

“Your favorite.”

I snort. It’s not my least favorite, but I’d much rather be on the ice working on skills than building muscle. I understand that both are equally important, but we all have our preferences.

“Your team isn’t doing their best this year,” Mama says.

“Tell me about it,” I groan. “I don’t feel like we’re even on the same team most days.”

“Their mamas didn’t teach them to play well together.”

“Maybe they’re only children.”

“Ohh, what’re you saying, child?”

I laugh. “That I had a very happy childhood and didn’t have to compete for my mama’s love.”

“Mhm,” she agrees.

“Hey, I think I got fried chicken down, though I’m sure I’m missing something in the seasoning.”

“It’s not the seasoning, Jules. You’re using an air fryer instead of hot oil like the Good Lord intended.”

“He intended for heart attacks early in life, huh?”

“Don’t you judge the unjudgeable.”

I laugh. “Sorry, Mama. I still think I’m missing something, though.”

“We’ll work on it. Give me a call when you’re preparing your next batch. Be sure to soak those breasts first, baby.”

“I do. In buttermilk. Even though it’s wildly bad for you.”

“Where did you come with all this concern for healthy foods?”

“A healthy diet means a healthy body. And that means I can play hockey longer.”

Mama sighs.

“Speaking of hockey, I’m just pulling in. Call you later.”

“Push hard, baby. I love you.”

“Love you, too, Mama. Tell Pops I love him.”

“Of course.”

The parking lot to the team gym has more than a dozen cars, which is usually the case. I pull in and shut the engine off right as the call ends and then pings a notification. I’m about to swipe the email notification off the screen when I see the subject.

Re: Your MOS Account Has Been Approved! Your future awaits.

My chest floods with excitement. The same image I’ve been imagining for the last couple days of my perfect partner in life waiting at home for me when I return from hockey fills my mind as I get rid of the notification.

What a freaking time to come! Now I have an entire morning of conditioning to get through.

Sighing, I head inside. I was going to do something mindless today, but now I’m afraid that I’m going to go out of my mind thinking about the promise of a future just out of reach for the next two hours. I’m going to have to switch up my plan.

Instead of weights, I head for the racquetball court and grab a couple of different sizes of the hexagonal balls.

While this is still mindless reflex training, it requires me to pay attention.

The beauty of the hexagonal ball is that you never know where it’s going to go.

It’s all about hand-eye coordination to catch it.

You can play with a partner or use a room like this and toss it to the ground so it hits the wall in front of you, forcing it back in your direction.

That means there are two different angles at play.

Unlike with a person, where you have one to predict and more time to react.

Now you have less time and two predictions.

I enjoy it a lot. It’s simple but effective and a lot of fun. With headphones in, I choose one of the empty racquetball rooms and start tossing the ball, determinedly not thinking about the fact that I could be just hours away from meeting the love of my life.

Interestingly, I’ve never been determined to fall in love.

The thing I loved most about Keno and Etna was their friendship in everything.

They were life partners without being in a relationship.

They bought furniture together. They bought a boat together.

They went on trips together. They practically lived together.

But they were platonic.

Right until they weren’t. Their conversation on the matter was as shocking as it was expected. I mean, they were practically a couple already—just minus the romance and sex, right? Honestly, I wasn’t sure how it was going to work out for them. Can you decide to fall in love with someone?

Then again, I think we all knew they loved each other deeply. Shifting between platonic love and romantic love seemed easy for them. It felt like I was watching a Hallmark movie play out in real time before my eyes. I watched them fall in love.

I think that alone convinced me I wanted the same thing. I had already wanted what they shared in their friendship, but when I saw how they naturally fell in love, too? Yeah, that’s my perfect forever right there.

Then there’s seeing Caulder and Lo. Granted, I don’t actually see them much.

But I hear them when we play video games.

They’re definitely relationship goals, if there ever were any.

I love their love. It feels like I can feel it through time and space, as if they’re sitting in the same room with me when we’re playing games online.

Lastly, there’s Hilt and his family—wife and four kids. I’ve met them several times, and it convinced me I was surrounded by happy, perfect couples. Perfect families. This is the American dream right here, right?

I’m so wrapped up in my thoughts that I don’t hear the door open or the footsteps as they approach. It isn’t until they dive in front of me to catch the ball that I realize I’m no longer alone and jump ten feet into the air.

Carter laughs as he tosses the ball back at me. I catch it as I pull one of my earbuds out. Maybe my music is too loud today.

“What’re you listening to that has you so oblivious to the outside world?”

When I start to answer, I realize I have no idea. I listen to the song for a minute before shaking my head. “Music,” I say, shrugging. “Lost in thought.”

“Yeah? That dry spell getting to you?”

I glance down at the black, gray, white, and purple band on my wrist. I always wear it, but most people don’t know what it means. I’d say the vast majority of people around me don’t recognize the colors and pattern.

Unless you’re part of the LGBTQIA+ community in some way, the many representations in the form of color combinations rarely mean anything outside the generalized rainbow flag.

I’m not surprised that’s his first assumption.

He’s a twenty-something-year-old guy. Call me stereotypical if you want but I’ve been around horny guys for the past decade.

They start young and they don’t grow out of it for a long while.

I give Carter a bemused smile without answering.

I’ve stopped volunteering my sexuality. The few times I have outside of romantic partners—actually, even with romantic partners, now that I think about it—it’s always the same thing.

That’s not a thing. You just need to meet the right girl.

Let me fix you. Pray to Jesus and he’ll set you straight.