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I didn’t know what to say.

Writing a dating profile would force me to come to terms with the fact that I’d officially become one of those people who had to say, “It’s complicated.” And maybe that wasn’t entirely correct; I had come to terms with everything, but I doubted a man would touch my baggage with a ten-foot pole, much less his own approximately seven-inch one.

It didn’t matter. I didn’t want any kind of pole near my complicated mess. I was finally happy on my own. In fact, I was rocking this whole divorce thing. I was free. My ex-husband and I had a good thing going on. We remained close, we raised our rambunctious son and our hormonal daughter together, and I’d just moved into my dream house.

I was going to cruise through the rest of my forties with a glass of wine in my hand and no one to answer to.

No, the dating market could wait. I had work, I had my kids, I had my health. I had an ex-husband who’d just gotten engaged to another man, an ex-husband who was telling me that Mason, his older brother, was moving back to town. On my street, to boot.

Now, that was a pole I shouldn’t be thinking about.

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