Last night, I found myself reflecting on my recent experiences following my breakup. I previously shared the emotional turmoil of my first heartbreak post-divorce. Now, I'm diving into the events that unfolded just a few days ago.

For the past nine months, I had the pleasure of dating an incredible man named Jeremy. He was everything I could have wished for: charming, successful, humorous, and our conversations flowed effortlessly. Yet, despite my efforts to nurture our relationship, he never committed fully. After discussing the possibility of merging our families, Jeremy expressed his desire to date other women.

In a fit of anger, I walked away. Although I still need to recount the details of that evening, it's clear that Jeremy and I have parted ways.

My heart feels fractured. The slow, painful process of my divorce felt like mourning. I often found myself in tears, grieving the life we had shared. Post-divorce, my pain stemmed from not having the kids with me full-time. I never shed tears over missing my ex-husband; instead, I lamented our paths crossing.

This heartbreak, however, has a different flavor. It's the loss of hope. I never imagined I would find love again after my divorce. Meeting someone like Jeremy in my town at this stage in my life felt like discovering a needle in a haystack, especially with the reliance on dating apps. Unlike the countless men I dated before—seriously, I've been on more dates in one year than most people experience in a lifetime—Jeremy was the only one I truly wanted to see again. With every interaction, I felt a rush of excitement.

Now, that hope is extinguished, leaving me devastated.

In my past relationships, I checked every box: attractive, well-endowed, humorous, gainfully employed, and capable of making a man feel exceptional. To many, I was a catch.

Jeremy, on the other hand, shone brightly wherever he went. Surrounded by his kids' sports activities, he mingled with a host of divorced mothers who fit the Southern California ideal. After confiding in some male friends, they suggested that he likely has someone new lined up, given his previous behavior. While I appreciate their honesty, it stings to feel replaceable.

I find myself crying incessantly. At the movies, I sob quietly between my children, grateful for the cover of darkness. I cry in the shower, in the car, and as I roam my home, surrounded by reminders of him that I can't seem to dispose of.

I've enforced a strict No Contact rule. Despite my previous attempts to plead for his attention during our breakup, I refuse to beg for someone who doesn't want to be with me. Accepting the idea of sharing someone I love is unbearable. With a Fearful Avoidant attachment style, I understand that Jeremy exhibits Avoidant tendencies. Going No Contact is my only bargaining chip.

I don't drink alone or do drugs. Although my friends have been supportive, coordinating schedules for outings is challenging. In a moment of desperation, I decide it's time to seek a rebound.

Opening Hinge feels vastly different from even two years ago. I remove Jeremy's profile to avoid any triggers that might worsen my emotional state. I also refrain from constantly checking it, which would undermine my commitment to No Contact and prolong my emotional addiction.

It's not that I'm being overly selective, but the men available are far from appealing. The few tolerable ones either lean towards Trump or are plumbers (not to sound snobbish, but I prefer to date someone within my socio-economic circle). The available options feel like the dregs of a clearance sale. Being single is preferable to settling for one of them.

I rarely log into Facebook. During my divorce, it was overwhelming to see happy families. I primarily use it for marketplace transactions. Today, I remember Facebook Dating.

"What if I know someone with friends on this site?" I ponder. Despite my reservations, I take the plunge and provide more personal information to Mark Zuckerberg.

There aren't many prospects on Facebook Dating within a reasonable distance. As I sift through profiles, I welcome the distraction, but it also deepens my sense of loneliness. I imagine myself as a cat lady—except I don't even own a cat.

A few profiles catch my attention, and I click the heart icon on a couple. I engage in conversations with a few, including one who turns out to be quite the psychopath. Thankfully, I had reactivated my Google Voice number for texting after deleting thousands of messages from Jeremy.

Eventually, I start texting a decent guy named Ray. He lives nearby, which is a refreshing change, has a good job, and owns a detached house. He seems nice during our exchanges, and after a day of chatting, he invites me out.

As luck would have it, I'm free the following day (Monday). He calls to chat and gauge our compatibility. Unfortunately, his voice doesn't impress me. I find myself yearning for Jeremy's slight Midwestern accent.

Excited for an opportunity to dress up and leave the house, I anticipate a pleasant evening. Ray will likely shower me with compliments, which will help me feel less like a rejected failure. I plan to gently let him know that there's no spark and move on. Plus, I have another date lined up with a guy named Kris in a week—he might not be the complete package like Jeremy, but he offers a welcome distraction.

I opt for a long-sleeved gray wrap dress and towering heels since Ray is 6'3". We decide to meet at a Mexican restaurant overlooking a local lake.

Ray arrives in a pink checked Ralph Lauren shirt and jeans. I tell my kids that pink isn't just for girls; the most confident men wear it. He has a receding hairline, but the rest of his hair is thick and slightly curly. I hug him and realize he looks even better in person than in his pictures.

We sit at the bar. I miss the exuberance of Jeremy's drinking; it sounds odd, but it meant we lingered longer at outings. My tolerance for alcohol is low; Ray finishes his margarita long before I've sipped through mine. I feel awkward when he declines a second drink, missing the days of carefree drinking.

Our conversation flows well. We're laughing and joking, and he comfortably breaks the personal space barrier, resting his hand on my thigh. I follow suit, placing my hand over his or playfully grabbing his arm while sharing a funny story.

"Do you want to walk around the lake?" Ray suggests. I'm less than enthusiastic; my shoes are painful. Nevertheless, I smile and agree. As we stroll, there's a lull in the conversation.

A lull.

In the nine months with Jeremy, there was never a lull in conversation. Our first date was so engaging that we visited three venues before closing each one down. Normally, I can fill awkward silences, but tonight, I'm not inclined to carry the conversation.

Ray gestures towards a bench, asking if I'd like to sit. I crack some jokes about the ducks. At some point, he leans over and kisses me—he's a great kisser. My fingers weave through his hair, longing for the familiar feel of Jeremy's head.

Fortunately, kissing fills the silence. Eventually, he suggests we grab a drink at another nearby restaurant. We settle into a small, divey eatery, and I tell Ray we can sit in a booth together, even if it's a bit cramped.

Much of our dialogue revolves around amusing dating anecdotes. Each time I share a story, I feign disbelief that I'm divulging such personal tales. Ray insists all night that he appreciates my honesty. "I divorced my ex-husband to live authentically," I share, and his eyes light up, though I cringe inwardly, knowing my motives for this date aren't entirely genuine.

"I've had a stressful couple of weeks," I mention. "I'm not at my usual weight—I'm about five pounds heavier right now." Ray rolls his eyes and dismisses my concerns about age, noting that women under forty often lack maturity.

"You have a spark in your eyes and are intelligent," Ray compliments me. That feels genuine, not a run-of-the-mill compliment, and a small part of me melts.

We discuss the possibility of a second date. His custody schedule is less than ideal compared to mine, so I inform him that the next date that could work is ten days away. "I can swing by and bring you coffee during the week," he offers.

I'm unaccustomed to dating men who live close by since most of my previous partners resided near the beach. Additionally, it's refreshing to encounter someone who makes an effort to do something nice for me. My Avoidant tendencies surface, clamoring for attention.

As I recount some of my more disastrous date experiences to Ray, I mention how some men have been bold enough to make inappropriate advances even when there was no connection. He is shocked, insisting he would never behave that way in public. In the past, I often forewent a bra on first dates, knowing it would grab attention and boost my "hotness" factor.

Tonight, however, I dressed conservatively, choosing not to show too much skin. I realize I'm relieved I didn't push the envelope further.

Ray walks me to my car, and we share a passionate kiss. I notice how much he leans down to reach my height, even with my heels. I'm used to Jeremy's height, which suited me perfectly. Ray kisses my neck, and I can't help but think he might be exceptional in bed. Yet, I notice he has a hairy chest—a quality I didn't appreciate in Jeremy.

As we kiss, he playfully grabs my behind. So much for keeping things platonic while walking to my car. Perhaps Ray feels it's acceptable to be more forward outside of clothing.

"Which one is yours?" I inquire, pointing to a Honda CRV parked nearby. I drive a Honda Pilot, and suddenly I feel like I've won a contest. My mind drifts to Jeremy's immaculate pickup truck, and I realize these two men couldn't be more different.

On my drive home, I experience a fleeting moment of joy. However, my usual list of red flags and annoyances soon floods my mind. I had forgotten that this was my pattern after a date. Jeremy was the only one I dated where I didn't compile a list of grievances afterward.

Before long, I'm sobbing uncontrollably.

I want Jeremy. I yearn for his text. I want him to miss my presence, even if I wasn't a significant part of his life. I want him to see that other women fall short compared to me—I'm a rare find. I wish his friends would tell him he's foolish for letting me go because I’m (allegedly) attractive and amusing. I simply want him.

I recognize this isn't a healthy mindset.

After I manage to calm down, I remind myself that had I met Ray without knowing Jeremy, I would likely be ecstatic, even as my Avoidant tendencies resurface.

This is where childhood wounds resurface. I craved Jeremy's validation and the words "I love you" that my parents never expressed. Now, I have a man in Ray who would readily call me his girlfriend in a matter of weeks and treat me kindly. Yet, that prospect makes me feel uneasy.

I text Ray the customary message, thanking him for a delightful evening and letting him know I arrived home safely. I also reach out to Kris because I'm not putting all my emotionally fragile eggs in one basket.

Kris is edgier, and his custody schedule aligns with mine. I'm not sure about his looks, but he has a dog (not a fan of dogs, but I remember Jeremy's well-behaved pooch from his ex-wife).

My new job's health insurance doesn't compare to my previous one, and I lack the funds for therapy. For now, this rebound serves as my coping mechanism until I reach the thirty-day No Contact milestone and finally let go of the last shred of hope I have for Jeremy to reach out and choose me...and only me.