Page 1 of Filthy Little Midlife Fling

ONE

AUDREY

The van careens down a narrow residential street, far too fast for comfort. Slamming on the brakes has precisely zero effect on the speed of the vehicle, which is not good. The pedal feels spongy underfoot, even when I stomp my foot down as hard as I can. For some inexplicable reason, this sends a message to my brain to test whether the gas pedal is operational, so I lift my foot off the malfunctioning brake and try the other pedal, and—yep. That one’s still working as designed.

Which means I’m now going faster.

This is bad. So, so bad.

I’m in a company van—my company’s van—speeding down a residential street, moments away from disaster. Every one of the curtain twitchers in this town has only to look out the window and they’ll see an out-of-control Organizing Goddess about to crash into someone’s front living room. If I’m lucky, I’ll crash into my own.

That’s if I don’t run someone over first.

Hi! Thanks for welcoming me to the neighborhood. My apologies about the car wreck. Here’s my business card in case you need your pantry rearranged!

Yeah. That’ll go over well. I wonder how long it’ll take for a picture of my totaled van to make it onto social media. I’ll be a laughingstock.

All because of Terry.

No—I won’t think of him right now. I can’t think of him right now. I’m about to die, and I refuse to let my ex-husband be in my final thoughts.

Which reminds me: I’m about to die. I should try to…not do that.

My stomach jumps into my chest and does its best to crawl up into my throat. I push down on the brake pedal again. Again. Panic races through me like a lit fuse, and my vision narrows with every breath.

There’s a hill coming up, a long, steep slope that snakes all the way down to the coast. If I can’t stop this van, I’m going down. I’m in big trouble. Huge.

I slam the spongy pedal once more. Again, again, again, pumping the brakes so fast my thigh burns, which reminds me that I don’t go to the gym nearly as much as I should. And—really? That’s what I’m thinking right now, when I’m not thinking about my loser ex-husband? I’m about to die and I’m beating myself up about how many lunges I’ve skipped lately?

Which is actually not a surprise at all, because perfectionism is a disease without a cure, and I’ve been afflicted by it all my life. Well, there is a cure, actually: I can Thelma-and-Louise myself into the Pacific Ocean, except without the cavalcade of police surrounding me.

Sucking in a deep breath, I grip the steering wheel for leverage and slam my foot down on the pedal in one last, desperate attempt to get out of this alive.

Did the car slow down, or was it my imagination?

The hill looms like the dip of a roller coaster, except the loop-the-loop will be my van going ass over teakettle all the way over the sea wall and into the ocean. Splash. Gurgle. Goodbye.

My hometown has always been Heart’s Cove, this special, artsy town on the northern coast of California. It’s fitting that it’ll also be the place where I meet my tragic end.

No—not today. I refuse to let this beat-up company van be the cause of my death. I refuse to let my ex-husband rattle me so much I can’t fix this mistake and make it out alive.

Plus, if I decide to ignore the panic for a split second, I can admit it’s not really his fault. His phone call threw me, but it’s not the reason my brakes failed.

A feral yell makes it through my gritted teeth. Suddenly, the world is sharper. Colors are brighter. Time slows.

I will not die on this hill.

I need to slow this sucker down.

Maybe if I zigzag, I can coast to a stop in someone’s front yard. Swerving back and forth across the road, I put the heel of one palm on the horn to warn everyone in a three-block radius that the local organizer lady is doing something really stupid.

Why did I buy this piece of crap van? I knew that mechanic in Santa Rosa was full of it when he told me it was in good shape. I should have listened to my instincts, but he started running his mouth about carburetors and spark plugs, and I remembered I didn’t know anything about cars. My finger-wagging jerk of a brain took that moment to remind me that I’d never gotten around to learning about engines, which was obviously evidence that I was a failure and an idiot, and I took the mechanic at his word when he said I should buy this lemon of a van.

Mechanics. They’re all liars and thieves, as far as I’m concerned. Scum. I should have known.

That, and I thought I saw the seller slip the mechanic a couple of bills before he popped the hood. I wonder how much money it took for that mechanic to sell his integrity. How much money did it take to make a fool out of me?

Stupid. So stupid.

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