Page 10 of Filthy Little Midlife Fling

“One where your head is so messed up you think working for your ex-husband is a good idea. A hundred or so orgasms should cure you of that. So. The plan. You’ll deal with the van. You’ll delegate this week’s work to one of your eight amazing employees. You’ll put all your focus into looking and feeling your best, and you’ll find a man who turns you on and then seduce him with your wiles.”

“Right.” I glance toward the hallway, wondering how I can get Laurel to leave.

“Then you’ll run into Terry at the grocery store one day, preferably after you’ve had so much sex you walk funny. He’ll notice you’re glowing and you look amazing, and then you’ll walk away and never think about him again, except to wish him the best when you’re feeling magnanimous and cackle at the dumpster fire of his life when you’re feeling petty. You with me so far?”

I can’t help it. My lips curl into a smile. My best friend is loony, but her plan does sound pretty great. “I’m with you.”

She smiles at me and wraps me in her arms. “Good. I love you, you know. I don’t want to get a phone call in the middle of the night telling me you’ve wrapped yourself around a tree.”

Throat tight, I nod. “I need a break.”

“Fling,” Laurel corrects. “You need a fling.”

I blink away my gathering tears and shake my head. Her plan might sound fun, but I live in the real world. There isn’t going to be a hot man who drops into my lap and lives to worship me. I’ve gone forty years without finding one; I don’t believe that’ll change now. “I can’t think about this right now, Laurel. I need to get over the shock of the crash first.”

“The crash was your wake-up call.” Laurel’s voice has lost its no-nonsense edge, and now she sounds oddly solemn. “You’re spreading yourself too thin trying to prove to everyone that everything is perfect. You need to loosen the reins a little. Nothing will ever be perfect, no matter how hard you try.”

“And finding a man is supposed to fix all my problems? Doesn’t sound like you’re being a very good feminist.”

“Honey, I’m saying this in the most loving way I possibly can, but you need sex. You don’t need a man; you need a fling. Just a hot little tryst that can pull you out of this funk.” She pats my hand. “You need to get laid so you remember how good it feels to have an orgasm when you’re sweaty and sticky and wrapped up in another person’s arms. Besides, sex is never perfect. It’s messy and clumsy and awkward, until it isn’t. And all that messiness is what makes it beautiful. And if there’s anyone who needs a reminder that imperfect is beautiful, it’s you.”

I hum, unconvinced. The reason my business has been a success is because I make my clients’ spaces perfect. They don’t think messiness is beautiful; that’s why they hire me in the first place.

Laurel pats my knee. “You’ve been living in your head for years, and I need you to move back into your body. But you’re also goal-oriented, so I’m giving you a deadline. When did Terry the Cheating Bastard’s affair partner want to hire you?”

My lips twitch. “I told her I was busy this month, which was a lie, and she said she could wait.”

“There you go. You find a man, have a fling, and survive the next month. Then you can shift gears.”

“I don’t know…” I mull it over for a moment. The thought of having sex with an imaginary man fills me with terror…and maybe a bit of excitement. I haven’t had sex—haven’t had good sex—in so long that I’m not sure I still know how. And what about my business? I can’t take time off, not when I’m supposed to be pushing harder. But pushing harder is what had me crashing into a tree.

So…maybe Laurel has a point. Assuming I could find a man that I’d actually want to have sex with, maybe a fun little fling would be a nice change of pace.

I glance at my best friend and frown. “This conversation has lacked a lot of logic, and I’m feeling slightly worried that it’s still making sense to me.”

“See? Deep down, you know you need a good dicking.”

“Please don’t ever say that sentence to me again.”

Laurel laughs, then throws her arms around me and squeezes. She kisses my temple. “Delegate everything you can at work. Buy some lingerie. Bake a pie. Have a zillion orgasms with a man who drives you crazy. Got it?”

I huff. “Fine. Whatever.”

We head for the front door. Laurel pauses, meeting my gaze. “I love you, Audrey. You scared me today. I want you to be healthy and happy and free.”

“I want that too.”

She points her finger at me. “Have a fling. I promise it’ll help.”

“If you say so.”

She gives me an impish smile and slides her feet back into her sandals. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Late the next afternoon, Friday, I pull a beautiful pecan pie out of the oven and set it on the stove. As much as Laurel makes fun of my organization, having pie crust in the freezer does come in handy for moments like these.

Today was busy. I had to prep one of my teams for a difficult client who wanted a full closet reorg, and then I had to run around to three different stores when we realized we were missing some of the baskets and containers we needed. I had to go through all my inventory and double-check that we weren’t short on anything else, and then I realized I was late putting together the schedule for the next two weeks.

That’s when my head started pounding, and I remembered the doctor told me to take it easy. I heard Laurel’s voice in my head telling me I was spreading myself too thin.

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