Page 5 of Filthy Little Midlife Fling

I’m not doing it because I’m nice. I don’t want to help her. I don’t care about the woman. I’m curious, that’s all, and I might as well figure out what I need to tell her when she comes asking about her vehicle.

Later, when the tools are put away and the garage is locked up, I glance at my nephew in the passenger seat. “How do you feel about a burger and a milkshake?”

His eyes light up. “Right now?”

“Right now,” I say as I put the truck in gear. “You can tell me about your capture the flag strategy.”

“We were sneaky,” he replies, an evil grin tugging at his lips.

A few of the tight bands that had winched themselves closed around my chest begin to loosen. Chuckling, I head for Harold’s Diner. The restaurant is in the old part of town, on the inland end of Cove Boulevard. The main drag through town is bright and cheery, with the busiest part nearer to the coast. That’s where the Heart’s Cove Hotel is, along with shops and cafés.

But Harold’s Diner doesn’t need to be located in the tourist area to be popular. The parking lot has a few vehicles in it when I pull in, as usual. This place is open 24/7 and has the best milkshakes in town. It hasn’t been redecorated since the day it opened.

After my sister died, I used to take Danny here to cheer him up. Maybe I was cheering myself up at the same time. We’d have dinner and a milkshake, and I’d pretend that everything was okay in the world. Over the weeks and months and years, it’s become somewhat of a refuge for us. As soon as we step inside, more tension drains from my body.

Our usual booth is next to the window, and Danny makes a beeline toward it as soon as we’re inside. He grins at me, his legs kicking, and waves at the waitress who ambles over.

“Let me guess,” she says to Danny. “Strawberry milkshake with extra whipped cream.”

Danny’s grin widens. “And a cheeseburger.”

She glances at me, brows raised, but she knows what I’m going to say already: “Same here. Fries extra crispy.”

I lean back on the vinyl seats and listen to my nephew tell me about his day. My back muscles loosen a little bit more, and I let the last of my anger fade away.

This, right here, is what matters. Even if the tree doesn’t make it, I’ll always have my nephew.

THREE

AUDREY

It’s dark out by the time I leave the hospital. The doctor said he couldn’t find anything wrong with me, other than some bruising on the side of my head. I passed out from the stress and shock, apparently, and not from any physical ailment.

Woo freaking hoo. At least I have that going for me—along with a three-thousand-dollar hospital bill. The doctor gave me a few ibuprofen and recommended I take it easy for a few days, then sent me on my way. Between this and the no doubt extortionate repairs on the van, today has turned out to be an expensive pile of steaming-hot garbage.

Body aching, I stuff the paperwork from the hospital into my purse and shuffle to the taxi rank outside. I really didn’t need another surprise bill right now. Not when I’m out a company van, work seems to be slowing down, and I finally closed on a house I shouldn’t have bought in the first place. I signed on the dotted line when things looked like they’d never get bad, but twelve weeks later, the bank wouldn’t honor the interest rate they originally approved, I had to drain my savings to make up the difference in down payment, and I’ve been hit with bill after bill after bill.

I can barely make ends meet. It feels exactly like it did six years ago, when I was drowning in lawyers’ fees and the grief of the end of my marriage. I was supposed to be finished with that stage of my life. I’m forty years old; I should feel like a full-grown adult by now, shouldn’t I? As I get older, I keep feeling like I ought to know more, be wiser, have my life together. But the years go on and I discover I’m still just me, inhabiting an older body.

This fresh, awful situation is all that mechanic’s fault. He took that slimy van owner’s money and told me the vehicle was good to go. The lying rat.

But it was me who didn’t get a second opinion. It was me who bought the van, who ignored that weird screeching noise, who ran the vehicle into the ground and ran myself into a tree.

Embarrassment burns the back of my throat. I should be better than this. I can’t make these kinds of mistakes. What kind of person prides themselves on their organizational skills when they can’t even manage to get a van tuned up? What kind of person strives for perfection in everything and falls short every single time?

Forty years old, divorced, van-less, with a big ugly bruise on my temple. A laughingstock. A disappointment. Organizing Goddess indeed.

By the time I’m in my house, I’ve lashed myself mercilessly, and I feel about two inches tall. I open the fridge and see nothing prepared for dinner—another failure. Didn’t I used to have all my meals prepped ahead of time? Wasn’t I the perfect housewife who was always on top of everything? What happened to me?

Oh, an adulterous husband who shattered my confidence, a messy divorce, and a business that might be a little too much for me to handle.

There’s a hunk of cheese in the fridge door. I unwrap it and take a bite, chewing while I try to hold back my tears. The teeth marks in the cheese stare back at me, taunting, even little furrows down one corner of the block. This is a new low.

I’m still staring at the bite mark and feeling sorry for myself when my doorbell rings.

I put the cheese on the counter and head for the front door, groaning when I open the door to see my best friend standing on the stoop. Laurel is a brunette with perfect caramel highlights and an impressive collection of athleisure wear.

I pull the door open a bit wider to let her in. “You heard?” I ask.

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