Page 52 of Filthy Little Midlife Fling

As I stand in the midday sun, watching my old boss drive away, I let my lips curl into a smile.

Then I pull out my phone and dial Audrey. “I have good news,” I tell her when she answers. “I think we should celebrate.”

EIGHTEEN

AUDREY

A shelf stacked with printer paper blurs in front of me. My legs feel wobbly as I stand in the office supply store, and I try to remember what it is I’m here to buy.

Instead, I’m thinking about what Remy did with his tongue. He wanted to celebrate his decision to purchase the garage, and we definitely lit some fireworks together.

When I looked in the mirror afterward, my hair was a mess and my cheeks were flushed. It’s been nearly an hour since then, and I don’t feel back to normal yet.

My phone buzzes. Remy.

Thinking of you, he writes.

A spark lights between my legs. Me too, I answer, unable to contain my smile.

Danny has a sleepover at his friend’s place on Friday, he types. We could do dinner. You could spend the night.

My pulse speeds up. So far, Remy and I have had nothing more than a few stolen moments in the middle of the day. I’ve seen him some evenings in his yard, and he and Danny have come over for dinner twice more since the falafel night. But it’s like we’re living a double life. Daytimes are naughty, filthy fun. Nights are responsible and chaste.

To have so many hours with just the two of us would be…amazing. Intoxicating. Dangerous.

What if I wake up in his arms and decide I don’t want it to end?

An entire night in Remy’s bed. Hours upon hours upon hours to feel his skin against mine. It’s a very bad idea, and I desperately want to do it.

“Audrey?”

Jerking out of my reverie, I turn to see my ex-husband at the end of the aisle. Terry is a broad-shouldered man who was very beautiful when I met him. Age seems to have hit him harder than I remembered. His skin is sun-damaged, his hair thinning. A paunch hangs over his belt buckle.

A month ago, I would’ve thought he looked like every other man my age. I would’ve told myself Terry was as good as it got for someone like me, a woman past her prime. Now I know better.

“Terry,” I reply, tucking my phone into my purse. “How are you?”

My voice is steady. I wait for the pinch of pain, the bitterness, the hurt. For years, I found it hard to think of this man without my eyes tearing up. I’d worked so hard to be the perfect wife. I twisted myself into knots to make sure he was satisfied with me.

Why? For what purpose did I do that to myself?

As he approaches, his feet scuff the floor. That used to annoy me. He dragged his feet all the time. His shoulders are sloped as he slouches in front of me.

“I’m good,” he tells me. “Better now that I see you. You look great, Audrey.” My ex-husband’s lips curl into that coy smile that first attracted me to him. He sticks his arms out to the sides and shakes his head. “Wow.”

I feel nothing. No attraction. No bitterness. There’s no overwhelming wave of grief at the thought of our marriage ending.

Then I realize there is an emotion coursing through me: acceptance.

We were married, and that relationship ended. It doesn’t mean I was a failure of a wife. The time we spent together was a chapter of my life that is now closed, and I’m ready to move on. Maybe I already have.

“Thank you,” I tell him, and grab a ream of printer paper off the nearest shelf. “I’ve got to get back to the office,” I say. “Have a good day.”

“Wait, Audrey!”

I turn, glancing at my ex-husband.

“Caroline is still waiting on a quote for our kitchen and pantry reorganization.” He ambles closer, arching his brows. “Can you do it?”

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