Page 53 of Filthy Little Midlife Fling

Two weeks ago, the thought of entering the home that my ex-husband shares with his new wife filled me with dread. Since then, a switch has flipped.

I’ve got to give it to Laurel, she was right about the whole a-fling-will-fix-everything thing. I feel like a whole new person.

In the short moment before I give Terry an answer, a few realizations hit me. I have no feelings for this man. I’m more confident than ever. I feel hopeful about the future for the first time in a long, long time. I’m able to break the chains of the anxiety masquerading as perfectionism and live a better life. I’ve delegated, and the sky didn’t fall.

I want to turn my back on this man and walk away, but…why? If I feel nothing for him, what’s the harm in taking his money? I like organizing homes. I love running my own business. What if this was just another job? I’d send my employees over, take his money, and move on with my life.

If I no longer have any feelings of grief and anxiety and bitterness toward him, there’s nothing stopping me from booking him in and treating him like any other client. Well—maybe I could charge an extra adulterous ex-husband fee. Say, fifty percent on top of my normal costs.

My lips curl into a smile. “I think I can,” I tell him. “I’ll call Caroline and get the details so I can schedule a consultation.”

“Great, great,” he says, sidling closer. “So, what have you been up to? You look great,” he repeats.

“I’ve been busy with the business, mostly,” I answer. “Excuse me, I really should get back.” I smile at him the way I’d smile at any other client, pay for my printer paper, and then walk out of the store.

The summer sunshine warms my skin, and I tilt my head to the sky. Then, buoyed by this new version of me, I pull out my phone and open the messages I’ve exchanged with Remy. He wants to spend the entire night with me, and I know exactly how to respond.

Can’t wait, I tell him. And it’s the truth.

NINETEEN

AUDREY

On Thursday, when I tell Laurel about my date for Friday, she drags me to a specialty lingerie shop two towns over. I get sweaty and frustrated in the changing room, but by the end of the excursion, I have a new set of red undergarments. The lace is utterly see-through, and the panties are crotchless. It’s completely obscene.

The little bundle of lace sits in the luxurious paper bag from the lingerie shop as Laurel and I stop at a wine bar for a drink and a bite to eat. She makes me laugh, and by the end of the evening, I’ve convinced myself that red, lacy, crotchless, see-through undergarments are a completely reasonable thing to wear to one’s first overnight appointment with one’s fling. But I also have an extra glass of wine, so I’m giddy when Laurel drives us home.

The next day, I go through the motions of work, overseeing the jobs that are happening that day and checking the schedule for the next few weeks. I manage to call Caroline, Terry’s new wife, and my voice remains professional for the entire conversation. We make an appointment for an in-person consultation so I can prepare her quote.

It feels good to take the job. Not in a vindictive way, and not because I need the money, but because if any other client called me for a full kitchen reorganization, I wouldn’t turn them down. There’s no spike of emotion; it’s just business.

Remy doesn’t contact me for a lunchtime quickie, which only cranks my nerves that much tighter. By the time the workday is done and I’ve showered and slipped on the scandalous underwear set I bought yesterday, I’m jittery and nervous.

I’m spending the night with Remy Campbell, the world’s hottest mechanic. I’ll be at his mercy, in his bed. We won’t have to rush to put our crumpled clothes back on to get back to work. We’ll wake up next to each other for the first time.

This coming Sunday, we’ll have two weeks left in our month-long fling. I’ve had sex with him more than a dozen times already, but tonight feels different. It feels like something is shifting.

As the minutes drag on, my nerves get worse. I call Laurel.

“What if this is a bad idea? I’m developing feelings for him, Laurel.”

“Okay,” she says, pragmatic as always. “Let’s think this through. What’s the worst-case scenario?”

“I fall for him, he rejects me, and my life falls apart.”

“Mm-hmm,” Laurel answers. “And is that likely?”

“The rejection part?” I bite my lip, thinking of the way Remy’s gaze softens every time I open the front door. Or how he held me that day in his office, trembling, his arms clamped around me like he never wanted to let me go. “I’m not sure. I think he likes me, but he’s been clear that his nephew is his priority. Plus, he’s buying the garage. He probably doesn’t have time for anything more than a fling.”

“We don’t know that,” Laurel answers, “so there’s no use spiraling. What about the other part? How likely is it that your life will fall apart as a result of his rejection?”

With a deep breath, I force myself to consider the worst. I remember the depths of my despair when Terry told me he wanted a divorce. He was the unfaithful one, and yet I was so tightly wound around his little finger that I was hurt when he showed me the divorce papers. I should have been furious, but I couldn’t see through the pain.

But I persevered. I started a business. I bought a house. Yes, it has avocado-colored toilets, but it’s all mine.

“No,” I finally answer. “My life wouldn’t fall apart. I’d get through it.”

“Good.” Laurel sounds proud. “I love you, Audrey. Now go have some filthy sex with your neighbor and stop overthinking this.”

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