Page 55 of Filthy Little Midlife Fling

His hand squeezes mine. “Does it have to end?”

My answer gets stuck halfway up my throat. Our food arrives, saving me from my answer. I eat delicious chicken cacciatore and learn that Remy has a deep hatred of olives.

“My dad forced me to eat everything on my plate growing up,” he admits. “I threw up after eating a Greek salad once, and I haven’t been able to stomach olives since. Don’t even talk to me about feta cheese.”

I laugh into my glass of wine. “Good to know.” I tilt my head. “Was he very strict?”

“He was old-fashioned,” Remy tells me. “He wanted to be the head of the house, but he couldn’t hold down a job. So my mom had to work, and he resented her for it. They fought all the time.”

I think of my upbringing, the cold expectation of high achievement that was instilled in me from early childhood. I never saw my parents fight, but I grew up with constant tension in the home. “Did they stay together?”

“Until the bitter end,” Remy answers with a grimace. “They must have gained something from their explosive arguments. Maybe they were addicted to the loving period right after a fight, and they couldn’t see that it was temporary. My dad died young. Heart attack. My mom lived another five years, but she passed eight years ago.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“At least she got to meet Danny,” he says, then takes a sip of wine. “There’s that.”

Every day, I learn something new about Remy. He’s good with his hands. He’s smart. He’s hard-working. His heart is enormous, with an incredible capacity for love that evidently went unappreciated for most of his youth.

What would it feel like to be loved by him? To have the kind of devotion he shows toward Danny focused on me? Would I still feel like I wanted to be the perfect girlfriend, the perfect wife—or would I feel secure enough in the relationship to let that crutch fall away?

When I’m with Remy, I don’t feel like I have to be perfect in order for him to enjoy my company. After all, I met him by crashing into his beloved tree. Perfection was never on the table. As we share a candlelit meal, I realize that it feels good to let go of that expectation. It’s like stripping away a suit of armor, letting each piece crash to the ground in a clank of dented metal.

I let another fall and give him one more small piece of me. “My parents are still together. They were strict as well, but they didn’t fight. They always told me education was the most important thing. For as long as I can remember, I knew that doing well in school was all that mattered. If I got a bad grade, they wouldn’t raise their voices. I’d get cold silence and a few disappointed words.”

“That sounds very isolating.”

“It was. I started obsessing about doing well, and that led to me wanting to be perfect in other areas. By the time I met my ex-husband in college, I was convinced that the only way my life would work was if I had the stereotypical picture-perfect life. Husband. Kids. Career. The supermom who has it all.”

“You never had kids?” Remy’s voice is quiet.

An old, layered pain pulses deep inside me. I shake my head, and let the last of my armor fall away. “We tried. I couldn’t conceive.”

That was the biggest failure of all. I was the perfect wife with the perfect house and the perfect job that was flexible enough to suit my husband’s needs—and my body didn’t work as it was meant to.

Remy gulps, then reaches over and squeezes my hand. “I’m sorry.”

I suck in a hard breath, then let it go all at once. Blinking, I stare at the man across the table from me. Those two little words, said with such deep empathy, are something that no other man has ever given to me. Terry pulled away when we tried and tried and tried and couldn’t get pregnant. When I found out about his affair and confronted him, he said words I’ll never forget: “Can you blame me for looking elsewhere when my wife is defective?”

Remy’s thumb begins to stroke my knuckles again. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t have to. I can see in his eyes that he feels the old pain pulsing in my veins, and he wants to take it away. I can sense in the gentle movement of his thumb over my skin that he cares about me more than he cares about my uterus.

Logically, I know I’m not defective. It’s been over six years since Terry said that to me, but today is the first time I believe it when I tell myself he was wrong. I’m whole just as I am.

“Thank you,” I say, throat tight.

“How do you folks feel about dessert?” the waitress says, cheery, reaching over to clear our plates. I spring away from Remy, pulling my hands back across the table.

I clear my throat and try to surreptitiously wipe my eyes. I’m about to say no, as usual, when Remy answers, “Doesn’t hurt to have a look, does it?”

“Of course! I’ll be right back with the menu.” The waitress disappears with our plates.

Remy winks. “You look like you need something sweet. I hear the cannolis here are delicious.”

I snort-laugh, using the thick cloth napkin on my lap to dab at my eyes. “Oh, twist my arm. Let’s have dessert.”

Remy smiles like he just won the lottery. We eat cannolis and then head into the cool, dark evening together, and Remy takes me home.

I’m no longer afraid. When he parks the car in his driveway, all I want to do is wrap my arms around this beautiful, loving, empathetic man. I want to give him all of me.

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