Page 72 of Filthy Little Midlife Fling

I slap my hand over my mouth and squeeze my eyes shut. “I’m so sorry, Remy. There have been a bunch of fires to put out at work, and I just... I didn’t… I feel terrible. Is he okay?”

“He’s fine.”

We stay there, on either end of the phone call, and neither of us speaks. My breaths are sharp as they saw in and out of my lungs. Remy is completely, utterly silent. A thousand emotions flit through me, but the one that feels the strongest is profound, unsurprising shame. Of course I messed up. Don’t I always screw everything up?

This month was supposed to be my carefree month, when I threw out the rulebook and did things like have a fling and delegate my work. But what I failed to consider was the fact that unless I try my hardest at all times, the consequence is always failure.

I’m a perfectionist for a reason. It’s not because my standards are high; it’s because I—always—fucking—mess—up. Unless I try my hardest to be perfect, my entire life inevitably falls apart.

“Explain to me what happened,” Remy says, and I don’t recognize his voice. “Explain to me what was so important that you forgot to pick my kid up when you said you would.”

“I…” What can I tell him? That drawer organizers took precedence over his child? Tears spring in my eyes. “I got caught up, Remy. Things went wrong on a couple of jobs, and I’ve been so distracted these past weeks with you, and—”

“You’re blaming me for this?”

“No. No, of course not.” I gulp. My phone buzzes, and I pull the phone away from my ear. There’s a text message from Paula with a photo attachment. I close my eyes and press the device back to my ear. “Remy, all I can say is I’m sorry. We ran out of inventory at work, so I had to drive halfway to Sacramento, and it just completely slipped my mind that I’d agreed to pick Danny up.”

“I see.”

I feel like a steaming-hot pile of garbage.

“I have to go, Audrey,” he tells me, sounding like a stranger.

A tear leaks out of my eye and drops down my cheek. “Yeah. Okay. Tell Danny I’m sorry. Maybe—maybe I’ll stop by later and apologize in person.”

“Yeah.”

The call clicks, and I’m alone in a half-empty parking lot. I glance at the big strip mall behind me. The storage store is next to a huge furniture store, which is next to a big discount clothing store. The streetlights in the parking lot are beginning to come on. The hum of cars on the highway in the distance fills the air.

I feel so alone.

Climbing behind the wheel, I leave the engine off and wipe my eyes with both hands. My hands shake. The mental lashing I’m about to give myself is going to be severe; I can already tell. I let Remy down. I let Danny down. I let my employees down.

I fucked up, bad.

Didn’t I tell Laurel that I couldn’t do a relationship? I can either have a business or a love life, never both. I already tried to throw myself into a relationship when I married Terry, and there was only a shell of myself left at the end of it all.

I should have known I’d mess this up somehow.

Dragging in a shuddering breath, I wipe my eyes once more and tap my phone until I open Paula’s photo message. It’s a screenshot of my business’s review page online, and my rating has dropped an entire star. She says, Have you seen this?

The guilt and shame cede to confusion. I frown and look up my own business’s name on Google. Sure enough, the business now has three and a half stars. Heart pounding, I click on the reviews. There are a slew of new one-star reviews, all posted today. Some of them have written reviews along with the one-star ratings, some of them don’t, and all of them are dragging my rating down to a level that will guarantee I never get any more bookings.

The panic, which had eased during the drive and shopping spree, comes back with a vengeance. I scan the reviews, looking for clues. My hands tremble so much I can’t read the words on the screen, so I have to clip my phone to its hands-free holder just to be able to make sense of what I’m seeing in black and white.

Who wrote these reviews? Surely Georgia wouldn’t? She didn’t seem upset. Mrs. McCurdy? But no—her job is still on schedule. The pantry organization I did yesterday? That one got completed on time too, and the client was overjoyed with the results.

So who…

“Unprofessional,” one reviewer proclaims with their single-star review. The username is just random letters and numbers.

“Audrey Scott was late, and the final product was sloppy,” another reviewer says. I don’t recognize the name, and there’s no profile picture. That one makes no sense; I hardly ever go to jobs myself anymore. I’m mostly in the office doing managerial tasks. Plus, I’m never sloppy.

So who would be complaining about me being late to a job and doing bad work? What’s going on?

The phone buzzes again, and a text from Remy comes through. I need some space tonight, he writes. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.

The day from hell compounds, and Remy’s words launch me over the edge of a very tall cliff. I’ve spent three and a half weeks falling into bed with this man—falling for this man—and I completely messed it up. He asked me for one single favor, and I couldn’t even do that. I’ve neglected my business, failed my employees, and now I might have truly destroyed my only chance at success. I have some vindictive ex-client who thinks they can bombard my business page with negative reviews.

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