Page 8 of Filthy Little Midlife Fling

I nod, closing my eyes.

“You told her to shove it, right? You laughed her right off the phone? She thinks you’re a cold-hearted bitch because you shut her down so hard. Right? Right?”

I grimace. “I told her I’d look at my schedule and get back to her.”

“Audrey.”

“I could use the money, Laurel.” My excuse sounds thin even to my ears, but it’s the truth. “Things have been slowing down. I had to pull a lot of money out of the business for the down payment on this house, and I think I overextended myself. I’m worried. Plus, a job is a job.”

“No.” She points her finger at me. “No. You get on the phone right now and tell her to kick rocks. You cannot reorganize your ex-husband’s house with his affair partner looking over your shoulder. Just—no. Do you remember what he said to you when he told you he wanted a divorce? Do you remember every time you called me crying when—”

“Yes,” I hiss. I remember the monthly heartbreak that eventually wore me down. I don’t need to rehash it with Laurel, who was right there with me for the whole agonizing journey that led to me finding out I couldn’t conceive. Because Terry didn’t just cheat on me; he had an affair after he found out we wouldn’t have children together. That I wouldn’t be able to have his children. It was the ultimate failure, the ultimate betrayal. No matter what I tell myself about my business and my new house, I’m not sure I’m over the agony of it. I spread my arms, helpless. “That one job would cover my payroll expenses for a month, Laurel. I can’t just turn that down. Especially with the van and now the hospital bill.”

“You absolutely can turn that down.”

“You don’t understand,” I say, voice hoarse. She doesn’t get that I’m on my own. Those eight employees rely on me and no one else. They pay their rents and mortgages because I find the work and I sign their paychecks. I can’t just turn down a huge job because I don’t like the client. “I won’t even have to go over there,” I tell her. “I’ll send Paula and Meg—they’re my best employees—and I won’t have to deal with Terry and Caroline at all, other than taking their money.”

Laurel vibrates where she stands on the other side of the room, glaring at me. Then she spins on her heels and disappears into the kitchen, coming back a few seconds later with my block of aged cheddar, which she proceeds to launch at me with the skill of a Major League Baseball pitcher in his prime.

I dodge the block, falling on my side with a startled yelp. The cheese bounces off the cushions and tumbles to the floor. “Hey! That’s my fancy cheese, you nutcase.”

“Nutcase? You’re calling me a nutcase? You, the woman who’s considering working for her ex-husband and his affair partner?”

I groan, then grab a throw pillow and shove it over my face. When I pull it away, Laurel is in the armchair to my right with her elbows on her knees, massaging her temples with the tips of her fingers. She glances at me, eyes narrowed.

“I know what you need,” she tells me.

“What’s that?”

“You need a fling.”

I sigh, turning to stare at the ceiling. I’m so tired. “Sex doesn’t fix everything, Laurel.”

“No. But it will fix this.”

Ha. Right. “And how’s it supposed to do that? A magical man will give me a magical orgasm, and all my problems will go away?” I snort. “Please.”

“You are under an incredible amount of pressure. You’ve spent six years rebuilding your life. You’re successful, in demand, and expanding your business every single year. Stop it—don’t roll your eyes at me. Maybe it’s been a slow month or two, but I bet you’re still making more money than you were this time last year.” She harrumphs when I click my tongue, then points at me. “You think you need to keep going and going and going, and you never think about taking care of yourself.”

My throat is suddenly tight. I frown at the ceiling. It has a godawful popcorn texture and a boob light. I don’t feel like a raging success staring at the dated fixtures, my whole body aching. I feel like a failure.

“You run around taking care of everyone and everything other than yourself, and you convince yourself that you should take a job organizing your ex-husband and his affair partner’s house.”

“Technically they’re married now, so…”

“She’s still the woman he cheated with,” Laurel responds, voice harsh. “He used and used and used you until there was nothing left, and then he walked away. You cannot take that job.”

My ribs constrict. I sit up and glare at my best friend. “Fine. I agree with you. But what’s this got to do with a fling?”

Laurel’s hands come up and shape an imaginary sphere in front of her. “A fling is a beautiful, perfect, fully contained phenomenon. You can enter into a fling with your eyes wide open and take from it everything you need. Then you leave it behind as a perfect period of time in your memory, and you move on, lighter and happier than you were before.”

“I just told you; I don’t do casual sex.”

“A fling isn’t casual sex, Audrey. There’s connection. There’s understanding. And there’s an end date.”

“I don’t have time for a fling or a relationship or even a one-night stand.”

Laurel sighs. “Something’s got to give, babe. You’re running around trying to take care of everything, and you’re letting things slip. What if your next accident is more serious? What if you end up hurt? Dead? You need to take a break, Laurel.”

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