Page 63 of Filthy Little Midlife Fling

“—and tell me you weren’t trying to make me jealous.”

There’s a beat of silence between us while I try to process the words that just came out of his lying mouth. “I think you might actually be delusional,” I tell him. “Clinically, I mean.”

Another grating laugh. “Come on, Audrey. One last time. For old time’s sake.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Terry licks his lips, and a little bit of vomit rises up my throat. “We were good together.”

“If you don’t take your hand off my door, I’m going to smash your fingers.” Blinking, I stare at him until he uncurls his fingers from the car door. Once I’ve closed it, we meet each other’s gaze through the window.

Then I turn my head to face forward and I drive away.

TWENTY-THREE

AUDREY

Self-medication isn’t a good solution to soul wounds, but it’s the only option I have at the moment. Wine glugs out of a bottle and into my glass, and I stare at the ruby liquid. Then I spin around, stomp upstairs, jump in the shower, and try to scrub the oily feeling from my skin.

My ex-husband just propositioned me. My ex-husband who married his affair partner and who is now expecting a child with her just propositioned me, after he tried to get me to work for him.

What in the world—

My loofah is going to rub my skin raw if I don’t stop scrubbing. I set it aside and stand under the stream, tilting my head up to the showerhead. I open my mouth, swish, then spit out the water, but I still feel like I’m about to throw up.

I can’t believe I went over there. I can’t believe I thought I could take their money for that job, and it would be a good idea. I should never have even entertained the idea, no matter how little I thought I felt for my ex-husband.

I certainly feel something now—a heaping mound of revulsion.

I get out of the shower and pull out every skincare product I own. My face gets cleansed, tretinoined, serumed, misted, and moisturized. I tap some oil all over my face and neck, then start on my hair.

By the time it’s dried into my best approximation of a blowout, I’m calmer.

I can’t believe that just happened. When I get downstairs, after having thoroughly pampered myself in an attempt to scrub the last couple of hours from my memory, I see my forgotten glass of wine. Lovely. I dump half of it down my gullet and am about to start on the remaining half when the doorbell interrupts my pity party.

I consider ignoring it, but it could be Laurel, sniffing out my desire to eat cheese with her uncanny ability to sense my despair. She won’t go away; she’ll just keep ringing the doorbell until she has to break a window to get inside. It’ll be cheaper to let her in the front door.

Maybe, through her weird telepathic abilities, she’ll know that Terry tried it on with me. She’s probably on my stoop with a pitchfork right now.

But when I pull the door open, it’s not Laurel standing on the stoop. It’s Remy, with his hand on Danny’s shoulder. Danny has a shoebox in his hands.

I hold the door open with my shoulder, mind reeling. “Hi.”

Remy’s gaze circles my face. “Everything okay?”

I nod. “Uh-huh!”

“I brought you these,” Danny says, thrusting the box toward me with the same gusto with which I presented Remy with my pecan pie. “They’re from last year.”

“We were cleaning out Danny’s room, and we found them,” Remy explains. “He thought you’d like them.”

Danny takes the lid off, and I peer inside to see pressed flowers lining the bottom. “You have that painting in the kitchen with the flowers,” Danny explains.

My eyes fill with tears, which is possibly the most embarrassing reaction I could have had to a kid bringing me flowers. “Thank you,” I say, throat tight. “That’s so thoughtful of you. Come in.”

“Remy showed me how to do it last year. We put the flowers in Mom’s old dictionary and then put a big heavy plant pot on top. And then they turned into this!”

“They’re beautiful.”

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