Page 68 of Filthy Little Midlife Fling

Remy and I agreed that it was never truly a fling. He wants me, and I want him. We’re exploring this beautiful new thing blooming between us. Why put a time limit on it? Why not see what happens?

Every time I open Remy’s cutlery drawer to see the organized utensils, it gives me a rush of warmth. Every time he hugs me, I feel whole. Every time Danny tells me about his day, I’m swept up in the happiness of the moment.

This doesn’t have to end. It started as a fling, but it could end as a happily ever after. Right? Don’t I deserve that just as much as anyone else?

On the Monday of the final week of our fling, Remy hires a babysitter for Danny and takes me out to dinner at a local Asian fusion restaurant. We eat small share plates of delicious food, and I decide that yes, I can have it all. I can delegate at work and still perform to a high standard. I can meet a man and get swept up in a romance with him. If I let go of the anxiety of my perfectionism, I can believe that I’m deserving of all these beautiful things.

Full of good food and sated by laughter and conversation, I let Remy walk me to my front door. We make out like we’re half our age until I’m panting against my own front door.

“I should go home,” he says, not moving an inch. “I only booked the babysitter until ten.”

“Fine,” I pout.

He laughs, gaze soft. “Goodnight, Audrey,” he says, then he straightens and pushes away from me. When he’s descended my porch steps, he turns back to face me. “Oh—I forgot to ask. Would you mind picking Danny up from camp on Thursday? I have a meeting with the lawyer to go over the sale contract for the garage. The only available appointment all month was Thursday, but it’s cutting it a bit close to pickup time.”

“Of course,” I answer, oddly flattered at being given this responsibility. “It’s no problem at all.”

“Thank you.” Remy jumps up the steps again and plants a kiss on my lips, which makes me laugh. I feel all bubbly and warm inside.

“Goodnight, Remy.”

“Goodnight, Audrey.”

I smile all night until I’m lying in my bed grinning at my dated popcorn ceiling like some kind of maniac. Trying to reel in my own emotions, I tell myself I need to focus on work this week.

But it’s hard to think about business when Remy calls in the middle of the day, or shows up with a coffee and a croissant, or strips me down and bends me over the kitchen counter. With Remy’s gentle tugging at all my loose threads, my life seems to be unraveling before my very eyes.

Then, on Wednesday, the consequences of my unraveling begin to make themselves known. I realize I made a mistake when checking the schedule Paula created for this week. We’ve double-booked one of the teams, which means I have to rush to a job and do a pantry reorganization on my own. The labels for my label maker have run out, so I’ll have to drive three towns over to get new ones in time to finish the job tomorrow. By the time the day is done, I’m run off my feet, exhausted, and more than a little flustered.

I should have checked the schedules more closely. We’ve had an influx of bookings, and Paula isn’t accustomed to scheduling everything in at the last minute. This week’s chaos could have been avoided if I’d done my job properly instead of doodling “Mrs. Audrey Campbell” on invoices like a schoolgirl with a crush.

But the week of disasters isn’t over. On Thursday, I get a call from Meg, who’s at Georgia’s house and sounds close to tears.

“Audrey, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to mess up, but I forgot, and now—”

“Slow down,” I tell her through my phone’s handsfree setting. I pull over on the side of the road, halfway back to my office from finishing the pantry job. I’m sweaty and stressed, and I can’t understand what she’s trying to tell me. “Meg. Slow down. Tell me what’s going on.”

“The measurements!” she wails. “The measurements are all wrong. I forgot to subtract two inches on most of the shelves. They’re”—hiccup—“too long!”

I knead the steering wheel and close my eyes. Shit.

Delegation is great, except for when it goes wrong. I should have checked all her measurements, just like I should have verified the schedule and the inventory thoroughly, instead of only spot-checking. I didn’t train my team members properly, and now the gaps are showing.

This is my fault. Every single mistake is a failing, and it falls on my shoulders. The walls of the van close in on me—a van whose repairs I still haven’t paid for—as I realize that the past month has been one long descent into disaster.

I’ve been so focused on sex and flings and happiness that I neglected what really mattered: my livelihood. I told myself that I could be a carefree boss who empowered her team, and then I didn’t even give them the tools to succeed. What is wrong with me?

Everything I do turns to garbage. My marriage. My finances. My business. I try so hard to make everything perfect, and I fail every single time.

Did I really think, as recently as dinner on Monday, that I could have it all? That a sexy mechanic could drop into my life, give me a thousand magical orgasms, and make everything all better? Did I really think I could delegate the work that only I could do for years?

I’m a fool. I’ve allowed myself to get distracted by sex like some horny dimwit.

“Audrey? Are you firing me?”

I blink. “What? Meg—no. No, I’m not firing you. Just sit tight. I’m on my way.”

Swinging the car around, I race toward Georgia’s house and lash myself with my mental whip some more. This is my fault. I took my focus off my business for a few short weeks, and now all the mistakes are piling up.

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