Page 74 of Filthy Little Midlife Fling

Suddenly, I’m exhausted.

Instead of acknowledging her advances, I just smile and tell her to call me if Danny needs anything.

Driving back to my house makes my ribs wind tighter around my heart. By the time I’m parking in my driveway and glancing over at the house next door, it feels like I’m walking to my execution.

I can’t go over there. Not yet. I can’t face Audrey in all her beauty and loveliness and do anything but tell her how angry and hurt I am. I’ll just make it worse.

So, I head into my own house and bask in the silence—for a short while, at least. The doorbell rings not twenty minutes later.

When I open up, Audrey stands on the stoop wearing a knee-length white dress and tan shoes. Her hair is gathered up in a bun, and her eyes are pale green, wide, and sad.

“Hi, Remy,” she says.

I rub my forehead, blowing out a breath. “Audrey, I know we were supposed to hang out today, but…”

“I just want to apologize. I know I messed up.”

I’m having déjà vu. All that’s missing is the pie.

“I understand if you’re mad at me,” she says.

“I am,” I can’t resist replying.

Her throat bobs, and she nods. “That’s reasonable.”

I wish she wasn’t looking at me like that, like she wishes she could wrap her arms around me. I want that too—but what would it accomplish? If I can’t trust her to be there when I need her, what are we doing here? It’s been more than a fling since the start, and maybe that’s where it went wrong. Maybe we should have stuck to the rules of engagement in the first place.

“I need to, um…” I jab a thumb over my shoulder, unable to come up with an excuse that makes sense.

Audrey doesn’t need one. She jerks, then takes a step back. “Of course. I won’t keep you. Have a good day.”

I watch her dart through the gap in the bushes, and then I close the door. My insides feel scraped raw.

Getting involved with Audrey was a mistake that should have remained a fling. It would have saved us both a lot of heartache.

TWENTY-NINE

AUDREY

I spend the weekend working. It’s all I can do, because if I slow down, I’ll start thinking about everything I’ve done wrong, and then I won’t be able to do anything at all. Every new one-star review gets flagged as spam, but only a few of them get removed from my company’s online listing. At least half a dozen times, I stare at my screen and sob, which feels particularly pathetic. I eat a lot of cheese.

Laurel tries to save me from myself on Sunday night, when she drags me to her place and feeds me a home-cooked meal and copious amounts of wine.

“He’s a jerk!” she says, pounding her fist on the table when the conversation turns to Remy. “You’re too good for him. You made an honest mistake, and he shouldn’t have been asking you to pick his kid up in the first place.”

While I appreciate my best friend defending me like a paladin with her sword, she’s wrong. I messed up—bad—and I don’t think Remy will ever forgive me. I don’t blame him.

“He’s a good guy,” I tell her, then take another bite of gnocchi which turns to glue in my mouth.

“You broke the cardinal rule of flings, Audrey. You got attached.”

“I told you that would happen from the start.”

Laurel sighs, swirling her wine. “You’re too sensitive for your own good.”

My eyes fill with tears, but I’m so sick of crying. I flutter my hands at eye level like a ninny. Laurel laughs, and I snort. “Maybe all the orgasms messed up my hormones,” I finally say.

“We could buy you a really huge dildo,” she suggests. “That might help. Exposure therapy.”

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