Chronicles of a Midlife Crisis (11 page)

The hangers-on gape as though I’ve just proposed marriage to him. But Wynn says “Of course,” and touches my forearm in a very intimate way. I know it’s just my forearm, but in my current heightened state, it might as well be my nipple. When we’ve moved a suitable distance from his entourage, he says, “What’s up?”

“I’d like to go out with you—for a drink with you,” I blurt. “If you still want to.”

“Yeah, of course,” he replies smoothly. “If you’re sure you’re not too busy scrapbooking.”

“What?” Then I remember my previous lame-ass excuse. “I don’t even scrapbook,” I admit. “I just didn’t think it was a good idea … you know … before …”

“Before what?”

I know he’s just flirting, but I suddenly feel on the verge of tears. “Before I caught my husband and his fat slut at a bar last week! Before he emailed me and asked for the double bed from the spare room so he and that bitch have somewhere to fuck!” Instead, I shrug, trying to compose myself.

“Are you okay?” his hand massages my shoulder, and it no longer feels sexy. It feels comforting and kind and supportive. Shit! The tears seep out of my eyes before I can stop them.

“No,” I mumble, stifling a sob. “I’m not okay.”

TRENT AND I MET AT A PARTY
when I was a twenty-two-year-old college student. He was drinking something pink and slushy that turned out to be rum, ice, and pink lemonade crushed in the blender. By way of introduction, I pointed at his drink and said, “Yum.” He said, “Want one?” I said, “Sure,” and followed him to the kitchen. Three hours and four rum and pink lemonades later, we were making out on a ratty futon mattress in a small bedroom with a Nirvana poster on the wall.

At the risk of sounding like a drunken floozy, most of my dating was done while under the influence of alcohol. I had a boyfriend in high school (I got the nerve to tell him I liked him after I’d had two kiwi coolers before our eleventh-grade Halloween dance). Then there were two one-night stands in college (rye and Cokes were to blame in the first instance, Kokanee beer in the second). In my second year, I made eye contact with a guy in my sociology class for three weeks before we ran into each other at a bar. I was on my fourth Corona when we literally bumped into each other and ended up dating for six months. It turned out he was a pompous know-it-all who wore glasses without a prescription and started smoking a pipe at twenty-three, but for a few months, I’d considered him sophisticated. And then came Trent.

Obviously, picking up men while intoxicated has not had a very high success rate. But it was infinitely easier than the position I find myself in now, trying to carry on a sober conversation with a guy I barely know, who is thirteen years my junior and a teen sitcom sensation. While I rarely overindulge these days, I take an enormous sip of the gin and tonic before me. The situation calls for a little social lubrication.

“That lobster suit was so stupid,” I say, chuckling lamely. We’re in a seedy sports bar in a remote area of Burnaby. Given Wynn’s recent Choice Hottie win, he needs to keep a low profile. You can’t get much lower than Maxwell’s Bar in the Kingsway Inn.

In response, Wynn lifts his mug of beer and twinkles his eyes at me. I’d never thought eye twinkling was a skill that could be done on cue before, but he seems to have mastered it.

“What were they thinking?” I blather on. “The Central High Lobsters. So dumb! I mean, do they really think teens are so stupid that they’d buy that? Are the writers just lazy, or what?”

“How long were you married?” Wynn asks. His eyes have stopped twinkling and are now dark, intense.

“Too long,” I grouch, sipping at the straw in my gin and tonic.

“What’s he like? Your ex?”

I’ll admit it sounds strange to hear Trent addressed as my ex. Even when I saw him in the bar with his chubby girlfriend, I still considered him my husband, present tense. But hearing Wynn refer to him as such flicks a switch. Suddenly, he seems very much in my past. “He’s selfish,” I say, “and incredibly immature.” I’m sure this line of conversation is an enormous turn-off to the young hunk across from me, but he asked. “He’s a good father, I’ll give him that, but he’s a pathetic excuse for a man. He wears eye cream and funny pants. He’s a walking midlife crisis cliché.”

Wynn chuckles. “I know the type. I think my mom dated about six of him when I was growing up.”

“Really?” I ask, but then quickly change the subject. “I don’t want to talk about him.” I lean forward. “Tell me about you.”

“Well,” he begins, activating the eye twinkler, “I was cast in a dog food commercial when I was twelve. I’ve always looked younger, so I played this eight-year-old kid who lost his golden retriever. After that, I did a few plays in high school and really caught the acting bug. So, I moved to L.A. when I was seventeen, and after three months, I got cast as Bruce Boxleitner’s son in
The Con Man Next Door
.”

“Not your résumé,” I say, embarrassed that I’m actually a little familiar with the tale from Sam’s teen magazines lying around the house. “Tell me about you.”

He looks sincerely confused. “What about me?”

“Where did you grow up? What are your parents like? Do you have siblings?”

Wynn looks a little uncomfortable. “Off the record?” he says, as though I’m a
Tiger Beat
reporter. I nod. He takes a drink of beer then plunges ahead. “I was raised by a single mom in a trailer park in New Mexico. My dad left when I was six and I’ve only seen him twice since. Of course, now that I’m famous he wants a relationship, but as far as I’m concerned, it’s too little, too late.”

“Oh,” I say, unsure of the appropriate response.

“I have an older brother, Dennis. We were really close but he’s been arrested twice for drug offenses—just pot, but obviously, that would damage my reputation as a”—his fingers do air quotes—“‘teen heartthrob.’”

“Right.”

“So I’ve been advised not to see him. But I see my mom once in a while … She’s had a hard life and she made some bad choices, but … she’s my mom, so I guess I have to make an effort.”

“You do,” I say, reaching for my gin and tonic and taking a fortifying sip. “She’s your mother and I’m sure she did the best she could. My mother wasn’t perfect either.”

Wynn shrugs. “Did your mother ever get arrested for check-kiting?”

“No.”

“For throwing a TV at her boyfriend?”

“Thankfully no, but trust me, there are times when TV throwing is extremely tempting.”

He chuckles. “I guess.”

I soften my tone. “That must have been pretty rough, though.”

“It wasn’t so bad. I actually think my upbringing made me stronger,” Wynn says, his confident air returning. “I’ve had to stand on my own two feet for a long time, so I can roll with things that a lot of people can’t.”

“Maybe,” I say, wondering if my Cleaver-esque upbringing had made me soft.

“And I’ve got lots of good, quality friends.”

I refrain from asking how many of these good, quality friends are on his payroll. Instead, I say, “I think you should call your mom … and your brother. Who cares if he’s smoked a little pot? Sometimes our family disappoints us, but they’re still our family.”

Wynn looks at me, smiles. “Maybe …”

“And don’t let your managers make decisions for you. Like you said, you can stand on your own two feet. You’re a really strong person.”

Wynn looks slightly uncomfortable with the praise as he takes a drink of beer, but I continue. “It’s true. Lots of stars would use a background like yours as an excuse to do drugs and pop in and out of rehab.” I pat his hand. “I’m proud of you.”

As soon as I’ve said it, I realize how motherly it sounds. Suddenly, I feel like I’m out for a beer with seventeen-year-old Cody Summers. It’s sick and wrong. “I should go,” I say, starting to stand.

Wynn grabs the hand that just administered the matronly patting. I’m thankful that my wedding ring is sitting in the jewelry box on my dresser. “Stay,” he says, giving me an intense look. The twinkling blue eyes are brooding and sexy.

I sit down. “Okay,” I say hoarsely. “I guess I can stay a bit longer.”

Trent

ANNIKA
’
S DOOR SWINGS OPEN
before I’ve even knocked. She pulls me inside and kisses me passionately, grinding herself up against me. Just when I’m getting aroused, she backs away.

“I can’t believe we had our first fight!” she says, as if it’s a celebratory milestone. “I’m sorry, baby.”

“It wasn’t you, it was me.” After almost twenty years with Lucy, I know this is the appropriate response. In reality, I don’t know if it was her or me. I don’t even know what we were supposedly fighting about.

“No, it was me,” she insists and kisses me again. “I pushed too hard. It’s just that we’re finally together and I want to be a part of your life.”

“Okay,” I say lamely.

She leads me into the tidy apartment where a small round dining table is set for dinner. A bottle of red sits breathing in the center. Annika pours two glasses, continuing her diatribe. “I know you said you’ve been emotionally divorced for years, but I guess there’s really no way for your daughter to know that. Like, I’m sure she thinks you and Lucy were totally happy until last month. So I get what you’re saying—like, that we can’t rush into telling her about us.” She hands me a glass of wine.

“Good,” I reply, taking a grateful sip.

“Sam and I should absolutely meet as friends first. Then, once she gets to know me, we can tell her that we’re in love.”

I don’t spray the mouthful of red wine all over her pale yellow tablecloth. Instead, I start to choke. She rubs my back, making a shushing noise like I’m a baby choking on mushy peas. When I’ve stopped sputtering, she says, “Down the wrong tube?”

“Yeah,” I croak.

She giggles. “You’re so cute. So,” she places her glass on the table and fiddles with the buttons on my shirt. “What do you think?”

What do I think? I think I should tell her that I’m not in love with her, that I don’t plan to ever introduce her to my daughter. I think I should tell her that this is all about sex for me, about being with someone new after years with the same woman. In that moment, I can hear Mike uttering these words through a mouthful of steak, but I choose to ignore the irony. I should tell Annika the truth about my feelings, but I can’t. If I’m perfectly honest, I’m a little afraid to rock the boat. “Sounds good,” I manage to mumble. “What’s for dinner?”

“Osso buco,” she says, dropping to her knees before me. “But I thought I’d have you for an appetizer.” And as she unzips my fly, all thoughts of setting her straight suddenly fly out the window.

Lucy

I DID STAY AT MAXWELL
’
S
in the Kingsway Inn for a bit longer. In fact, I stayed four drinks longer. Sam wasn’t expecting me home until at least seven, so I had plenty of time. Unfortunately, when seven o’clock rolled around, the five gin and tonics I’d imbibed left me in no shape to drive … or walk … or think straight.

“Don’t worry,” Wynn said, rubbing his thumb across mine. We were holding hands now. Somewhere around drink three we started holding hands. “Jamie and Todd will pick us up and drive your car home.”

“Are you sure it’s no trouble?” I cooed. Somewhere around drink four, I started cooing.

“Of course not.” I realized that Jamie and Todd were likely the “quality friends” Wynn kept on the payroll to be at his beck and call. “We’ll have you home in half an hour.”

As Wynn spoke to Jamie on his cell phone, I struggled into my coat. I waited patiently as he gave our location, taking in Wynn and my surroundings through blurry eyes. It was such a strange juxtaposition: this gorgeous celebrity in this crappy dive bar. What was I doing here? This was not my life. Or was it? Wynn caught me looking at him and winked. My stomach did a little flip. Camille was right. I deserved to have a little fun. Who was I hurting? And Wynn
was
hot … really fucking hot. And I was drunk … really fucking drunk.

“They’ll be here in fifteen minutes,” he said, snapping his phone closed.

“What should we do until then?” I said, taking an unsteady step toward him.

Before Sam was born, copious amounts of gin had been known to turn me into an aggressive nymphomaniac. Apparently, nothing had changed. Wynn was quick to pick up on my not so subtle cues. He slid his hands into my open coat and around my waist. With a forceful tug, he pulled me toward him.

“We’ll think of something.”

As our bodies collided, I felt an intense surge of desire. This was really happening. I was here, alone, with this beautiful, sexy man who had far more depth than I ever would have imagined. What Camille said was true. He wasn’t seventeen-year-old Cody. He was Wynn Felker and he was all man! Our eyes locked and one thought filled my mind: I wanted him. I didn’t care if it was wrong and weird and completely unprofessional. In fact, in my inebriated mental state, that just added to the excitement.

Wynn leaned forward and kissed me. His lips were soft and warm and he tasted like beer … delicious, yummy beer. My hands flew to the back of his hair as our kissing intensified. A small moan escaped as I surrendered to the feeling of his mouth, the softness of his hair, and his hands roaming my back. For the first time since Trent walked out, I wasn’t thinking about my marriage. I wasn’t feeling hurt or betrayed or worried about the future. No longer was I Trent’s wife, or Samantha’s mother, or the winner of the most attractive Christmas lights display on the block. I was just Lucy … Lucy Crawford. I was living in the moment, and I was having the time of my life.

Of course, we were not alone. Some perverted chuckling and a muttered “Give it to him, baby” brought our attention back to our location.

“Let’s wait outside,” Wynn mumbled, grabbing me by the hand and leading me through the dingy pub. I followed obediently, enjoying his take-charge attitude. He was definitely no teenager!

Outside, we were able to resume our make-out session for a few minutes before the irritatingly punctual Jamie and Todd arrived. I gave my car keys to Todd, and Wynn and I piled into the back seat of the Lincoln Navigator.

Jamie’s burly presence in the driver’s seat cooled our ardor, and as we hurtled down Kingsway I felt myself sobering up. Okay, I was still a long way from sober, but my senses were returning. What the hell had just happened? I was late getting home to my daughter, I was drunk, and I’d spent the last twenty minutes gnawing Cody Summers’s face off. It was disgusting.
I
was disgusting … also selfish, irresponsible, and slutty.