Chronicles of a Midlife Crisis (19 page)

Trent

“
I NEVER SAID I
’
D CHOOSE ANNIKA OVER YOU
,” Don Spencer is saying. His lithe runner’s frame reclines in his leather office chair. He seems to be taking this whole thing rather casually. “She came barging into my office crying that she didn’t think she could work with you anymore. I had to say something to calm her down.”

“Okay,” I say, leaning back in my own chair as relief washes over me. “I’m sorry you had to get involved in this.”

“Me too. And I’m sorry you don’t have enough sense not to sleep with a co-worker.”

I nod sheepishly. “It was a mistake. I can see that now.”

“Is it over between you two then?”

“I think so. I don’t know. She wants us to go to a relationship coach.”

“A relationship coach?” He sits up. “After you’ve been banging her for a month?”

I mirror his action and sit forward. “I know. She’s gotten way too serious. It’s scary.”

Don chuckles quietly. “I’m sorry Trent, but you’ve really dropped yourself in it this time.”

“Yeah.”

“I mean, Annika’s very attractive, but she’s always come across as a little … desperate, you know?”

No, I don’t know, asshole. Otherwise I never would have slept with her. But I nod and shrug.

“How’s Lucy doing with all this?”

“How do you think?” I say. “She’s pissed.”

“And Sam?”

I think about Lucy’s entreaty to Hope to keep our daughter’s pot-smoking, drop-out behavior quiet. But I suddenly realize I haven’t talked to anyone about our situation in months. My world has turned upside down, and I’m dealing with it utterly alone. Don’s my boss, so not exactly the ideal confidant, but what choice do I have?

“She’s had a hard time,” I say, horrified to feel a lump of emotion forming in my throat. “She’s angry and hurt and … she’s rebelling.”

“What’s she been doing?”

“She dropped out of her art show and …” My voice breaks. “She’s been drinking.”

“That’s a pretty normal reaction,” Don says knowingly. He has two sons, now in their twenties. “But kids are resilient. She’ll get over it.”

I realize that if I speak, I run the risk of bursting into tears. It’s weak and pathetic, but I can’t help it. Maybe I’m depressed?

Don stands and moves around the desk to pat my shoulder heartily. “Why don’t you take some vacation time and sort yourself out?”

I shrug, nod. Shit. A tear just leaked out of the corner of my eye.

“Your job is safe, okay?” Don says. He probably thinks I’m about to have a nervous breakdown or something. He might be right. “And maybe you and Annika should see this counselor?”

My head snaps up to look at him. “What? Why?”

He continues. “A professional should be able to make her see that this was just a roll in the hay that got blown out of proportion.”

He’s right. Why didn’t I think of that? I guess that’s why he’s the boss. “Thanks,” I croak, clearing my throat loudly as I stand.

Another hearty pat on the back. “Take a few days.” It’s a command now, not a suggestion. “You’ll get through this.”

I start to walk out of his office and then stop. “Thanks for understanding.” My voice cracks and I make some weird snorting noise—a repressed sob, I guess. I hurry away before I start crying like a baby.

Lucy

AFTER WYNN LEFT,
I tried to ignore Sam’s excited phone calls to all her friends and acquaintances.

“Oh my god! Wynn Felker just came by to see me! … I don’t know—my mom told him about me so I guess he wanted to meet me. And he brought me flowers … That’s what older guys do when they meet a woman … Well, guys with
class
.”

I noticed that she didn’t mention the possibility that Wynn’s was a pity visit prompted by her mother’s telling him Sam had been having a hard time with the separation. She also left out my boob flashing and mini-meltdown.

But by Friday, the commotion caused by Wynn’s surprise visit has given way to an eerie sense of normalcy. I get dressed for work and send Sam off to school. When I’m alone, I change out of my work clothes and into a pair of track pants with an old cardigan, and begin my day of shuffling around the house aimlessly. This is my new normal, I guess: without love, without purpose, without employment. I’m in the middle of making a subpar pot of coffee when the phone rings.

“I’m outside your house,” Camille says excitedly. “Can I come in?”

Moments later, I usher her inside. She looks at my ensemble and quickly covers her expression of distaste with one of pity. “Oh hon,” she says, giving me a quick hug. But when she releases me, she brightens significantly. “You’ll never guess what happened at work yesterday!”

Obviously, I’m not really in the mood to hear work stories. Although I guess it’s not that obvious to Camille. “Let’s have coffee,” I offer, leading her to the kitchen.

She follows me, chatting animatedly. “Okay, so I’ve been totally swamped since you left. I worked fourteen hours yesterday and the day before, and I still wasn’t able to get everything for Cody’s keg party that goes awry.”

I fill two cups. “What did Bruce say?”

“He’s trying to hire someone, but the city isn’t exactly crawling with experienced props buyers. He called Miranda Ross, but she’s working on that sci fi series with the grandpa who’s an alien.”

“He should have been more flexible,” I retort. “But I’m sorry this is all falling on you.”

“Listen to this,” she says, positively gleefully. “So I’m in Bruce’s office telling him that it’s physically impossible for one person to provide all the props for a series like this when who should storm in?”

I already know, but she proceeds. “Ainsley, followed by Wynn Felker!”

“Really?” I say, feigning surprise that Wynn and the show’s producer, stout powerhouse Ainsley, had paid Bruce a visit. “What did they want?”

“Ainsley was all over Bruce. She went on and on about how this is a family show, so how can we, as a production, not support employees with families. Wynn just stood there, looking pissed off—and gorgeous, of course.”

“Really?” I can feel myself smiling. I can’t seem to help it.

“By the end of the conversation, Bruce was apologizing and promising that he was going to hire you back and get a junior buyer in so you can knock off early for Sam.”

“Wow.” It’s all I can think to say.

Camille looks at her watch. “He’ll be calling you any minute. I’d better get back on the road. Somehow, I don’t think Wynn and Ainsley would storm in to fight for my job.” She gives me a mischievous wink.

I walk her to the door and give her a big hug. “Thanks for coming by,” I say. “It’s really sweet of you.”

“I can’t wait until we’re working together again. I’ve totally missed you—and I don’t just mean you taking back half my workload.”

I force a tight smile. Unfortunately, my friend notices. “What?” she says. “Aren’t you happy to be coming back to work?”

“Of course!” I say. “I’m desperate to be working. It’s not like I can afford to lounge around here all day doing nothing.” I shrug. “I’m just tired and overwhelmed, that’s all.”

“Have you talked to Trent?”

I suddenly remember my promise to call him today. But I don’t necessarily have to abide by that, do I? I mean, he promised to love me until death did us part, so he’s not really in a position to judge. “Just briefly,” I said. Behind me, the phone rings.

Camille jumps. “That’ll be Bruce! You may as well ask for a raise while he’s begging you to come back.”

I shut the door and head for the phone. My blasé response to the impending conversation surprises me. Of course I want my job back. I need the money and the sense of purpose. And the thought of updating my résumé and starting the whole job hunt over again is wearying. But there’s also no denying that buying props for Cody Summers has become less and less stimulating. Cody himself has become infinitely more stimulating, but driving all over the lower mainland in search of his skateboards, Rubik’s Cubes, pool noodles, and remote-control dinosaurs all seems so meaningless.

So my voice is less than enthusiastic when I answer. “Hello?”

“Lucy, it’s me.”

“Trent?” I’m surprised and a little annoyed. First of all, I said I’d call him back. Of course, it’s entirely possible I wouldn’t have, but he didn’t know that. Second of all, he’s tying up the line so that Bruce is unable to offer me my uninspiring and pointless job back. “Why are you calling?”

“I need to talk to you.”

His voice breaks and it almost sounds like he’s crying. Trent’s never been overly emotional or sentimental, but I suppose Sam’s rejection has weakened him. “This isn’t a good time,” I reply coolly.

“Please,” he begs, and this time there’s no doubt. Trent is crying, and hard.

“What’s wrong?” I demand. Surprisingly, I feel annoyed by his unfettered display of emotion. I don’t have the energy to soothe him, to prop him up and help him cope with what he’s done. It’s no longer my role to play wife to him. That’s Petunia Pig’s job now.

“Everything’s wrong,” he sobs. “I miss Sam. I miss you. I miss you and Sam.”

It’s satisfying, I can’t deny it. But still, he’s tying up the line. “I can’t force Sam to see you, Trent. But I’m sure she’ll come around eventually.”

I hear him take a deep breath. “I thought maybe we could do something together, the three of us?”

“I don’t think Sam’s ready to meet your”—I stop myself from saying
whore
—“girlfriend. She’s still adjusting to our separation.”

“Not with her,” Trent says, “with you. The three of us, together again, like a family.”

It’s the trigger that stirs the emotion in me. My throat constricts as I’m gripped by a nostalgic longing for the way things were. If I could make the last month of our lives disappear, I would, but I can’t. We’ll never get back what we had. Sam and I will never look at Trent the same way again. “It’s too late,” I say softly.

“It’s not too late,” my husband insists. “I fucked up, I know that. But we can’t throw away eighteen years over one bad month.”

“One bad month?” I screech. “You brought your girlfriend to our daughter’s art show! You’ve driven Sam to booze and drugs! You’ve continually neglected us both, and now you think we can just go back to the way we were?”

“We’ll start fresh,” Trent pleads. “Lucy …
please
. I need you.”

“Really? I thought you needed time alone, to sort out your grown-up man stuff.”

My sarcasm usually trips the switch on his anger, but not this time. His voice is quiet, resigned, when he says, “I was wrong.”

His tone defuses my rage. There’s a long moment of silence as I try to think of what to say next. But what is there to say? I want to forgive him, I really do. I just don’t know if I can.

“It’s over between Annika and me,” he says, “in case you were wondering.”

“Not really.”

“She wants us to go to counseling, if you can believe it.”

The thought of the two of them working on their relationship makes me want to throw up. I remain mute as Trent continues.

“I don’t want to go, but Don made a really good point. If we do talk to a professional, then she can make Annika see that it’s really over between us.”

I am incredulous. “So it’s over between you two, but you haven’t bothered to tell her that?”

Trent obviously realizes how ridiculous this sounds. “Well, I tried but she’s just having a little trouble accepting—”

I slam the receiver down. How could I have been so naïve? So gullible? Trent is still the same selfish prick who walked out on Sam and me, the same bastard who brought a date to the Crofton House art show. His tears and remorse don’t change a thing. I can’t forgive him. He doesn’t deserve it. The phone rings again. He obviously hasn’t gotten the message.

“What?” I scream into the receiver.

“Uh … Lucy?”

Oops. “Yes.”

“It’s Bruce. I was wondering if we could talk about you coming back to work?”

Trent

YASMINE WHEELER IS A STRIKING,
forty-something brunette with really arched eyebrows. She sits with her legs crossed, listening to Annika explain our relationship.

“We were friends for almost a year before we started dating, which I think is a good way to start off a relationship.”

“It can be,” Yasmine says then turns to me. “But you were married for most of the friendship, right?”

“Yeah,” I mumble.

Annika jumps in. “Nothing physical happened until he left his wife. It was more of an emotional and spiritual connection.”

What is she talking about? I thought she was sexy and I wanted to bone her. There was nothing emotional or spiritual about it.

“And then when he chose me,” she reaches over and gives my knee a squeeze, “we took it to the physical plane.”

I clear my throat, simultaneously sitting forward and pulling my knee away from her hand. “That’s not exactly right. I didn’t choose Annika over my wife. I needed a break from my marriage and I wanted to spend some time on my own. This thing with her was just … a fling that got out of hand.”

Annika gives an incredulous snort. “Right. So we’ve been sleeping together practically every night for a month, and it’s just a fling to you?”

“Yeah.”

“So when we went shopping to furnish your apartment? And when you took me to your daughter’s art show? That meant nothing to you?”

Oh Christ, here we go again. “Sorry,” I mutter.

Yasmine interjects, “So what I’m hearing is that you’re in the same relationship, but with different objectives?”

I look over at Annika. We both shrug.

Annika turns to Yasmine. “But the fact that we’re here means we’re willing to work on it.” She looks over at me and mouths, “Thank you.”

“Not really,” I say, eyes fixed on our coach. “I’m actually here to make Annika understand that this is over. I’m sorry if I gave her the impression that we had some kind of future together, but we don’t. I need to focus on my family.”

I was hoping Yasmine would turn to Annika and say something like, “Got the message?”Instead she says, “That must be very hard for you to hear.”

“It is,” Annika says, grabbing a tissue off the large, dark wood desk. “And the worst part is, I know he doesn’t mean it.”