Chronicles of a Midlife Crisis (21 page)

So now I find myself, glass of red wine in hand, staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the expanse of the Pacific. In the distance, the lights of Vancouver twinkle in the darkness. “Beautiful view, isn’t it?” Wynn says. His body is close behind me and I can feel his breath on my neck.

“Gorgeous,” I say huskily. Turning, I indicate the whole room with a sweep of my arm: the gleaming walnut floors, pale, modern furnishings, and expensive, strategically placed ornaments. “The whole place is just … incredible.” The whole place, in fact, looks like a professionally decorated photo spread from
Dwell
magazine. There’s a marked lack of personal touches: no books, magazines, or framed photographs. It’s a home fit only for a movie star—or in this case, a teen sitcom sensation.

With a gentle hand on my elbow, Wynn leads me to the sofa. We perch (with its expansive seat and low back, it’s a piece designed for perching) on the edge. “I’m glad you came,” he says.

“Me too.” I smile at him. “Dinner was fantastic. Where’d you learn to cook like that?”

“An old girlfriend taught me that dish.”

Strangely, I feel a twinge of jealousy. It’s ridiculous and I shake it off. Besides, he’s not old enough to have had any significant relationships. “Well, it was great.”

Wynn sets his glass of wine on the coffee table and then takes mine. I try to remain calm as he places it next to his. I know what comes next: a kiss. And then, if all goes well—and there’s absolutely no reason it shouldn’t—we will move to his bedroom. Or, possibly, we’ll do it right here on this expensive settee. No, I’d prefer the bedroom. Those enormous windows would make me feel too exposed. Once we’ve kissed for a few minutes, I’ll suggest we move upstairs.

This premeditation does detract from the spontaneity of the moment, but I can’t pretend I haven’t been thinking about it since our encounter in his dressing room. I’ve made a conscious decision to reward myself. In the last few weeks I’ve suffered the loss of my husband, the estrangement of my best friend, the alienation of my daughter, and the indignity of being fired. And I’ve survived it all with my sanity intact, more or less. I deserve to feel loved again. And by “feeling loved again” I mean the temporary high of sex with Wynn.

I’m under no illusions that it will erase the trauma of the past. And it’s not meant to change the emptiness of the future. It is a gift I am giving myself: the physical manifestation of weeks of lust. A sexual release and balm to my damaged ego. I deserve it, goddamn it. I deserve to have sex with the Choice Hottie.

Wynn turns to face me, a sexy smile on his lips. My stomach flips nervously as I wait for him to make a move. The anticipation is killing me. Get on with it, I silently will him, but he doesn’t seem to sense my urgency.

“You’re really beautiful,” he says, gently stroking my cheek with his fingers.

“Thanks,” I say, leaning closer to him.

“I’ve never met anyone like you, Lucy. Seriously, all the actresses and pop stars I’ve dated … none of them compare to you.”

Enough with the compliments. I lean in and kiss his lips. It is every bit as strange and wonderful and exciting as the first time—even more so, given that I’m not completely hammered. I have had exactly a glass and a half of red wine: enough to lower my inhibitions and calm my nerves, but not enough to affect my sensitivity … or judgment. I know exactly what I’m doing. I am waxed and ready.

“Wow,” he says, pulling away for a moment.

“Yeah,” I growl, gripping the front of his shirt and dragging him back to me.

We kiss for a few more minutes, the intensity building steadily. I run my hands over his broad shoulders, his strong arms, and the outline of his pectorals. His hands are buried in my hair, then moving on my back, down to the waistband of my pants. “Let’s go to your room,” I say, already scrambling off the couch.

“Wait,” Wynn says.

“What?”

“Are you sure about this?”

“Super sure,” I say, reaching for his hand and attempting to haul him up the stairs.

“Slow down,” Wynn says with a good-natured chuckle. “I just don’t want you to regret this tomorrow.”

“I won’t,” I assure him, unbuttoning my shirt. I know he’s already seen my left breast, but I’m still hoping the sight of the pair of them in my lacy push-up bra will be enticing. “I’m not thinking about tomorrow. I’m living in the moment and I really want to do this.” I pull my shirt off and toss it on the floor. “I want to make love to you, Wynn. Just this once …” Leaning down, I kiss him passionately to emphasize my point. To my surprise, he is less than responsive. I pull away, look at him.

“It sounds like you’re using me,” he says.

I have to laugh. He’s kidding me, right? Wrong.

“I really like you, Lucy. I feel like there’s something special between us, like maybe we could have something … I don’t know … real. I just don’t want to ruin it or cheapen it by having sex before we’re ready.”

I suppose I should feel flattered, but instead, I’m pissed. “I’ve been straight with you from the beginning. We don’t have a future together. I’m here because I’m attracted to you, and I feel a connection and I want to have sex with you. Is that so wrong?”

“It’s kind of … sleazy.”

“Sleazy?” I snap. “You’re an actor.” I narrow my eyes. “Are you religious or something?”

“No,” he says, “but I’m turning over a new leaf. I want to live a better life. I’m reconnecting with my family. I’m looking for more challenging acting roles. And I don’t want to have another one-night stand. I want more than that.”

“Great,” I say sarcastically, snatching my blouse up off the floor.

Wynn stands up. “I have you to thank for this.”

“Oh, you’re welcome!” I struggle into my blouse and, with my buttons still undone, head toward the door.

“Don’t go,” he pleads.

I turn back to face him. “I’m humiliated! My husband just dumped me for some overweight floozy. And now I offer myself up to you on a silver platter and you turn me down!”

“Not because I don’t want you,” Wynn says. “Because I want more of you … more than just sex.”

Looking at him, I am tempted. Sure, I could go back to the uncomfortable sofa and chat about his family,
Cody’s Way
, and global warming. We would kiss a bit more before I demurely said, “I should go.” We would continue to see each other in secret, hiding out in Wynn’s luxurious home when Sam was with Trent. After about six months, we’d “make love”— poignant, emotional love. One weekend, we’d sneak off to New Mexico so I could meet Wynn’s mother. Our relationship would build slowly, until the day when Sam walked in and found us mid-coitus. “Mom! Stop molesting Cody!” she’d scream.

Gently, we’d explain that I was not molesting seventeenyear-old Cody, but having an adult, consensual relationship with twenty-seven-year-old Wynn. Sam would storm from the room in disgust, hurrying to find the gun that pot-smoking Randy had told her was a “good idea.” She’d come back and shoot me, then Wynn, then herself. Or worse, she’d overdose on crank, leaving me to live with the guilt. This is obviously the worst-case scenario, but still … No thanks.

I pick up my purse from the floor. “Sorry, but I’ve made my position clear.” Wrapping my unbuttoned shirt around me, I head out the door.

Wynn follows behind me. “Come back in,” he calls as I storm to my car. “We can talk about this.”

“There’s nothing to talk about!” I scream, moving purposefully to my vehicle.

“Yes there is!” He catches up to me, grips my arm. “We can sort this out.”

“No, we can’t. You won’t have sex with me, so there’s nothing more to talk about.”

“I will have sex with you,” Wynn says. “I just want to make sure it’s meaningful and special. You deserve that.”

“I deserve to get fucked by the Choice Hottie!” I scream at the top of my lungs.

Suddenly there’s a blinding flash of light, then another. I turn toward it, shielding my eyes, my shirt flapping open in the sea breeze. Behind me, Wynn says “Shit!” and grabs me by the wrist.

“Hey Wynn!” a male voice calls. “Who’s your lady friend?”

Another male voice says, “Not much of a lady with that mouth.”

“What’s your name, darling?” the first voice asks. But before I can answer, Wynn is dragging me back inside amidst a hail of flashbulbs.

Trent

“
HOME SWEET HOME,
” I say, opening the door for Sam to enter my apartment. I see the place through her eyes, as if for the first time. It looks small and cluttered. I tidied up, but forgot a couple of newspapers on the floor beside the sofa. There’s a beer bottle leaning against the leg of the coffee table, too. The furniture is too modern, the pillows are too bright, and the TV is way too big. The place screams “single dad trying to impress estranged daughter.” I look at Sam. It obviously isn’t working.

“The pizza should be here soon,” I say, taking her bag and dropping it in the empty den. I’d called Domino’s on my cell phone on the drive over. It had seemed a good way to fill the awkward silence in the car. But now I’m wishing I had something to fill the awkward silence in the apartment. “So … what movies should we rent?”

“Whatevs,” Sam says, flopping onto the couch. She takes the remote and turns on the TV. Within seconds she’s immersed in a music video.

I try to busy myself in the kitchen, pouring two glasses of Coke, wiping invisible spots off the counter. It’s sad, sort of, how uncomfortable I feel around my own kid. She’s still the same little girl who I taught to swim, carried around on my shoulders, and took on her first rollercoaster ride. Except that she hates me now.

The phone rings twice, signaling the front door. I rush to answer it. “Pizza’s here!” I say jubilantly. I’m positively ecstatic for the sense of purpose. “Yello?”

Through the intercom I hear her voice. “Trent, it’s Annika. We need to talk.”

I could puke, seriously. I look at Sam lounging on the sofa and a fierce protectiveness overtakes me. “I’ll be right down,” I growl.

“Something’s wrong with the door downstairs,” I explain as I head out of the apartment. “I’ll be right back, honey.” She makes no move to acknowledge that she’s heard me, or cares that I’m leaving.

I take the stairs two, three at a time. Annika can’t just show up here whenever she likes—especially now that Sam’s agreed to spend time with me. This could ruin everything.

I see her through the glass, standing at the front door, her posture defiant. For the first time since I’ve met her, I don’t think about fucking her. Right now, I’m too busy willing her to evaporate like one of those
Star Trek
characters. But no such luck. I open the door.

“What are you doing here?”

“We need to talk,” she says, pushing past me into the lobby.

“It’s not a good time.”

“Really?” she turns around to face me, a bitchy smirk on her face. “I thought you cared about your job.”

She’s such a cunt. How could I have been so blind?

Annika continues. “If it comes down to getting rid of you or me, you know Don will choose me.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“My lawyer says we’d have an excellent case for unfair dismissal. Don won’t want to go through a nasty court case if he doesn’t have to. And I’m sure you wouldn’t want that either.” She moves slowly toward me, hands on the belt of her raincoat. “Things could come out in court … embarrassing things.”

“I’ve got nothing to be embarrassed about,” I snap.

“Oh no?” Annika says, shifting her weight onto one leg. “Erectile dysfunction … Dressing up in my underwear … Asking me to spank you …”

“I never did that!” I roar.

“Only you and I know for sure.”

A bubble of panic rises in my throat, but I take a deep breath. I’ve got to play this right. “Look,” I say with a forced calm, “I don’t see why we can’t still work together.”

“We can’t,” Annika snaps. “You can’t just use me and then dump me and expect everything to go back to normal.”

“I understand that you’re hurt,” I try, my voice gentle. “But sometimes things just don’t work out. It doesn’t mean we can’t still be friends.”

“Friends?” she squawks. “Why would I want to be your friend?”

“We had some great times together. We, uh …” I trail off. She’s right. We had nothing in common besides sex. Now that that’s gone, there’s nothing left. But I’ve got to try. “I still care a lot about you, Annika.”

She snivels, “It doesn’t seem like it.”

I take a step toward her. “I do. And I wish things could have been different. But … it just wasn’t the right time for us. I’m too messed up over my marriage and my daughter.”

There’s an almost imperceptible shift in her posture, and I sense her softening. I’ve got to keep going. “I know I can’t give you what you want, as a man. I’m too fucked up and … not emotionally capable of being in a relationship. But I really treasure the time we spent together, and I don’t want to lose your friendship.”

She stares at me, eyes shining with tears. “I want to stay in your life too, Trent, but I think it would be too hard. What if you and Lucy get back together?”

“That’s not gonna happen,” I lie—although, given Lucy’s attitude toward me, I’m probably telling the truth.

“Do you promise?”

Now she’s getting all psycho-possessive again. I look at my watch. I’ve been downstairs too long already. “I can’t talk about this now. Sam’s upstairs. She’s spending the night.”

“Oh,” she says softly, “I’m glad you’re getting to spend some time with her.”

“Me too.”

“I want the best for you, Trent … for you and for Sam.”

“Thanks,” I say dismissively. “I’ve got to get going.”

She steps forward and places her hands on my chest. “I can wait, if you want.”

“For what?”

“For you … for us … I don’t mind waiting as long as you can give me one hundred percent of your heart, when you’re ready.”

“Annika, it’s over,” I say firmly. “You need to get that through your head.”

She takes a step back. “Fuck you!” she spits out at me. “You fucking bastard! You think you can treat me like dirt and get away with it?”

Oh my god, she’s totally nuts! I suddenly feel a little fearful. I’m not dealing with a sane woman here.