FLIRTING WITH 40

by K. Bromberg

  Me: Yes. I’m fine. Thank you for my flowers. They’re gorgeous.

  Slade: You deserve them.

  Me: How did you know peonies were my favorite? I love them.

  Slade: They are? Good guess then. But isn’t that just how things are with us?

  Me: Strangely yes. See you Friday.

  Slade: I’ll be there with bells on.

  I laugh because I don’t put it past him to actually wear bells. Staring at our texts, all I can think is how right his comment is about knowing peonies are my favorite.

  It’s just how things are with us.

  Slade

  “I’m confused,” I say when I open the front door, bleary-eyed and craving my bed more than my half-eaten pasta sitting on the counter. “I thought you were here and then left already, swearing to never come back.”

  My mom’s smile widens as she steps inside and presses a kiss to my cheek. “You look exhausted,” she says and breezes past me like she owns the place. “How come you look like you’re working when you’re still not working?”

  “Um . . . what are you doing here?” I ask as I stand at the door and stare after her. I still have my scrub pants on, but my shirt off, and I have a half-drank beer in my hand.

  “I told you I had to come back for Aunt Millie’s surgery. Don’t worry”—she looks over her shoulder—“I’m not staying here.” She stops in her tracks and looks down the hallway and then back to me, eyes wide, and mouth open in shock. “I’m not interrupting anything am I?”

  It takes me a second to get her gist. “No. God. Mom.” I sigh her name out. “The only thing you’re interrupting is my five precious hours of sleep. I’m so tired I couldn’t even do that if I tried.”

  “Do that?” She giggles as she rounds the countertop and looks in my bowl before heading to the fridge. “It’s called sex, honey, and I’m more than aware you have it.”

  “This conversation is wrong on so many levels.” I sink down into my seat and resume eating. It’s cold now, but I don’t have the energy to make anything different.

  But when I look up, my mom is already cutting up lettuce and tomatoes and making a salad. “You need veggies,” she says. “All those carbs aren’t healthy.”

  “Thanks for the nutrition lesson,” I grumble.

  “Would you rather we chat about why you’ve been avoiding my calls?” she asks as if she’s Mary Freaking Poppins.

  “I’ve been working. I’m not back on call yet, but like I told you, I’m helping Schultz out—trying to get in his good graces—and you know how much I love doing mindless bullshit.”

  “Mindless, yes, but at least you aren’t pulling twenty-four-hour shifts.”

  “I kind of am, though, trying to get my body back in the swing of things on the off chance I get reinstated soon.”

  “It must be why you’re a bowl full of sunshine.”

  I glare at her. “Why are you here?”

  “You’re avoiding me.”

  She’s right. I am.

  “No, I’m not.”

  “You never ignore my texts.” I give her one of those you-have-to-be-kidding-me looks. “Well, you ignore them but not this way.”

  “And what way is that?” I ask around a bite of pasta.

  “In the way where you don’t give me an inkling of how your camping trip went.”

  “Is that why you’re here?” I laugh. “You want to get in my business?”

  Christ.

  “That Glam girl you went with. What’s her name again?”

  My eyes flash up. Narrow. “What do you mean Glam girl?”

  “I was checking your Instagram and saw someone tag you from your retreat. It said something about it being Glam and all kinds of those weird pound sign things after it.”

  “Hashtags.”

  “Yes. Those. I always forget their new name.”

  “That’s beside the point. Your stalking, meddling . . . annoying abilities really need to take a back seat.”

  “I wasn’t stalking. I just happened to see it.” She waves a hand at me. “What was her name again?”

  “Who? You mean, Blakely?”

  “Yes. Such a pretty name. And talk about beautiful. Classic and sophisticated looking all at the same time.”

  My mother is stalking my love life through Instagram. It doesn’t get any worse than this.

  “Yes, she’s something else.”

  And hell if that isn’t the goddamn truth.

  “Well, Lane said—”

  “Lane?” I bark out my cousin’s name. I’m going to kill the fucker as soon as I remember what I actually told him. I’ve been in my head so much these past two weeks that I’m kind of foggy on what I said and what I simply thought. “Please, tell me what you and Lane discussed.” I cross my arms across my chest and lean back in my chair.

  “He just said you really had a good time. That you really liked her.”

  “Uh-huh.” I draw the word out as I take a sip from my bottle of beer. “And your point?”

  “My point is nothing. It just isn’t like you not to at least say something to me about a woman you go out with.”

  “Yeah. Normally, I just say some shit to push your buttons.”

  “Exactly, but this time, you’ve said absolutely nothing.”

  “Mom, I’m tired. Can you just stop beating around the bush and get to why you stopped by here because I know it’s more than just to say hi and fix me a salad.”

  She slides the salad across the counter and then grabs some salad dressing from the fridge for me.

  “Thanks,” I mumble.

  “You know.” She sighs and leans her hips against the counter opposite of me. “You reach this time in your life where you realize you’re growing up. That what you thought was enough before, isn’t enough any longer.”

  “And?”

  “And I’m just wondering if you really like this Blakely but can’t understand why this time is different, why she’s different, and so you’re fighting yourself on admitting it.”

  I look up from my food and meet her eyes. There’s so much kindness and love looking back at me that my defenses crumble just a little. “All of the above and then some.”

  The startle of her head tells me she’s shocked I just opened up to her. I am too.

  “Then what’s the problem? If you like her, and she likes you, why are you so grumpy? Love is supposed to make you happy.”

  “Let’s slow down there with the L-word, ‘kay?”

  “Why does it scare you?”

  And fuck does it scare me.

  “It isn’t me who’s scared, all right?”

  A slow smile slides onto her lips as she cocks her head to the side. Did I really just admit to my mom that I’ve fallen for Blakely? Did I really just admit that to myself?

  “Tell me about her,” she says softly.

  I fight my innate urge to deflect questions related to my dating life, and it doesn’t seem too hard because I miss Blakely like crazy and at the same time wonder how in the hell this happened.

  I don’t fight the smile that comes. “She’s . . . something else. She’s confident and intelligent, and she has a great laugh.” I look at where my hands are clasped around my beer bottle and shake my head. “We just click. That’s the only way I can put it. I went on that stupid trip to try to help her out and left wondering what in the hell happened to me.”

  My chuckle is slightly self-deprecating, but my mom’s smile is sincere.

  “You know what’s funny, Slade? If I were to ask you that question about anyone else you’ve dated, your response is how she has great eyes or killer legs. It’s always about looks. With this Blakely, you didn’t make a single comment about her appearance and we both know she’s gorgeous . . . so, I don’t know about you, but to me, that says a lot.”

  “I don’t know how this happened.” I rise from my seat and grab another beer I don’t really need.

  “I know. It’s hard to believe someone actually loves you and your pushiness a
nd kind heart,” she teases.

  “Ha. Let’s not go that far.” The crack of the bottle cap fills the kitchen.

  “Does she know how you feel?”

  “I’m not even sure how I feel.” I chuckle and sit back down.

  “Yes you do,” she murmurs as she runs a sponge over the counter. “It’s in your eyes when you talk about her. It’s in your tone. Why haven’t you told her?”

  “For a lot of reasons.” I yawn.

  “Try me.”

  “Her last relationship was a marriage.” I quirk an eyebrow, waiting for judgment from my mom but there is none. Just patient eyes waiting for me to explain. “I’m thinking since her husband left her for a younger woman, the last thing she’s ready to hear or wants to hear is that I’ve fallen for her.”

  And that’s the crux isn’t it? Sure, falling in love in this short amount of time is crazy, but admitting it and then being rejected is ten times worse.

  “How do you know unless you tell her?”

  “What if she spooks? Where exactly does that leave me?”

  “And what if she’s feeling the same way you are and is afraid to voice it?” I start to speak, but she cuts me off. “You’re the guy who says what he feels at all times. You’re spontaneous and in-your-face and encourage people to live their lives without looking back. You’re the one who doesn’t hold back, so why are you doing it now when you need not to the most?”

  Blakely’s expression in the lodge’s parking lot flashes in my mind. The emotion hiding in her eyes. The tenderness in her kiss. The quiver in her laugh.

  Then I think of the space I’ve subconsciously given myself, hoping this ache in my chest would go away or dissipate. It isn’t supposed to be burning brighter. I think of the distance I’ve given her to see if she’ll just move on, use me as her rebound, and realize she doesn’t want a man right now.

  And I think of how goddamn miserable I’ve been doing all of this—being without her.

  “You really like her, don’t you?”

  I sigh. “I do, Mom. I do when I shouldn’t. I do, and I can’t explain why.”

  “Oh Slade, honey, that’s the best kind.” She takes a seat beside me, turning her chair so her feet are on the lower rungs of mine. “You know, fear makes people do stupid things sometimes.”

  Like falling in love with someone after only a few short weeks.

  “That’s profound.” I don’t look up from my salad.

  “Fear. Of being loved. Of being rejected. Of being hurt,” she continues as if I didn’t speak. “Sometimes it makes people do stupid things.”

  “Like?”

  “Like push people away because it’s too good to believe it’s true.”

  “I’m seeing her in three days. I’ll let you know how your theory pans out,” I deadpan, unofficially letting her know this little heart-to-heart is over.

  She leans over and presses a kiss to my temple. I slide my arms around her waist for a hug. She stands there and runs her fingers through my hair. “Maybe we can do dinner before I head back home again?”

  I snort. “That’s just another excuse for you to meddle.”

  “Get some sleep,” she murmurs.

  I’ll take that as a yes.

  Blakely

  I stop momentarily to look at myself in the tall window storefront to my right.

  The dress I bought for tonight—burgundy with a deep V neckline, and a cut that clings down to my waist and then flares a bit at the legs—is the perfect choice. It says I’m not trying too hard but is still subtly sexy in all the right ways.

  My shoes, on the other hand? The black peep-toe heels that add four inches to my height say I want him to take the dress off me and demand that I leave only the shoes on.

  Nerves rattle in my stomach as I bring a hand to my hair to tuck an errant strand behind my ear. I’m excited and anxious and worried and everything under the sun for whatever is to happen tonight.

  That’s a lie.

  I know what’s going to happen tonight. I’m going to be the new Blakely who takes what she wants. The one who was MIA the last time I saw Slade when we were standing in the parking lot at the lodge and was too chickenshit to tell him what I wanted—him.

  I can do this.

  I got the job, and now I want the man too.

  Taking a left at the street corner, I halt in my tracks when I come face-to-face with Paul. Déja vu hits me. But this time Paul is alone. There’s no Barbie to distract him or flaunt like a trophy. It’s just me and him and a world full of baggage that I want to throw into a dumpster, light on fire, and never look at again.

  “Blakely.” His eyes roam up and down the length of me, and if there were such a thing as buyer’s remorse, his expression would be the trademark for it.

  Not going to lie and say I don’t enjoy seeing it.

  “Paul. What a surprise.” When he leans in to give me a kiss on the cheek, I take a step back. “What are you doing?”

  “Just saying hi. Since when is it such a big deal for me to kiss you on the cheek?”

  “Since you left me. Since we’re divorced. Since I no longer have any desire to try to make things cordial with you . . . you lost the right to assume anything about me.”

  His expression freezes, and he blinks his eyes several times as he tries to adjust to this new me. The one who speaks up instead of swallowing the comments as to not make a scene.

  “Wow. Okay.” He nods as that smarmy smile graces his lips. “I wasn’t aware it was a crime to be cordial.”

  “It isn’t. But cordial is all you ever were to me. There was no passion, no spark, no anything other than constantly trying to satisfy that overgrown ego of yours, and now that I’m no longer married to you, I don’t have to pretend anymore.” I glance to my right where someone laughs loudly. “If you’ll excuse me, Slade’s waiting for me.”

  Proud of myself, I skirt around him, but then he grabs my arm. It takes everything I have not to give him the satisfaction of yanking my arm back. Instead, I look him straight in the eyes and raise an eyebrow in question.

  “Where was this Blakely when we were married?” he asks.

  “She was always here. You were too preoccupied with yourself to notice her.”

  And without another word, I take off down the sidewalk toward Metta’s with an extra swing to my hips and the hope that he’s watching me and seeing what he gave up.

  By the time I walk into Metta’s and request a table, I realize that I don’t care if Paul was watching. In fact, the best part about that whole interaction was its little boost to my confidence and the reinforcement that the new Blakely is here to stay.

  Sliding into a booth in the back corner, I know for certain that I wasn’t off in reading Slade’s cues. I realize that Prisha’s advice was just that—advice—and that I should heed it but use my own interactions with him to form my own opinion.

  And my opinion is that there is something between us.

  With each passing minute, I’m more and more certain of it, more and more high on the anticipation of seeing him again and falling right back into whatever it is we can be together.

  I jump when my phone rings and scramble to answer when I see Slade’s name on the screen.

  “Hi. Everything okay?” I ask, realizing he was supposed to have been here fifteen minutes ago.

  “It’s fine. I’m not going to make it.”

  I shake my head as if I didn’t hear him correctly. “Slade?”

  “Something came up,” he says as I hear a woman laughing in the background and déja vu hits me for the second time tonight.

  It’s still of Paul, but this time it’s of the calls he’d answer but was always in a hurry to end. The ones where a throaty laugh could be heard just before he disconnected. The laughs I now know belonged to Barbie.

  “Slade?”

  “I have to go. I just—I’m sorry.”

  Without another word, the connection goes dead.

  And every ounce of confidence that I wa
s just soaring on comes crashing down around me.

  By the time I get home in my brand-new dress and sky-high heels, I’ve worked myself up into a tizzy. My lone text to him remains unanswered, and every excuse I’ve fabricated as to why I was basically stood up, I’ve systematically debunked.

  One by freaking one.

  The woman’s voice in the background doesn’t help my overactive imagination from reliving everything with Paul all while taking Prisha’s damn advice and twisting it to fit its narrative.

  To put it mildly, I’m hurt and more than mad at myself for believing that this could be real.

  That a good guy like Slade Henderson could really like an almost forty-year-old divorcée.

  Then again, maybe there aren’t any good guys left after all.

  Slade

  My pulse pounds like a freight train in my ears as I wait for Dr. Schultz to go through the chart in his hand.

  This isn’t how I expected tonight to happen. A phone call when I’m standing in the middle of the florist shop and then rushing to get to the hospital as soon as possible. A command from my mentor to grab my lab coat out of my locker, throw it on, and meet him in the pediatric unit ASAP.

  Putting on that lab coat is the closest thing I’ve felt to being a doctor in a long time. It’s a good thing.

  I think.

  “She’s asking for you.” His voice is a somber hush as his eyes flicker to the closed doorway to our right before meeting mine. Ivy is in that room speaking with the police psychologist.

  “For me?” I ask, surprised Ivy would even remember me. The poor little girl has been through hell and back, I should be the last thing she remembers.

  He nods. “She’s been stirring for the past week, signs here and there, but she woke late this morning. She was confused and agitated, but once she understood what happened, she calmed some.”

  I hate that I’m just finding out about this now and thankful I’m finding out about it at all.

  It had to be a big, scary place to wake up in when the last time you were conscious you were bleeding and hurting while people were shouting orders and things were being poked and prodded into your body.