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 trut
h 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.
Wynn leaned over and whispered in my ear, “I had a great time tonight.”
“I’m not feeling well,” I responded stiffly.
He sat up. “Are you okay? Do you want to pull over? Are you going to be sick?”
Was I? The thought of what had just happened made me feel sick with guilt. Combined with all the gin sloshing in my stomach and the motion of the SUV, barfing was an appealing idea. “No,” I said quietly, “I just need to get home.”
Twelve minutes later we pulled into my driveway. The digital clock on the dashboard read 7:27, still a reasonable arrival time. Todd pulled in beside us in my Forerunner and cut the engine. If I handled this right, there was no reason Sam needed to know anything was amiss.
“Thanks for the ride,” I called to my driver. I opened the door and exited the back seat. Wynn slid out behind me.
I turned to him. “I’ve got to get inside.”
“Okay.” He took a step toward me. “It just seems a shame to call it a night so early.”
Did he expect me to ask him in? To parade him past my teenage daughter and up to my bedroom? What kind of woman did he think I was? An alcoholic whore, obviously. I guess I had been sending him those signals. I took a step back.
“My daughter …,” I began with a nervous glance over my shoulder. Surely the sound of an enormous SUV idling in the driveway would bring Sam to the window? And what about the neighbors? It looked like I was being dropped off by P. Diddy’s entourage.
“I’ll walk you to the door,” Wynn offered.
“No!” I said, taking an insistent step back. “I’m fine.”
But Wynn moved toward me and took my hand. “I’m flying to Nebraska tomorrow, so I won’t see you for a few days.”
“Nebraska?”
“I have to do a mall opening.”
“But I thought you didn’t want to go?” If Wynn was wondering how I knew this, he didn’t ask.
“I don’t, but we’ve committed. And then we’ve got some event in Wyoming.”
“Well, have fun.” I thought I saw the curtain move and felt a bubble of panic in my chest. If Sam saw Wynn here, she’d go crazy. And if she saw Wynn here holding her mother’s hand, she’d go on a psychotic killing spree. But Sam’s face never appeared and I chalked the swaying curtain up to my drunken loss of equilibrium. Still, I pulled my hand away. “I’ll see you when you get back,” I said, hurrying toward the house. “Thanks for the drinks.”
Now, just a couple of days later, I’m still reliving that evening. It’s a combination of drinker’s remorse and an aching, longing sort of remembrance. Lust, I think they call it. I vaguely remember the feeling from my early days with Trent. Of course, I’ve analyzed this yearning to relive, possibly even expand on, those kisses with Wynn, and have concluded that they’re a product of my intense loneliness and feelings of marital rejection. I must push these lecherous feelings to the back of my mind until they dissipate. And of course, I will never touch another drop of gin as long as I live.
With the Wynn Felker incident firmly behind me, I can focus on my daughter. Sam continues to be sullen and sulky, demonstrating that she needs my full attention. Parenthood is my top priority. Unfortunately, this stupid job continues to suck up far too many hours that would be better spent bonding with my child, but I’ve got to pay the mortgage. Outside of work, I will be one hundred percent attentive to Samantha. I’m not going to let Trent’s mid-life crisis affect her happiness and well-being.
Of course it’s normal to want to reminisce about that night with Wynn. It was a big, drunken mistake, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t enjoy myself. I felt so alive and so young and so free—which is an entirely inappropriate way for someone to feel at my age and in my position. No, Sam comes first … always. There is no room in my life fo
r gin and kissing.
Wynn’s email message was really sweet though. He wrote to me from Nebraska, just to tell me that he’d had a great time the other night and couldn’t wait to see me when he got back. For a split second I’d felt a surge of excitement, even possibility, but I quickly came to my senses. It was flattering to receive such a missive, and obviously good for my ego. I mean, how many women my age get asked out by a gorgeous twenty-something? But it doesn’t change the facts: 1) Wynn is too young for me. 2) He’s a teen heartthrob. 3) My daughter has an enormous crush on him. I could keep going, but those alone are enough.
If I’m being perfectly honest, it feels good to have evened the score with my ex and that curly-haired cow of his. While Trent continues to harass me via email about the spare bed and various kitchen appliances, I continue to ignore him. Tonight he’s taking Sam to a movie and wants to “speak to me in person.” Obviously, I’ll be working late so that I can avoid the confrontation. I love the thought of Trent stewing and stressing over my lack of availability. I can practically see his face turning red each time he checks his email and finds his messages unanswered.
What does he expect? That he can enjoy cocktails with Slutty McSlutterson while I fill a box with steak knives and measuring spoons and individually wrapped plates and coffee cups? That I’ll carry the double bed out of the spare room on my back, tie it onto my truck, and deliver it to his new bachelor pad? He probably wants me to go in and put clean sheets on it so that it’s all ready for him to screw his fat girlfriend on.
Chronicles of a Midlife Crisis Page 9