Silk

by Heidi McLaughlin

  “HOW MUCH FUCKING LONGER?”

  The nurse came in and checked on me. Her smile and ‘I’m in such a happy mood’ was killing me. I knew I should’ve asked for that damn epidural.

  “Looking good, Mrs. Simpson.”

  “Can I please push?”

  “Not yet, honey. Soon, okay?”

  “Please let me push. My husband’s a millionaire. I will write you a check for five million, if you let me push!”

  “Erin! What the fuck? You can’t bribe someone!”

  “Oh my God! Please just kill me.” I couldn’t stop crying and my hate for Connor was growing with each second. This was his fault. “Connor, don’t come near me. Just stay far, far away.”

  Each contraction took some of me away. Finally, after almost two hours, that sweet and smiling nurse came back and said the most amazing words ever. “Alright, honey, you’re at ten.”

  Connor looked so scared, and I just smiled looking at him. He slowly came toward me and took my hand. I felt like a bitch for the way I was acting. I hope he still loved me. “I love you, Connor.”

  “Always, baby.”

  The doctor came in, rubbing his hands. “Alright, let’s have a baby.”

  I held onto Connor’s hand and looked up at him. We’re about to meet our baby, and I couldn’t be happier. All the pain was worth it. I wanted to savor this moment forever and never forget how I felt.

  “Push! Come on, Mrs. Simpson. Keep pushing!” I heard the doctor’s voice and just did what he wanted.

  With one last push, our baby girl’s cries filled the room.

  Connor wraps his arm around my middle and kisses my cheek. “What’s the smile for?”

  “Emily.” I love saying her name and having her in our lives.

  “She’s the best but her playing with Nathan needs to stop.”

  “Stop worrying! They’re just playing.”

  “Yeah, but he’s Adam’s kid,” he starts to say, eating some of the cake. “You remember how Adam got Sophia. The guy never gave up.”

  “He’s five years old, Connor. Stop being so dramatic.” He looks at me, and smiles.

  “You look beautiful today, you know that?” I start blushing and look away. “Don’t do that.” He places his finger under my chin and tilts it toward him. “I love you, Erin.”

  “I love you too, Connor.” We share a kiss, so passionate and earth shattering. Our tongues move along with one another as he grasps my waist and pulls me closer to him. After all of these years, I fall in love with him even more.

  Nathan’s birthday party ends and we drive back home. It’s almost ten but Emily’s in the back seat singing her heart out. Connor looks at me and takes my hand to his lips. “Thank you for giving me this fantastic life. I couldn’t ask for more.” I smile and rest my head against the head cushion.

  “Daddy, can we get ice cream?”

  “Princess, it’s late and you had a lot of cake already. Aren’t you tired?”

  “Nope,” she says, giggling in the back seat. “Daddy, I’m your favorite girl, and I want ice cream!”

  I watch Connor and wait for his reaction. I know he gives Emily everything she asks for. It’s funny seeing him sweat.

  “I have an idea,” Connor whispers.

  In a few minutes, he pulls into the parking lot at the beach. Raising my eyebrow to him, he shakes his head and mouths ‘trust me’.

  Connor gets Emily out of her booster seat and carries her to the beach. We walk hand in hand and take a seat on the cold sand. All three of us look at the stars and Emily asks a million and one questions about life.

  “Daddy, I really like Nathan. Do you think he likes me, too?” Connor’s body tenses and I can’t help but laugh.

  “I told you they play too much together,” he snarls at me. “Princess, you’re only four years old. You’re too young to be thinking about boyfriends.”

  “Okay, but mommy and Aunt Sophia are always talking about how cute it’ll be if Nathan and I start dating.”

  Oh, shit. Maybe we need to be careful what we say around the kids. My face goes bright red and I can’t help but laugh again.

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do with all of you. Stop planning her life.”

  “Babe, it’s going to happen sooner or later.”

  “I hope he likes me, daddy, because I really like him.” Emily snuggles in Connor’s arms and I lean against his side. We sit quietly watching the wave’s crash into the sand. This is my life now and every day I’m thankful to have my husband and beautiful daughter.

  They are my… next to forever.

  Mid Life Love

  Whitney Gracia Williams

  December 28, 2012

  Dear Journal,

  I just realized that the key to advertising can be summed up in one word: Bullshit.

  That’s right, the key behind every single strategic slogan, even the greatest ones—Nike’s “Just Do It,” McDonald’s “I’m Lovin’ It,” and L’Oreal’s “Because You’re Worth It”—is pure bullshit.

  It’s all about making the customer think that those one hundred dollar tennis shoes work ten times better than the twenty dollar ones, even though they’re made of the exact same materials. It’s about making people believe that the Big Mac is the tastiest American sandwich—despite the fact that it’s over-processed, slightly dry, and full of pink slime. And last but not least, it’s about making each and every woman think that putting on L’Oreal’s latest nude lipstick and waterproof mascara will make her look like a million dollar celebrity.

  As a marketing director at Statham Industries, the number one software company in the country, my team and I have the “privilege” of coming up with new bullshit every day. Everything our company produces—cell phones, laptops, advanced tablets, et cetera—needs a savvy slogan and a matching promotional campaign months before it can be officially released.

  My job is to make sure that only the best campaign ideas get sent up to the approval committee, so in all actuality, nothing should be sent up. Ever.

  All my associates are recent college graduates and future copyeditors. (God bless their poor, unfortunate souls…) Some of them have potential, but the majority of them don’t. Whenever I reject their proposals with pages of red-inked notes, they whine and say, “Can’t you just give it a try? Can’t you send it up anyway? I got an ‘A’ in Business Marketing in college!”—as if that means a goddamn thing in the real world…

  These “grade-A” geniuses recently submitted the following taglines for Statham Industries’ sPhone, the iPhone’s biggest competitor: “sPhone. Because ‘s’ comes after ‘i’.” “The new sPhone. You so want it.” “sPhone. Because we can.”

  See? This is the type of fuckery I have to listen to (with a straight face) for hours on end.

  To make matters worse, the CEO of the company—who never makes an appearance, sends out incessant memos about policies that don’t make any sense. He recently implemented “hourly parking zones” in the parking lot to “better enable employees to get home quickly and safely,” but the real reason is to discourage overtime. (Cars left in the lot after five fifteen are immediately towed away)

  How ridiculous is that?

  He also paid some idiot two million dollars to speak to all company employees, an idiot who passed out bean bags and “energizing packets” to boost employee morale.

  We now have to attend weekly “Zen sessions,” monthly “coming together” focus groups, and spend thirty minutes a day writing in our “Zen journal,” i.e. you.

  Yes, believe it or not, you were almost tossed into the trash seconds ago, along with the rest of that useless “Zen” crap. However, something told me to reconsider that once I flipped through your empty pages…I guess I can use you as a therapeutic device instead.

  I hate you and I hate my pathetic excuse for a career,

  Claire.

  PS—I promise I don’t normally curse that much...on purpose…

  Chapter 1

  Cla
ire

  My reflection was lying to me.

  She was showing me a happy woman in bright red lipstick and coral eye shadow, a woman who looked like she’d just won the lottery—not a brokenhearted woman who’d spent the past four years trying to put her life back together.

  You don’t look your age…You don’t look your age…

  I could practically pinpoint where my wrinkles would come in, where the creases near my eyes would multiply and spread out over time; where my lips would eventually thin out and dissolve into my mouth. So far I’d been lucky, but I was pretty sure the hundreds of anti-aging and wrinkle-prevention creams I’d been using were the real reason why.

  I was turning forty in two weeks and I was suffering from all the symptoms of a mid-life crisis. I was questioning everything I’d ever done, comparing myself to all my friends, and wondering if I would ever find more fulfillment in life. I’d even started making a list of everything I needed to do once I hit the big 4-0:

  1) Make a plan to quit my job in five years and pursue my dream career: Interior Design.

  2) Pay off all my credit cards and start making larger mortgage payments on my house.

  3) Stop reading so many romance books…

  4) Save up enough to take my daughters on a week-long cruise in the summer.

  5) Stop looking for potential wrinkle-lines and quit considering Botox.

  6) Clean my house from top to bottom and KEEP it clean!

  7) Stop blaming myself for my ex-husband’s affair…

  8) Stop hating my ex-best friend for being part of the affair…

  9) Treat myself to a new restaurant every month.

  10) Learn to be happy alone.

  “Claire! Let’s go! We’re going to be late!” My friend Sandra called from the kitchen.

  “Coming! Coming!” I grabbed my jacket and headed downstairs.

  I took another glance at myself in the hallway mirror and cursed under my breath. I couldn’t believe I’d agreed to let her drag me out to another singles mixer. I never found anyone worth my time at those things, and the foul scent of desperation always hung in the air.

  “You look stunning!” Sandra tugged at my strapless black dress. “Can I please borrow your wardrobe?”

  “Only if I can borrow your life…”

  She rolled her eyes and ignored my pessimism as usual. “Tonight is the night you’ll meet the right guy! I can feel it!”

  She always says that…

  “Do we really need to go to another one of these things, Sands? I have some marketing research I could do.”

  “On New Year’s Eve? Are you out of your mind? We’re going out!”

  “What’s the point? We’ve been to a ton of these things and it’s always the same…Can’t we just stay in, drink some wine, and go over our resolutions?”

  “Claire…” She walked over to my front door and opened it. “We’re going out. Now. You don’t have any work to do and you know it. And it’s your turn to drive so let’s go!”

  I stood in the winding buffet line and tossed a few veggie chips onto my plate. I looked up at the banner that hung over the bar and sighed. It read “New Year’s Middle-Aged Singles’ Mixer: Let’s Get Jiggy!”

  Aside from the tacky banner, the interior of Pacific Bay Lounge left a lot to be desired: Surfboards served as table tops, old park benches were strewn about, and dingy blue and green streamers hung from the ceiling to simulate “waves.”

  Tonight, the lounge was way over-capacity—not a huge surprise since lonely people seemed to flock to these types of events. I was so used to them that I’d become quite the people reader: The guy standing by the window was at least sixty, the blond hair dye he’d been using to look twenty years younger was beginning to fade. The woman who was dancing against the speakers was clearly going through a divorce; she was still wearing her wedding ring and she tossed back a shot every time the DJ yelled “Cheers to all the single ladies!”

  I’d been there. Done that.

  On the window seats that lined the far wall, shy women were fidgeting with their hair and clothes like nervous high school students. Most of them were being forced to be here and had probably never had a fully-functioning relationship in their lives.

  I grabbed two beers from the end of the table and sat on an empty couch, observing one man’s poor attempt to get a shy woman to dance.

  “Is this seat taken?” A gorgeous man with grey eyes smiled at me, interrupting my fascinating people watch.

  “No. No, it’s not…”

  “Great.” He sat down and put his beer on the table. “I’m Lance. What’s your name?”

  “Claire. Claire Gracen.”

  “That’s a pretty name. What do you do for a living, Claire?”

  “I’m a marketing director for a software company. What do you do?”

  He tapped the label on his beer. “I own and manage a beer company, Leyland Beers. It’s in Nevada.”

  “Very impressive,” I said. “So, what do you—”

  “How old are you, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  Ugh, here we go…

  “I’m thirty-nine, and yourself?”

  “Wow…” He looked me up and down. “I’m forty seven. Do you have any kids?”

  I felt myself smiling. “Two daughters. You?”

  “No, I don’t have any kids. Life’s way too short for that—no offense. Can I call you sometime?”

  Seriously? Is that all it takes these days? Age? Kids? Phone number? Is the art of conversation that DEAD?

  “Umm sure…” I forced a smile. “It’s—”

  “Wait. How old are your kids? Are they ‘with-the-babysitter-tonight-age’ or are they ‘secretly-stealing-beer-out-of-your-cabinet-while-you’re-gone-age’? I have to be frank with you because I’m not looking for anything serious, and all you women with kids tend to be more—”

  “You know what?” I stood up. “I have to go to the restroom. I’ll be right back.”

  I pushed through the crowd and made my way to the outside deck, where lots of singles were watching the ripples of the Pacific Ocean swell up and down. I took a deep breath and inhaled the salty wet air—the one thing I had yet to get used to since moving to the West Coast.

  I looked over my shoulder and saw Sandra talking to yet another guy, teasingly rubbing his shoulder and biting her lip. She caught me staring and motioned for me to come over. She was mouthing “He has a friend!”

  I turned around and rolled my eyes.

  “I take it you’re not having a good time?” A husky voice said from beside me.

  I didn’t even bother looking at him. I didn’t want to engage in any more pointless conversations or mundane introductions. I just wanted to go home.

  I sighed. “I’m thirty nine. My birthday’s in two weeks. I’ve been divorced for four years and I have two teen-aged daughters.”

  I didn’t hear him say anything else. I turned to my left and saw that he was halfway across the deck.

  I took another swig of my beer and shook my head. I knew I wasn’t helping myself by pushing every potential suitor away, but I couldn’t help it. I still couldn’t believe that I was actually single.

  My life had been picture perfect years ago—fourteen year marriage to a man who I thought loved me, pretty Pittsburgh neighborhood in the suburbs, amazing career that was almost on the brink of being legendary—but then one day it was over. Just like that. The priceless picture couldn’t be put back together; it couldn’t be saved.

  It was tattered, forever ruined, and I was the one who emerged with the most cuts…

  I sent Sandra a text and made a break for the parking lot, turning down numerous offers to dance on my way out.

  “Hey, hey, hey!” Sandra climbed inside the truck and shut the door. “We’ve only been here twenty minutes! Don’t you at least want to stay for the New Year’s countdown?”

  “No.”

  “Why? What’s wrong? I saw the guy you were talking to in there! He was good-lo
oking!”

  “Look Sands, I’m not twenty anymore. I can’t keep coming to these things expecting to meet the love of my life. I met mine already, remember?” My voice cracked. “It didn’t work out…”

  I leaned back in my seat and forced a lump down my throat.

  The thought of losing my husband to my best friend still hurt to think about. The divorce was long over, but the pain still woke me up some nights, still dragged me out of my sleep and hit me over my heart like a twenty pound sledgehammer.

  “You’re thinking about Ryan and Amanda, huh?” She handed me a Kleenex. “You have to stop beating yourself up about it. It wasn’t your fault.”

  “I was so blind to it!” I began to cry. “I let her in my house! I trusted her with my kids! I trusted them both with everything!”

  “I’m so sorry, Claire…”

  My marriage to Ryan Hayes was a fairytale—at least it was to me. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t entirely perfect, but we had far more amazing days than good days, more good days than average days, and hardly any bad days.

  Ryan was everything I ever wanted in a man. He was attentive and caring, thoughtful and compassionate, and he always remembered the little things that made me happy: Hot coffee on the rainy days I spent typing away in our home office, a warm blanket when I fell asleep in front of the fireplace, and endless chocolate chip cookies and candy bars whenever it was my time of the month.

  Every time he came home from work, he brought me a single red rose and kissed me like his life depended on it. He treated me to the country club’s spa once a month while he volunteered to watch our daughters for the day. He even surprised me sometimes by beating me home and cooking dinner for all of us.

  He was my rock. My soul. My everything.

  I honestly thought our love would transcend time, that I was one of the lucky ones who would be able to truly uphold the “til death do us part” mantra.

  Yet, somewhere between the thirteenth and fourteenth year of our marriage, Ryan began to change.