“You’ve already told me that.” He pulls away and threads his fingers through my hair.
“So?”
“So, if you still plan on leaving me, I suggest you do it now because if you don’t, I’ll be dragging you back home within the next twenty seconds.”
“Goodbye, Blake.” I slowly let go of him and head towards the desk, looking back every few seconds—making sure he’s still watching me. Until he isn’t anymore.
For some reason my chest is tightening, and I can’t help but feel like I’m making a huge mistake.
“Welcome back, Miss Weston,” the desk agent says as she hands me my boarding pass. “Have a safe flight.”
I look over my shoulder again, telling myself that if Blake is still there it must be some type of hopeless romantic sign, but he isn’t. No one is.
Sighing, I make my way through security without incident. There are no random alarms, no TSA agents emptying and re-emptying my bag, and unfortunately no one I’m in a rush to get away from this time.
By the time I make it to my gate, almost everyone has boarded.
“Enjoy first class, Miss Weston.” A woman scans my ticket, and I smile.
I’d told Blake that my ticket home was coach-class and that I didn’t need an upgrade, but he’s done it anyway. I want to send him a text, to playfully berate him for going against what I said, but I can’t.
I don’t want him to get the wrong impression.
We’ve already said goodbye.
As I buckle my seatbelt, I look outside my window. I’m halfway expecting Blake to come on board at any second, to say, “I’ve decided I want to fuck you in Nashville too,” but no one takes the seat next to me.
“Ladies and gentlemen aboard flight number 318, the main cabin doors will be closing in two minutes...”
I tap my foot in anticipation, still holding on to the same hope.
“The main cabin doors have officially been closed. Please stow away all personal electronic devices until we reach the proper altitude.”
Sighing, I shut my eyes and lean back in my seat. The second Blake’s face crosses my mind, I know for a fact that I’ve made a big ass mistake.
I could’ve stayed for four more days...
***
I bypass baggage claim and make my way to the exit escalators.
As the steps descend, I see David standing in line with the other sign holders. He’s written “Pear Pear” in red marker and drawn what appears to be a tongue and a vagina underneath it.
“Seriously?” I snatch the sign away from him and hit his arm. “Why are we friends?”
“I have no idea.” He laughs and takes my bag. “How were the last few days of your trip? Please withhold all sex stories until I put on my headphones.”
“They were okay.”
“Okay? That’s it?”
“Yeah.”
“What happened to all the ‘OMG-his dick actually fits into my mouth’ excitement?”
“Really, David?” I shake my head. “I enjoyed it. We pretty much had sex over and over again. Oh and we watched a few terrible movies in between him cooking for me.”
He suddenly stops walking and puts his hands on my shoulders. “You like him, don’t you?”
“Do not. I barely know him. The sex was just really good and we understood each other’s sarcasm.”
A little too well...
“Call him and ask if he can come visit you sometime. It’s not like you have anything else to do on the weekends. Plus, you’re practically homeless and unemployed right now.”
“Am I not staying at your place anymore? We’re not going to hang out on the weekends?”
“Not at night.” He scoffs. “You’ll need to stay on your side of the house whenever I have company. As a matter of fact, I amended one of my resolutions just for you.”
“Your number eleven?”
“You’re not that special. I can’t remember what number, but it said, “Help Paris find female friends to discuss dicks with.” If I don’t make any of the other ones, I‘m definitely going to make that one happen.” He rolls his eyes and leads me to the parking garage.
Today he’s driving his black Mercedes and I can’t help but think about Blake...
“What are the benefits of having a boyfriend?” Blake kisses my lips.
“I’m the worst person to ask right now. Don’t you think?”
“You said things were great in the beginning. How so?”
I smile as he moves on top of me. “Um...Well, you can talk to that person about any and everything, and he won’t judge you. He’s your shoulder to cry on whenever you need it...He remembers all the little things that make you happy on your worst days and vice versa. You’re completely comfortable with him and...You know, there’s unlimited physical stuff...”
“Sex?”
“Kisses.” I roll my eyes. “Yes, sex.”
“It sounds intriguing.”
“Intriguing enough for you to actually try it one day?”
“Maybe.” He runs his hand across my thighs. “If I found the right woman.”
“Make sure you hide all of your true colors when you first meet.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because if you show her who you really are, if she knows how blunt you are and that you don’t have a filter, you might ruin your chances after a first encounter.”
He laughs and grabs a condom from the dresser. “We’ll see...”
“You really do like this guy, huh?” The sound of David’s laughter cuts through my fantasies, and I realize we’re on the expressway.
“No. The sex was just that good.” I lie. “I’ll be sure to fill you in on all the details later.”
“Please don’t.”
“Whatever. Hey, you didn’t tell me the rest of your resolutions yet. Spill.”
“No, thanks. I’ve repeated them to your mother countless times over the past three days. When you finally decide to call her back, you can ask her all about them.”
I roll my eyes.
“You, however,” he says, “can read me yours so I can pretend like I care.”
Smiling, I pull out my wallet and unfold my list.
I rattle off numbers one through seven—ignoring David’s request to enunciate the word “orgasm” properly, and then I notice that while the next two are the same, the rest of my list has been changed:
7. Write everyday...I’m supposed to be an aspiring journalist, but this list is the first thing I’ve written in months. MONTHS
(I called Vanderbilt...One of my old law professors works in admissions. Call them on Tuesday.)
8. Have passionate, hot sex...with someone who can give me an ORGASM...
(I think you’ve satisfied this one...More than once...)
9. Start working out...Ha! No. Scratch that...I’ll come back to number nine.
(Start smiling more. You’re too beautiful not to...)
10. And number ten too...
(Stop worrying about what your mom, your sister, or the rest of your family thinks regarding your decisions...Live your life for you.)
11. And I still need a number eleven ...
(Pick Blake up from the Nashville airport in four days...He wants to make sure two of the things on this list are ALWAYS taken care of...)
***THE END***
A Letter to the Reader
Dear Incredible Reader,
Thank you so much for taking time out of your life to read this book! I hope you were thoroughly entertained and enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
If you LOVED it and have any extra time, PLEASE leave a review on amazon.com, B&N.com, goodreads.com, OR send me an email ([email protected]) so I can personally thank you :-) If you hated it, well....keep that shit to yourself! LOL (Just kidding. Feel free to let me know how I can improve next time!)dpg
I’m forever grateful for you and your time, and I hope to be re-invited to your bookshelf with my next release.
Love,
Whitney G.
A Sneak Peek of Mid Life Love
By Whitney G.
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
Claire
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 fulfillments 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—”
“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 d
own 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.
My Last Resolution Page 10
