Mid Life Love Read online

  Mid Life Love

  by Whitney Gracia Williams

  Published by Whitney Gracia Williams, 2013.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2013 by Whitney Gracia Williams

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the author.

  Cover photograph by Kelsey Christina Karstrand

  http://www.flickr.com/photos/34384935@N08/7097187441/in/photostream

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  Dedication:

  December 28, 2012

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 1.5

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 2.5

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  January 19, 2013

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  April 14, 2013

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 25.5

  August 15, 2013

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Wasted Love Excerpt

  Acknowledgments:

  More works by Whitney Gracia Williams:

  Dedication:

  For those who believe in a second chance at love...

  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 y
our 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 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 teenaged 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-looking!”

  “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.

  He started coming home later and later. He didn’t leave his cell phone out like he normally did; he was extremely protective of it and often took calls in another room. He was more elusive—vague, and anytime I s
aid that I needed to run to the store, he would jump up and volunteer to do it for me.

  At first, I figured that the late nights had something to do with his new promotion to partner at the law firm; that his recent clingy-ness to his cellphone was just him wanting to be alert should he receive an emergency client call. I couldn’t figure out why he was volunteering to do every single grocery run since he’d always loathed any type of shopping, but I took advantage of not having to do it myself.

  I chalked everything up to him wanting to be a “super-husband,” and used my extra free time to hang out with my best friend since high school, Amanda.

  Amanda’s vivacious personality could force the most sullen person to smile. Her voluminous auburn hair and naturally toned body could rival most teenagers, and her love for literature was as immense as mine.

  At age thirty five, she and her husband Barry were still attempting to have their first baby. They’d attempted everything short of hiring a surrogate, but they hadn’t lost hope.

  With each in-vitro fertilization treatment, I would bring her a new baby purchase—booties, bibs, collectible teddy bears, and assure her that the doctors were wrong, that she could and would bring a child into the world.

  So, when she called me one afternoon with news that she was finally pregnant, I cancelled my family BBQ and relocated our celebration to her and Barry’s home.

  Six months later, Barry called me while I was leaving work. He was talking so fast that I could only make out every other word.

  “Barry?” I tried to sound calm. “I can’t...I can’t understand you...Are you crying? Is something wrong with Amanda? Is she okay? Did something happen with the baby?”

  “The baby,” he said, and then he was quiet for a while. “The baby...The baby’s not mine. It’s not mine...”

  “What? Barry, you’re being ridiculous. You two have been trying to have a baby in every way possible for years. You’re just nervous because he’s almost here. You’re going to be a great father and—”

  “I was going back and forth to Texas in May...We might’ve had sex once during that month. Maybe.”

  I stilled. I remembered that.

  Amanda had been complaining about how little he was at home due to his job. He’d been demoted and his company was making him do all the grunt work, denying his request to attend out-of-state meetings via video chat.