FLIRTING WITH 40

I have her in my life. “Tall. Dark hair. Super light and gorgeous eyes. Great smile. Well dressed. And his hands and arms were super sexy with the rolled-up dress shirt thing going.”
“A watch?” she asks. “Watches are sexy.”
“I think so. Yes. I think. It doesn’t matter,” I say, but her eyes tell me it does matter for her complete visual. “Sure, yes, he had a watch.”
“That visual just gave me the chills.” She claps.
“Yeah, well, I kind of unloaded on him when I thought he was hitting on me, and—”
“Why would you do such a thing?” she shrieks.
“Can you let me finish, please?” I ask, this stop-and-start conversation between us not unusual.
“Yes. Sure. I just don’t understand why you’d tell off a hot, young guy.”
I eye her above the rim of my glass. “First, I didn’t tell him off. Second, I didn’t know he was hot when I started my rant. And third, I had just come from a shitty meeting with Heather—”
“Don’t ruin the visual by bringing her up. We don’t like her, but we like Slade.” She hums. “Slide-It-In-Slade.”
“Oh my god. You’re . . . you’re—”
“Just saying the things you’ve thought since.” She laughs in that loud, obnoxious hyena way of hers that dares me not to smile. “Finish. Slade. Hot. Sexy. Watch-wearing.”
“What I was going to say is that more than him being all those things, he was super nice. And funny. And interested. I mean, how often do you meet a guy who actually asks you a question and listens to the answer?”
“Any man will listen to you if he thinks he’s going to get laid.”
“It wasn’t like that—the half-listening, eyes-roaming, only-there-for-one-kind-of-thing attention like most guys give. He was different. I can’t explain why, but he was.”
“Was he gay?”
“I thought the same thing, but he mentioned how his mom doesn’t like the women he dates.”
“Oh.” She scrunches her nose. “A momma’s boy, then.”
“I don’t think that either.” And I shake my head because I’d thought that too. “He was just nice and funny and endearing. And . . . it was so great to talk to someone for a while. To have someone talk to me.”
“Shocker,” she says sarcastically.
“Kelsie!”
“What? Maybe your ‘Bitter Party of One’ sign wasn’t hanging around your neck for once, so you didn’t scare him off.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you do all the things that say you’re single but only because you feel like you have to. You go to a bar but seem unapproachable. You meet a nice guy but come off bitter. You put yourself out there because you’re figuring out how to navigate this new world, but when you do, it’s only for show.”
Leave it to my best friend to call me on the carpet.
“Can you blame me?”
Her expression softens. “No. I don’t blame you. I think you’ve been emotionally battered and bruised, and while you know that you’re better off without Paul, he also took some parts of you during your marriage that you’re trying to find again. That takes time and a willingness to acknowledge and accept that he did.”
My sigh fills the room because she didn’t say anything I didn’t already know. Still, it’s hard to hear.
“I’m sorry you are going through all this. Of course, you enjoyed Slade’s company. Hell, you were with dickhead Paul, who only listened to himself and cared about his own needs, for so long that anyone is better than him,” she says, her hatred for my ex growing exponentially with each and every passing day. “So, tell me the rest. If things were so nice, why are you comparing your conversation with him to me showing my ass to my boss?”
“Because, at some point, Slade had to go take a phone call so he stepped outside, and this gorgeous woman came up to me. She explained that she was super shy and asked if I could give my son her phone number.”
“Your son?” Kelsie chokes on her sip of wine. “You’re kidding me, right?” And before I can say anything else, she flops back into her seat and begins laughing so hard she can’t speak. The sound fills the room, and I can’t believe my lips are tugging up at the corners as I watch her wipe tears from beneath her eyes.
“Are you done?” I ask, making a show of crossing my arms over my chest in false annoyance.
“I just—how did she actually think you were his mother? Was he fifteen or something?”
“Funny.”
“No, I’m serious,” she says, setting her glass down and realizing that I don’t find her theatrics as amusing as she does. “Either she had no idea how offensive she was being or she thought that making you feel insecure would get you to walk away because she was truly one catty bitch. Bet you anything that’s why she did it.”
“Oh, please.”
“Oh, please? There is nothing more annoying than a skinny person complaining about how fat they are or a gorgeous woman acting as if she doesn’t understand why men think she’s attractive. Case in point,” she says, pointing at me.
“Whatever.” I wave a hand her way.
“You have great curves and salon-worthy hair—”
“I think you’ve drunk too much—”
“And you’re smart and dedicated, and I could go on and on.”
“Thank you, but you’re my best friend—you knew me when I had frizzy hair and wore glasses—so you have to say that.”
“I don’t.” She holds up her hand to stop my argument. “It’s a fight for another day.” She tops off my glass when I hold it out. “Let’s get back to how Little Miss Thang reacted when you tore her card up and told her to go to hell.”
I stare at my best friend of twenty-plus years and twist my lips in response. I may have replayed the scene in my head a couple of (hundred) times, and in each one of them, not once did I scamper away like a mousy female and let the gorgeous brunette get the better of me and my self-confidence.
“Please tell me you told her