Page 27 of Midlife Crisis

“Life,” Brut says from behind me. “Get your own.” He scowls at the washed-up, needy groupie, desperate for old times. Brut’s eerie eyes linger. He’s stronger than I am in so many ways, and his voice projects his strength at the moment.

“Get out of my garage,” he demands, and I relax a little. My big brother. Always fighting battles for me.

“And who are you, handsome?” she trills, turning her wasted seductive sound on Brut.

“No one you need to know. Now leave.”

The bell to the front door pings. Stephie turns to see who the next witness to this dog and pony show will be, and then swivels back to me. Her expression hardens as if a thought occurs to her, and she spins for the woman behind her.

“I know you,” she meows, swaying her hips as she sashays toward Midge, who holds a Styrofoam cup. “You did him in the bathroom. How’d you get to him to score? Blow job?”

Fucking bitch. Midge’s eyes open so wide, I’m positive they’ll pop out. Brut rounds me for Stephie, gripping her arm and dragging her to the door.

“All right, that’s enough. I see you again, and you’re leaving in cuffs.” He pushes the door with one hand while he yanks Stephie toward the lot. Midge silently stands to the side and stares after them through the front glass.

“Midge?” I choke, afraid to look at her, yet knowing I’ll crumple if she doesn’t look away from the scene outside.

Her voice shakes as she speaks. “I thought I’d bring you the coffee I owed you the other night. But I see that you’re busy.” Forget Stephie. Forget Kit. Midge is the one who will break me.

12

Sunday morning lessons

[Midge]

I stare at the woman wearing a cheetah print top and a leather miniskirt hiding nothing of her thin body. She can pull off the look, but her makeup hardly covers the years on her face. Her hair is an overheated example of too much product and evidence of her age—dry with brittle split ends. I’m not into body shaming. If she thinks she looks good, who am I to speak, but it’s sad to me. Then again, who am I? I’m standing here in a red cardigan with matching flats and ripped jeans. My hair twists in a messy blob at the back of my head. I was hoping for the not trying too hard look. My white tank billows instead of hugs my body, covering the slight bulge of bearing children that will never disappear. My ensemble reminds me of the arguments I had with myself after Hank left. He doesn’t want me. I scream mom bod compared to the woman outside, and my heart sinks.

“Previous fan of yours,” I tease with more heartbreak than humor. How could she not admire Hank? I do, or I thought I did. I step back as his brother re-enters the office.

“Do you know who I am?” Hank interjects, interrupting my observation of the woman, and the sick sensation she might have carnal knowledge of him. Why would she not? He’s a striking man. I have no idea what he refers to in his question, but his shaky tone shifts my eyes quickly to him and then away.

“I thought so, but now, I’m not so sure.” My eyes remain on the woman outside, dust kicking up as she stomps her feet to a rusty old vehicle.

“Big mystery man.” Brut coughs, mockingly.

“Why are you here?” Hank snaps at him, and I turn at the rough sound. Negative energy brews between them.

“Hey, I just saved your ass,” Brut barks, stepping into the space of his brother. They’re equal in height, though Hank has some pounds on his brother. Solid pounds, I recall, remembering Hank over me. My stomach flips at my stupidity.

“Shut up,” Hank quips, and I flinch at the sharpness of his voice. While the two quarrel like I’ve seen brothers do, I zone out a moment. I stare down at the hot coffee I hold in my hands, thinking it would be a sweet gesture of apology for Elston’s interruption the other night. I cried after Hank left, not certain what happened but knowing Elston’s return ruined it. Maybe his appearance reminded Hank I have kids, and he doesn’t want that baggage. I argued with myself over this concept a million times through the night, coming to the realization that a man who can’t handle my kids can’t handle me. We are a package deal. A gift, actually. I thought Hank would be accepting of it. At least, I hoped he would.

The phone starts ringing as I awkwardly stand in the waiting room of sorts. I’m a little surprised it’s still a landline. It’s excessively loud, adding to the noise of the drills in the background and the temper of Hank and his brother. It’s trilling on and on and on while these two sling accusations at each other that I don’t understand.

“Maybe...um...hello...the phone?” I try to interrupt. The organizer in me itches for someone to answer the damn thing.

Finally, I step around the generic, high counter cubicle desk and grab the handset.

“Restored Dreams, may I help you?”

“Who the hell are you?” snaps a surly older male voice.

“This is Midge. How can I help you?” I have no idea how I’ll help, but at least the phone stopped ringing, and the argument seems to quiet.

“Your voice is certainly more pleasant than the last girl,” the customer retorts, coughing after the comment.

“Thank you, sir. Your voice is pleasant, too,” I lie. “Now, what can we do for you?” My eyes flick up to find Hank still clenching fists, glaring at me, but his brother has stepped toward the counter, resting his arms on the surface as he watches me.

“Where’s that worthless Brut?”