Page 31 of Midlife Crisis

I’m nervous. I’m not a great cook, and it’s been a long time since I’ve cooked to impress, so this already spells disaster. My house specialty is spaghetti, but that’s not a second date meal—slurping up pasta or splattering tomato sauce. With my luck, dinner would end up on my boobs.

With Hank being a bigger man, I settle on steak. The late March weather of California is pleasant enough for the Midwestern bones of my body to step outside and grill. I still laugh when people call sixty degrees cold. Zero is cold. Sixty is shorts weather, but I acclimated to the West Coast pretty quickly as I love warmer temperatures. I miss the Midwest at the holidays, but we go back each Christmas. I wasn’t aware Elston missed it so much.

Thoughts of him fill my mind as I fork the potatoes for baking. He’d been ten, almost eleven when we left Illinois. He’ll adapt; kids do, my former mother-in-law told me. He did adapt, into what Paul wanted—a high school football star. The pressure on Elston from his father remains intense despite not living with him. Paul doesn’t miss a practice, a game, a meeting. He hovers, and he’s choking our son. We’ve talked about this, but Paul doesn’t like to listen to me.

“Let him make his own mistakes.”

“He’s a kid. I want to help him,” Paul argues.

“Love him then, don’t smother him.”

“I’m not smothering. I’m guiding.”

The argument remains the same for Liam, our budding baseball athlete. However, for Ronin, Paul takes a passive seat. He attends what he can, claiming attendance at the football games counts for Ronin as he’s in the band on the sidelines. Unfortunately, Paul often misses halftimes, trying to weasel his way into discussions with Elston. Thankfully, the varsity coach doesn’t allow this as much as the junior varsity coach let it slide. This reminds me Ronin has a play in two weeks. He earned the role of Marius, one of the rebels in the French Revolution for Les Misérables. I wonder if Paul will attend. Maybe I should ask Hank?

I didn’t realize I was stabbing the potato enough to almost make it a sifter. Wrapping it in tinfoil, I set it aside as I reach for my wine. I don’t know if I can drink in front of Hank. He assured me he was fine the other night, but this is new for me. I don’t want to cross a line or be insensitive, but I need this glass to calm my nerves. We still have things to discuss. What he told me about the other woman in his life rattled me, especially since she’s dead. Seeing the woman outside his business worries me that his former lover was mixed up in drugs or something, and it’s a heavy burden to carry. I want tonight to be easy, comfortable, and relaxed even though I’m not feeling any of those things.

The doorbell rings, and I almost spill the wine as I set my glass back on the counter. Opening the door, I find another handful of flowers. The arrangement he brought me the other night was beautiful, and this one nearly matches it.

“These are lovely,” I say, stepping back to let him in.

“So are you.” He steps forward and kisses me. Pressed into my front door, I’m ready to forget dinner and eat him right here. His mouth moves over mine, and my knees shake. Without thinking, I reach for his belt, tugging him to me. Hank groans, the vibration rumbling over my lips, and I press against him. We don’t physically align when we stand together, but like a magnet, my body is attracted to the right places on him. I’ll get there with squirming and climbing if I need to.

He chuckles. “Eager?” The word whispers into my throat.

“Yes.” The breathy response surprises me. More startling, Hank drops the flowers and hikes me up his body. My legs wrap around his waist, and we continue to make out against the open front door. A horn honks from a car racing down the street, and I break away. “Cripes. The neighbors.” I laugh although the honking horn could have been for any number of reasons.

“Yes, what would the neighbors say?” Hank mocks with a touch of sarcasm. “And did you just say cripes?” I’m not embarrassed by him as he said this morning, but I also don’t need my neighbors knowing my business. He settles me back on my feet, and my knee buckles. “Easy there, lady. You been drinkin’?”

Shit. I have, but it’s not why I almost fell over. It’s Hank. I’m drunk on him.

“Yes,” I admit. “But I’m okay.” He eyes me suspiciously. “One glass. Not even.”

After gathering up my newest bouquet, he follows me into my kitchen where I find another pitcher for the new flowers and mention my menu.

“I’m warning you already. I’m not a cook. I don’t know why I asked you over for dinner.” Hank’s eyes widen, his brow crinkling his forehead. Holding up my hands, I clarify, “No, I mean, I hope it’s edible.”

I pick up the plate with the steaks and foil wrapped potatoes while Hank grabs my wine glass and follows me to my back patio. A variety of white candles surround a small glass pitcher where I placed a few flowers from my first arrangement. The flames flicker in the early evening breeze. A multi-colored tablecloth covers the typically-bare wrought iron table. I was going for an eclectic-seductive look, if that’s even possible. I point at a seat for Hank and then reach for the grill to check the heat for the steaks. Setting the meat and potatoes on the low heat, Hank asks me to explain who Pendelton is to me.

“Pendelton Wares is a boutique housewares company, and the account I wanted before I quit Bigle Marketing.” I sense Hank’s confusion in his stare, so I try again. “Think Burberry meets Magnolia Farms.” He’s still staring. “You have no idea what I’m talking about.”

“Oh, were you speaking? I was too busy watching your mouth to listen.” Okay then. Turning the steaks, pleased with the grill marks, I smile to myself, and try again to explain the dishes and home décor Pendelton sells.

“Their problem is the old man. He needs to join the twenty-first century and move their collections online. Retail stories or catalogues alone won’t sell his products. Not to mention, he could use a few updates to his offerings.”

Hank motions for the seat across from him and pushes my wine glass toward me.

“Why is he so important to you?”

“I just think if I had had the chance to share my ideas with him, we would have landed the account. I would have proved myself to Katrina, my boss. And maybe proved something to myself.” Hank tilts his head in question but then his nose crinkles.

“Umm…” He turns toward the grill and I follow his gaze to see smoke steaming from the edges of the cover.

“Shit.” I race for the grill to find flaming steaks and burnt foil around the potatoes. This reminds me I didn’t start the vegetables. I turn everything and mention the medley I need to prepare inside. He chuckles, and I excuse myself, wondering how people do all the things. It’s all about timing, my mother would tell me of cooking, but I don’t get it. With picky kids and most meals on the go, this isn’t the type of ensemble I typically make for dinner. Working the pan over the stove’s flames, I hear the metal clink of the grill opening through the back door I left open, and Hank comments that he’s going to remove everything. The plates are already outside on the side table, so I work fast at moving around the carrots, zucchini, and squash. The colors look pretty, but the presentation is lacking. Some look undercooked; others look overcooked. I like firm veggies, not mushy, but I’m making a mess.

“Can I help you?” Hank’s voice behind me startles me, and the spatula slips from my hand. Wayward veggies flip through the air like food fireworks as the cooking utensil lands at my feet. Reaching down to pick it up, my backside bumps into him. “Damn, girl.”

I stand quickly, face flushed as he grips my hips. “One day. This way. From behind.” I shiver with the promise of more sex with him. I’m thinking I’d be willing to let him take me anyway he wants. I’m a hot mess like the vegetables.