Page 51 of Midlife Crisis

Ivy adamantly shakes her head. “He isn’t. He isn’t good at those things. He’d tell me long before he could surprise me.” She smiles weakly at the thought.

“This happens when men turn thirty, right? Some kind of midlife crisis or something.” Her innocent eyes beg us to support her.

“Thirty-five,” Edie and I say in unison and then laugh. She high-fives me. Growing serious, Edie reaches for Ivy’s hand. “Honey, you’re both just busy. Three kids. The therapy school. Another album for the band. You have a lot going on.”

Ivy swipes at the corner of her eye. “I guess so.” Edie wraps her arm around Ivy, holding her husband’s niece close to her chest.

This reminds me. I’m dating her mother’s ex-lover, a man who professed his love repeatedly to Kit, and she rejected him. Why?

“I’m sorry I didn’t know about Hank,” I interject, not certain what exactly I’m apologizing for. “I didn’t know he loved your mom.”

Ivy’s eyes widen, dismissing me with a wave. “They had a strange relationship. Love-hate. She hated how she loved him so much and couldn’t admit it. He hated how he loved her so much because she never accepted him. She was scared after my dad, always telling me and my brother we didn’t need men when we had her as our mama.”

“You have a brother?” I blurt, not recalling having heard of him. Edie and Ivy exchange a look before Ivy says under her breath, “I’m tired of hiding him.”

Sitting up straighter, she looks at me. “Yes, I have a brother. His picture hangs in the entry to the therapy school.” I recall the black and white of Kit Carrigan laughing with her arm around a young man in a wheelchair.

“Is that why you started the school?”

Ivy shakes her head. “I did it for me. I needed something, to be more than Gage Everly’s wife, more than a mother. Lawson was the inspiration for my degree in music therapy. He’s very important to me.”

“Lawson? That’s your brother’s name?”

Ivy nods. “He’s three years younger than me.”

I have so many questions, but Ivy turns away from me to watch the game. Edie catches my eye, willing me to understand. Now isn’t the time for answers. Instead, I shift gears. “So girls’ night out. I vote margaritas.”

+ + +

I’m pushing my luck with margarita number four but being out with other women has been a treat. I didn’t socialize with the girls at work often, always feeling a little bit too old for them. Besides, I had a husband and kids at home when some of them didn’t. When it was only me and the boys, the pressure to get home as quickly as I could each night didn’t afford me the opportunity to mingle with colleagues. Having new friends is refreshing, as are limes and tequila.

An hour later, the result equals slow recognition of being propped over my toilet with a thick hand on my back as my body convulses, expelling four said margaritas. My hair is pulled back to the nape of my neck as my stomach roils, and I throw up again.

“It’s okay, baby.” A smoky voice does nothing to calm me, and I realize I’m crying as well as vomiting. “Get it out.”

Hank’s soothing tone makes me whimper. I don’t remember him arriving at the bar, and more importantly, what is he doing here?

“Sweet cheese, leave me to die.”

“You’re not dying, lady.” He chuckles, smoothing his hand down my back. I have a strange sense of still wearing his too large shirt and my underwear. Nothing else. Lord, what have I done? Another bout of nausea rocks me, and I gag over the bowl, spitting in hopes something will happen. Hank’s lying; I’m dying.

“I’m sorry,” I mutter, embarrassed I can’t party like a rock star or like I’m still twenty-three. “Oh God, Hank, I’m so sorry,” I say, remembering he’s a recovering alcoholic, and I’m drunk. Tears still wash down my face, and I lower my head to the seat.

Hank folds his body to the floor, propping his back against the cabinet. He gently tugs me so I curl between his legs and lay against his chest. A heavy hand plays with my hair, combing it back from my face and brushing it down my back.

“I’m sorry,” I weakly repeat. “This is so embarrassing.”

“Lady, this ain’t nothing compared to what I’ve seen or done. Just relax. We’ll stay right here as long as you need.” My eyes close at his gentle touch, but that makes the world spin.

“What time is it?” I note the darkness, but my eyes drag closed again.

“After midnight.”

“Cripes, the boys—”

“Know their mom isn’t feeling well, and I’m staying to take care of her.” I sniffle, a choking sob exhaling with a heavy breath.

“You’re kind of good to me.” Tears begin to flow again with the thought.