Page 8 of Midlife Crisis

“Yeah, but why me?”

“I’m trying to get the old band there—the older set, so to speak—to show her we’re proud of her.” There’s more he isn’t saying. I hear it in his voice.

“Is Denton coming?” The last of Kit’s posse stopped speaking to either of us long before we officially separated. When Tommy doesn’t answer, I have my answer. “Does this have to do with Kit?” When Ivy’s mother passed, Tommy tried to rally the others around her, but she was lost. At first, Ivy even found herself on a path similar to her mother.

“No,” he snaps, then takes a deep breath. “I don’t know. I just thought it would be nice if people who were once important to her were around.” Once important. The word is not lost on me. The problem is, I wish I was still important to somebody. Thoughts of Midge creep back into my mind. Dragging a hand over my head, I sigh.

“Yeah, sure. I’ll be there. When is it?”

5

Because Cupcakes

[Midge]

The event day finally arrives. I’ve been a basket case for the past week—worried the band kids won’t show, worried it would rain, worried, worried, worried.

The day after my crisis center phone call, I didn’t think I’d be able to face Ivy and Edie, as if they could read my guilt. I’d never done something like that before. I only wanted someone to talk to, someone anonymous, but it was just my luck the person on the other end of the line knew me. I’d never been more embarrassed than calling to complain to a stranger about everyone forgetting my birthday. Of course, I didn’t know he’d be the stranger on the other end of the line. What are the odds the crisis volunteer would recognize my voice? And as soon as he said my name, I realized it was him.

Hank.

I hadn’t been able to stop thinking of him. He haunted my daydreams. He filled my nightly fantasies. I sigh, rubbing at my temples. I don’t need my thoughts straying to him today. I need to focus, but I’m on edge. My mind races back to meeting Hank and the way he caressed my neck. How he massaged my shoulders in the darkness. How he looked at me in the mirror. I relax for a minute until I hear my name.

“Mom!” I turn to find a sweaty Ronin running toward me. He used to look like me—brown hair, brown eyes—but now, his jet-black hair has streaks of purple. “We forgot the cake.”

Oh my God. I knew I’d forget something. A bakery donated a gorgeous cake shaped like a music note and decorated in the high school colors, but it was still in my refrigerator.

“Okay, don’t worry.” Easier said than done, knowing my house is thirty minutes away in good traffic, which is never a possibility in LA. Ronin nods when I squeeze his shoulders. He’s grown taller than me. When did that happen? He wants everything perfect as do I since all the kids know his mom’s in charge.

“Be cool,” he warned me prior to the event. I noticed my boys never said these things to their father. When I decided to highlight my hair after hanging out with Ivy and Edie, adding streaks of purple to complement the school colors, Ronin said I went too far. “You’re kind of old to color your hair like that. Plus, it looks like you copied me.”

The comment stung, especially coming from the artsy son.

“Mom’s not old,” Elston defended. The spitting image of his father—bulky, blond, blue eyes—he stands before me as a constant reminder of the man I once loved. “I think it looks…ballin’.” Is this a compliment? I don’t understand kid lingo most days, and just when I figure it out, it changes.

“Mom looks like the hip moms,” Liam added, always my little protector. He still looks like me with his matching eyes and smaller frame, though he sports his light brown hair in a crew cut. He could pass for Ronin Junior if Ronin wasn’t changing his image.

An afterthought occurs. I wasn’t hip before? The thought stings. Regardless, my longer locks hold new highlights to disguise the gray and some violet streaks to add some fun.

“I’ll just run to the closest bakery and find something else.” I’m explaining my dilemma to Ivy, but she’s dismissing the thought. “We don’t need cake.”

We’re walking as we talk, my legs racing to keep up with hers as she wants to do a final check on her own students marching in the 5K. With varying mental and physical abilities, Ivy’s protective of her crew. She wants people to trust her school, not just her name. I’ve learned her mother was a famous singer, a dozen years back. I remember the name—Kit Carrigan. Something about breast cancer and dying too young also crosses my memory, but I don’t remember exactly, and I don’t wish to pry. A large black and white image of Kit standing next to a child in a wheelchair graces the front entryway to the school. The boy in the chair holds rhythm sticks in his hand and wears a sweet expression on his face. The former female rock star looks lovingly down at him. It’s a touching picture in a sad way.

“Anyway, I can get to a bakery and back before the race finishes. I’m so sorry about the donated cake. I’ll bring it back tomorrow for your students, but if—”

Without watching where I’m walking, I smack into another person, the body hard and firm as my cheek hits a chest. Ivy stopped short, but I continued forward, and the impact with another human propels me backward.

“Whoa, little lady.” A scratchy, gravelly chuckle stops my heart, and my eyes close. Sweet cheese, no, this can’t be happening. Warm hands cup my upper arms to prevent me from falling—or fainting—whichever happens first. I want to melt into the pavement and disappear. His voice. It haunts me when I think of what it almost did to me a few weeks ago...sigh…

“Uncle Hank?” Ivy questions, and my lids flip open. Standing in a dark gray t-shirt which hugs his upper body and black track pants with white striping down the side, he’s a vision of athleticism. I’m wearing a purple shirt with the high school band logo and a light gray skort. I’m a mess with my hair piled on my head, and I know I’m wearing minimal makeup, just some mascara and purple lipstick to complement my highlights.

“Uncle Hank, is it really you?” Hank releases me just as Ivy flings her arms open and steps up to the burly man. He cups her head and wraps an arm around her back.

“It’s me, baby girl.” The moment is sweet, intimate, and something riddles me as I witness the reunion of two people familiar with one another.

“What are you doing here?” Ivy asks, leaning back but still holding him.

“Tommy told me about your party, and I didn’t want to miss it.” The corner of his mouth quirks up. He’s holding back some truth. I see it in the dull spark of his steely eyes, but his smile spreads, and Ivy’s lips respond. She’s happy he’s here.