Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 111732 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111732 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
“Frankie,” I say to our beloved college girl, “can you imagine, ten years from now, being married to a man who’s fifty-five?”
Frankie shrieks comically at the thought, like she’s been shot, and we all guffaw. “Is that the age gap between Mr. BDE and his trophy wife?” she asks. When I confirm it appears to be, Frankie says, “What is it with older men wanting women half their age? Old dudes constantly hit on me at the gym, and I practically barf every time.”
The group asks a thousand questions of Frankie and expresses outrage at her answers.
Our quietest friend, Jasmine, a pediatrician, chimes in to say, “When Antonio and I divorced, he immediately started dating a woman fifteen years younger. I was so pissed.”
“He could only do that because he’s wealthy,” Victoria says. “If he’d been poor, no young woman would give him the time of day.”
“She certainly wasn’t with him for his wrinkled pee-pee,” our college girl, Frankie, deadpans, and we all guffaw again. Frankie asks, “Would any of you date a much younger man?”
The table explodes with conversation, with every last one of us, other than Selena, revealing we’ve already tried that route, at one time or another, without much success.
Geraldine, my plus-one, chimes in to say, “Right after my divorce, I went to Cancun with my highly attractive—and much younger—personal trainer. The weekend was a bust, in terms of the guy himself. God, he turned out to be annoying. But it was a massive success in terms of me getting to post photos of the trip on Facebook for only my ex-husband to be able to see.”
As the table laughs, Lucy asks, “You can post photos on Facebook for only one specific person to see?”
Geraldine nods. “From what my sons told me, my ex-husband’s reaction to my Cancun photo shoot was exactly what I’d hoped. Fury.” She giggles. “Another good thing that came out of that trip? When I got home, I finally felt completely ready to move on from my divorce, and I’ve never looked back since.”
“Well, you know what they say,” Jasmine offers with a wink. “The best way to get over one man is to . . .”
The entire group replies in unison: “Get under another one.”
Victoria smirks wickedly. “Or on top of. Or in front of while on your hands and knees. Or sitting on the face of . . .”
“Oh my gosh,” our young plus-one, Frankie, says, blushing, and we all laugh hysterically at her cute reaction.
“And, hey, if you can post photos of your shenanigans for only your ex to see, even better,” Selena adds, grinning at Geraldine.
“God, I needed this dinner so much,” I say, exhaling and leaning back in my chair. “Thanks so much, ladies. This week was a rough one, but I feel a thousand times better now.”
Victoria pats my hand on the table. “Maybe you should take the age-old advice about getting over a man. Get yourself underneath a randy, young sex machine for a night and Mr. BDE will soon be a distant memory.”
As the table agrees and goads me on, I bite my lip and try to decide if I should tell them the truth, especially in the presence of our two plus-ones. Finally, I decided to go for it: I am who I am. “I’ve already tried that strategy this past week—with two randy, young sex machines, as a matter of fact. And it was a total bust, unfortunately.” Everyone demands further details, so I explain that I found the two hot guys on a dating app, immediately after finding out the truth about Alexander. “I thought it’d be fun to get some petty revenge,” I explain with a shrug. “But it only felt empty and pointless.”
“Did the two men already know each other?” Lucy asks, her eyes wide and blinking.
I laugh, realizing my best friend thinks I had sex with those two men at the same time. “No, honey. It was one guy at a time on two different nights.”
Lucy’s face falls. “Shoot. You know how I live vicariously through you.”
I giggle. “You wouldn’t have wanted to live through me this time. Trust me, I only felt worse afterwards, both times. Brace yourselves, ladies, but I think I’ve finally arrived at a place in my life where meaningless sex isn’t my jam anymore. I think I’m ready to find my own version of Trevor.” It’s a reference to Lucy’s husband, a wonderful guy she met when Frankie was ten. Since the beginning, Trevor’s always treated Lucy like the goddess she is and Frankie like his own daughter. “If a guy isn’t at least serious boyfriend material,” I say, “or preferably, husband material, then I don’t think I’m even going to bother with him.”
My friends express shock, and I’m not surprised. I’m the only one in the group who’s never been married. The only one who’s never even wanted to go the traditional route. My whole life, I’ve wanted nothing but adventure, travel, glamor, and glitz. In my twenties and thirties, I traveled the world, plying my trade as a private chef. I’d work for a wealthy family, or on a yacht, or in a luxury hotel, until I’d saved up enough to get me to my next glittering destination. And in every new city, I’d enjoy yet another exciting fling. Sometimes, a fellow crew member. Other times, the wealthy son of the old couple who’d hired me. Sometimes, a random stranger I’d met in a bar. And I always had a fun, fabulous, carefree adventure.