Back in the Game
By Sharon Potts
What happens when you meet your high school flame after forty years? Sharon answers that question for The Lipstick Chronicles. Her story involves hurt feelings, a worried daughter and a timely text message – like her novels. Sharon's Miami-based thrillers are about ordinary people in extraordinary situations. Her latest thriller, Someone's Watching, was called "shiver-rich" by Publishers Weekly, and "stunningly well-handled" by Booklist.
I'll admit it. I'm not a social person. I'm more of a no-makeup-worn-jeans-walk-the-dog-between-chapter-revisions-talk-to-my-kids-too-often kind of person. And I like it that way.
But there was a time, give me a couple of Stoli martinis and I'd be up at the front of the room telling inappropriate jokes or crooning These Boots Are Made for Walking, with or without the Karaoke machine. Who said CPAs are dull and boring?
But that was thirty years ago. Since then, married life and two kids intervened in my social development and budding entertainment career.
That changed about a year ago when my first novel came out and I realized touring was part of the being published process. Guess what? Martinis don't work before a book signing, particularly if you're trying to speak without slurring. So I tried Toastmasters to get past the jitters. (Funny name for an organization that doesn't use alcohol as part of its protocol.)
The practice speeches helped. Problem was, after thirty years in hibernation, I'd lost most of my friends. Enter Facebook, LinkedIn, and Classmates.com. Turns out it was forty-year reunion time at my high school alma mater in Elmhurst, NY.
Click, click, click. Suddenly, I'm in touch with all these people I haven't heard from in years. And that included former beau, Charlie. (Not real name.) Charlie had taken me to the prom, then broke my heart later that summer when he told me we weren't right for each other. He owed me big time.
Surely he'd buy a book or come to one of my signings. I sent him a message. He wrote back. Lots of sweet reminiscences. But they didn't make up for the revelation that he'd taken Marissa, former-best-friend-turned-nemesis, to a Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young concert at the Filmore East with tickets he'd bought with me in mind. Ouch.
Nevertheless, we arranged to meet next time I was in New York. I live in Miami, but I'm fortunate to have a daughter who has this great studio apartment in Midtown Manhattan.
Sarah folded her arms across her chest as she watched me zip up my new suede boots.
"Does Dad know you're meeting this guy?"
My hand was shaky as I tried to remember how to apply eyeliner. "Of course. He's fine with it."
Gus, her bulldog, cocked his head.
"What time will you be home?" Sarah asked.
Boy, talk about role reversal. "Not too late."
I kissed her goodbye and went off to meet Charlie at an Italian restaurant near Columbus Circle. Forty years. What can I say? A little gray, a little beardy. (He, not I, thank God.) I turned down a martini and sipped on a glass of wine. The conversation opened with a discussion about Prilosec and acid reflux. Forty years. What can I say? We moved on to careers, spouses, kids, what happened to the people we knew. The conversation dwindled. My cell phone buzzed.
My daughter Sarah, Where r u?
I wrote back, Home soon.
Charlie gave me a lift back to Midtown. A peck on the cheek goodbye. Somehow I sensed he wouldn't be buying one of my books.
I climbed the stairs to Sarah's apartment. She was pacing. "I was worried, Mommy."
"You were?" I gave her a hug, then I took off my new suede boots, put on a pair of worn jeans, washed my face, and went downstairs with her to walk Gus.
