Flirting with Fifty

“Well, if she’s four years younger than us, she’s about forty-six, and as we both know that’s ancient by Hollywood standards. I would imagine she probably switched her career a long time ago.”

“I’m lucky I had something I loved that I could be successful at,” Elizabeth said, reaching for the syrup.

“Again, Margot might love what she’s doing now. She might be making great money and proud of what she’s accomplished. I hate that she might be viewed as a failure for giving up acting.” Paige would be livid if anyone talked about Ashley this way. Just because something doesn’t work out doesn’t mean you’re a failure. “I don’t think your mom is being very fair. If Margot went to New York and pursued acting for five, ten years, then she is successful. She went after her dream, and she has every right to change her mind about what she wants to do. We’re allowed to try different things.”

“I’m not attacking her, Paige—”

“I know, but I hate how society judges people, especially women.” She drew a deep breath and calmed herself. Ready to change the subject, Paige reached into her purse and pulled out the photo of Jack from Paris. She slid it across the table to Elizabeth, saying nothing, waiting for a reaction. It didn’t take long.

Elizabeth looked at the photo, and then her head jerked up, brown eyes widening. “What? Is this who I think it is?”

“Yes.” Paige leaned back in her chair, amused, thoroughly enjoying Elizabeth’s reaction.

“Where did you get this from?”

“It was from my Paris trip. The one right after my senior year at Berkeley.”

“He was there?”

“He was one of the grad students teaching in the program. Jack King, from Melbourne.”

“Okay, wait. Wait, wait.” Elizabeth put a hand to her forehead, fingers pushing into her dark hair. “He’s not the one . . . Is he?”

There was a reason best friends were your best friend. They remembered the important things. They remembered the secrets, the mistakes, and the things no one else knew. “He’s the one I slept with, yes.”

“Your one-night stand?”

“The one that made me run back home.”

Elizabeth gave the photo a shake. “The one that messed with your head for almost the entire next year? The one that had you crying into your pillow—”

“Okay, wait. There was no crying into my pillow.”

Elizabeth made a scoffing noise. “There was most definitely crying into your pillow. You were a wreck. A disaster. You were so hung up on him—”

“I was not.”

“Paige. You liked him so much—”

“He was gorgeous, and he had this body—”

“He still has that body.”

True, but Paige wasn’t going to admit it. “He just knew what he was doing, and I was overwhelmed. I felt like a kid. I was completely unprepared for how it was . . . so I shut down.” She met Elizabeth’s incredulous gaze. “I wish I hadn’t. I wish I could have enjoyed myself more, but my emotions were so intense, and being near him was intense, and . . .” She exhaled, pursed her lips, hating the ache in her chest. “In the end, it was nothing. We lived on different sides of the world. We were pursuing different things. Despite all that initial magic, in the end, we had nothing in common.”

“Yet here you two are, years later, teaching together.” Elizabeth’s head slowly shook back and forth, her expression one that reminded Paige of a cat that had just finished licking a bowl of cream. “Oh, PG, this is good. I had no idea how interesting your life had become.”