Page 109 of Letting Go at 40

“Mason,” I warn, not wanting to bring up things we haven’t ever discussed and shouldn’t really. It was a moment of weakness at a difficult time.

“The truth is, I didn’t want to stop that night.”

I lower my eyes, staring at my glass of wine. “It wasn’t appropriate,” I state, thinking back to the passion and shame of that night.

“It wasn’t good timing,” Mason clarifies. “And I shouldn’t have taken advantage of the situation.”

I clear my throat. “You didn’t take advantage of me.” I was just as guilty that night. Just as needy.

“This isn’t really first date conversation,” I say, uncomfortable with the building tension and the reminders of that evening. How I’m still mortified that I’d called him Ben.

Mason softly chuckles. “I wouldn’t know what first date conversation is.”

“You’ve been on first dates,” I tease. Hasn’t he? He’s dated. I’m certain he has.

But Mason stares at me and understanding becomes clear. This is why tonight is so important to him. He hasn’t had first dates or at least not many over the years. He’s met random women in bars and gone home with them, but he didn’t date them.

“I don’t know what’s first date material either.” I’ve only had one first date, and that night led to the ultimate commitment. I married the man twenty years ago.

Mason looks down at the wine glass in his hands. “Let’s agree that we’ve made some missteps, but we’re past that now.” He glances up at me, hopeful that we’ve moved on from that night almost two years ago.

“I would hope so.” I smile, knowing we are now. He lives in the garage apartment. We share incredible stolen moments of intimacy and almost all our days collaborating together with our children.

“To letting go,” I raise my glass in a second toast and Mason straightens, his glass still lowered to his leg.

“What?” he whispers.

“Let go?” I question, lowering my voice as well.

Without responding to my toast, Mason sets his glass aside and takes mine from me. Then he tips up my chin and kisses me long and slow. Soft sips and teasing laps. No tongue or teeth or eagerness. He’s kissing me like he wants to memorize my mouth, imprint it on his forever.

Strangely, I feel the same way.

When he pulls back, his blue eyes gleam. The color I once thought was wrong feels right, blanketing me in the comfort the shade represents.

Mason shifts, pulling out items for our meal. I’m surprised to find an entire charcuterie board, artfully arranged with meats and cheeses, fruits and olives, which leads us to a discussion about olives. I like the black ones. He likes kalamata.

There’s an ease to being with Mason because we have known one another for twenty-five years, but there is also so much I don’t know about him.

I’ve told my kids over the years that not knowing someone is what dating is for. It’s the time to learn about someone, develop feelings, or not, about another person. It’s also the time to experiment. Like trying a person on to see if he or she fits you.

Mason fits me.

We agree to disagree on which olives are better until he slips one in my mouth. I hesitantly chew, disliking the flavor but Mason is quick to rescue me, his mouth distracting me from the lingering taste.

After a generous sip of wine once we stop kissing, Mason moves the charcuterie board to the side, and I scoot closer to him. He lies back on the deck, and I tuck into his side.

One thing I’ve missed in our nights together is we don’t spend the night together. We make out like randy teens and end up in his bedroom, touching and tasting, learning about one another, but I don’t linger. Once we finish, he holds me until I’m sleepy and realize I need to go home. Other nights, time is our constraint. We know we only have an hour with my kids gone and Lynlee in bed, so we rush to cross a line. One building throughout the day.

With Mason, I’ve discovered many things about myself and sex.

I’ve always been pleased with it, but Mason is an entirely new level of satisfaction. The things he does to me. The way I react. Those years of experience and the multitude of women he’s been with give him an advantage over me. He’s a master and I’m a mere student.

“I can feel you thinking,” Mason murmurs, turning to place a kiss on my forehead. With my head on his shoulder and my arm over his chest, I’m as close as I can get to him.

But I’d like to be closer.

“I’m impressed,” I repeat as I said earlier. Mason shifts so I look up at him. “With everything you’ve done for me and the kids. With Ben.” I swallow around the mention of him. “With the way you are with Lynlee.”