A Most Excellent Midlife Crisis - Robyn Peterman Page 0,13

Steve,” I instructed. “It’s time. Try to get to the day you died and then just let it happen.”

“I can do that. Will you be okay?” he asked.

“Yes.”

I was unsure if I was lying or telling the truth. Okay was a relative word, so I agreed to a very broad definition.

Pictures raced across my vision so quickly I couldn’t make them out. Again, it was like an old, static-filled black-and-white TV screen was inside my head. Catching glimpses of Steve’s memories of me, I smiled sadly.

Hindsight was 20/20 and heartbreakingly obvious. My blindness astounded me, yet surprisingly, I regretted nothing. Again, I had to believe some things happened for a reason. The fact that Steve and I had been together made me the person I was now. I liked the woman I had become.

As I watched our life together flit past, I saw two people who adored each other as best friends—not as a man and a woman in a romantic relationship. It was very clear that we’d had an unbreakable platonic bond, not a sexual one. While I wouldn’t change a thing, my heart still ached that neither of us had lived a full life together.

We’d lived a beautiful and loving lie.

I watched as Steve and I laughed at my first pathetic attempt at reupholstering a chair. I’d wanted to burn it, but Steve had proudly put it in his office and used it until the day he’d died.

“Oh my God. The chair,” I said with a laugh.

“I loved that butt-ugly chair—wildly unattractive, but very comfortable,” Steve said.

I still had the chair. It was one of my most valued possessions—hideous, but filled with lovely memories.

Our wedding day and many other happy days rushed across my vision. It was invasive to know that it was being observed by others, but it was yet another price to be paid.

“I’m there,” Steve whispered as I watched with sadness.

“And I’m here,” I promised. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“But I am,” he said in a choked voice.

“Are you scared?” I asked, squeezing his hands.

“Not for me,” he replied sadly.

“I’m wearing my lady balls and they’re completely descended,” I said in a light tone that belied the riotous emotions roaring inside me. “I’m good.”

The day was rainy and gray. The sky was crying in anticipation of what was about to transpire.

The oldies station played on the radio and Bill Withers sang a prophetic song—“Ain’t No Sunshine When She’s Gone.”

If the word she had been replaced by the word he, it would have been eerily perfect.

My breath caught in my throat and a chemical shift jerked through my body. I had as little control over it as I did in taking my next breath. My body no longer belonged to me.

My heart raced erratically and I glanced around wildly. Opening my eyes, I couldn’t find Steve anywhere, much less myself. Shit. What had gone wrong?

The steering wheel in my hands felt real. The breath from my lips proved I was still alive. However, the breath was unfamiliar. Glancing down, I gasped as I realized why I couldn’t see Steve in front of me.

I’d become Steve. I was driving the car.

My intention was to take the pain from him during the crash—just like I’d done for Lindsay during her murder. Had I screwed myself with this plan?

Was I about to die for Steve?

Bill Withers continued to sing.

If the words to the song were my future, I was fucked.

“Bill Withers, you need to change those lyrics,” I muttered, navigating the sharp curves on the country road. It wasn’t exactly a switchback, but the drop-off on the side of the road was steep and deadly.

I knew I was getting close to the spot where Steve’s car had gone off the road and wrapped itself around a tree. My anxiety grew as the tires began to hydroplane and the rain came down in torrents.

“Slow down,” I shouted at myself and anyone who cared to listen. “You’re going to die.”

Someone was listening. God? Steve? Me? I didn’t know and I didn’t care. I was just happy the speed decreased.

“What the hell?” I cried out as something large appeared from out of nowhere in the middle of the slick road.

The winged creature glowed such a brilliant gold, I had to shield my eyes from the glare. The smile on the creature’s lips was horrifying and the wingspan had to be at least eight feet on either side.

I knew her.

I despised her.

“Move,” I screamed as I slammed my foot on the breaks and the