Chapter One
Renae Hennington had spent forty-seven minutes deciding what to wear and still ended up angry at her jeans. They weren’t tight, exactly, but the waistband sat against her stomach like it had a personal vendetta, silently whispering, I remember when you were thinner.
She tugged at them, then immediately regretted it when a familiar wave of heat bloomed in her chest. “Oh no,” she muttered to her reflection. “Not now. We are not doing this now.”
The woman in the mirror: green-eyed, brown-haired (except where it was now doing whatever this was), stared back at her with suspicion.
Her hair had once possessed a respectable, cooperative wave. Now it had sprung into tight, frizzy curls seemingly overnight, as if her follicles had attended a secret meeting and voted her out.
Renae fluffed it, then stopped when three strands came away in her fingers. She closed her eyes, counted to five, then ten. “If I end up bald and on fire tonight, I swear to God…”
Her phone buzzed on the counter.
Monique: You ready???
Monique: Because I will turn this car around if you bail
Monique: And I brought backup lipstick
Renae sighed. “Traitor,” she told her phone fondly. She hadn’t been on a date in over twenty years. The last time she’d sat across from a man who wasn’t her husband, Bill Clinton had been president, and low-rise jeans were a hate crime waiting to happen.
Her first (only) husband had been career military. He’d been gone two years now, leaving behind memories, and nineteen-year-old twins who were currently away at college and thriving just enough to leave her alone with her thoughts. And her body, which had apparently decided to audition for a medical textbook.
Renae grabbed her purse, slipped on flats (because heels could not be trusted anymore), and turned off the light. “Just drinks,” she reminded herself. “One drink. You do not need more than one drink.” This was a lie, but it was a hopeful one.
The sign out front read Langly’s Bar, and Monique insisted it was the perfect place to ease back into society. “It’ll be neutral ground,” Monique said. “It’s a public location and has good drinks. There won’t be any expectations.”
Renae countered with, “There are expectations. Namely, that I don’t burst into flames.”
“Relax, it’s just a date.” Monique encouraged as they walked inside, “You’ve got this. I’ll sit beside you and pretend like I don’t know you, you get to know a nice guy, and then we leave and laugh about it.”
The bar was louder than she expected. Not club loud, thank God, but lively. Warm wood, amber lighting, and laughter rising and falling.
They slid onto stools near the middle of the bar. Monique, resplendent in confidence and long braids and the unearned ease of a woman whose hormones still behaved themselves, flagged the bartender.
Renae glanced around nervously. Was she too old to be here? There were quite a few couples, a group of women shrieking with laughter, a few older men sitting further down the bar, and a man at the far end polishing glasses like he owned the place. Which, as it turned out, he did.
Preston Langly was filling in behind the bar, sleeves rolled up, forearms impressive in a way Renae registered distantly. He had broad shoulders, a soft middle that suggested he enjoyed his food, and shoulder-length curls pulled back loosely. His skin was warm brown, and freckles scattered across his nose like someone had dusted him with charm.
He glanced up, eyes dark and observant, and smiled at a patron. Renae looked away immediately. Focus, she told herself. You are here for a date.
Her phone buzzed again.
Monique: He just walked in
Monique: Blue shirt. Don’t panic
Too late. He was… fine. Not fine-fine, just average, normal. Which somehow made this worse.
He slid onto the stool beside her, offering an awkward smile. “Renae?”
“Yes,” she said too loudly. Then, softer, “Yes. Hi. That’s me. Renae. You found me.” Stop talking.
“I’m…” he said his name and it didn’t stick.
They ordered drinks. Renae ordered sweet tea with a splash of vodka because she was a grown woman who made grown choices and absolutely would regret this later.
The conversation started well enough. He asked about her kids, and she told him about Riley and Rider and realized halfway through that she was talking very fast and sweating.
“So, they’re twins,” she said, fanning herself subtly. “Nineteen and away at college. Which is great, amazing, love that for them. It’s a very quiet house now. Very, very quiet.”
He laughed politely.
The heat surged.
“Oh,” Renae said, eyes widening. “Oh wow. Okay. This is happening.”
“What’s happening?”
“Nothing,” she lied. “Just…do you feel warm in here?”
He glanced around. “Not really.”
“Well. That figures.” She tugged at her neckline. A burst of flames bloomed in her chest and spread outward fast and rude.
Her hair plastered itself to her neck; the heat sucked moisture right out of her like a punishment.
Somewhere in the distance, a rational part of her brain screamed Abort Mission. Instead, she took another sip of her drink. Big Mistake.
“So,” he said, leaning in. “Tell me about yourself.”
Renae laughed. She couldn’t help it. It was a sudden, bubbling laugh that startled even her. “Oh, buddy, that is a loaded question.”
Across the bar, Preston glanced over, noting the way she dropped her head back and fanned herself harder, and the way her date shifted uncomfortably. He kept polishing glasses.
Renae wiped her forehead. “Okay, okay. I’m fine. I’m just…this happens sometimes.”
“What happens?”
“The spontaneous combustion,” she said cheerfully. “It’s new. Very exciting. My body is haunted.”
He blinked.
She leaned closer. “I’m in perimenopause.”
He recoiled as if she’d said smallpox. “Oh. Uh. I mean…that’s…”
“Normal?” she supplied. “Natural? Horrifying?”
He laughed weakly.
The heat peaked. Renae’s heart pounded. Her vision swam and she gasped. “Oh my God. Oh my God, I think I’m dying!”
“What?”
“Or not dying,” she amended quickly. “Sometimes it feels like dying. Sometimes it’s just… lava. I need air.” She slid off the stool, wobbling.
Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Monique, wide-eyed, shaking her head, watching this implode.
Preston was also watching now.
Renae pressed her palms to the bar. “I’m okay. I just need…Why are you backing away?”
“I think you need help,” her date said, backing away slowly. “Like, medical help.”
“No, I do not need an ambulance,” she said. “The last thing I need is more witnesses.”
“I’m calling someone,” he said, already pulling out his phone.
“No,” she hissed. “Please don’t…” He bolted. Actually bolted!
Renae watched him flee through the crowd, her mouth falling open. The bar door swung shut behind him.
She slowly lowered her head onto the bar with a dull thunk, momentarily thankful for the coolness against her flushed forehead.
“Of course,” she murmured into the wood. “That went great.”
A moment later, a calm voice said, “Looks like he forgot to close his tab.”
Renae peeked up. Preston stood in front of her, his sympathetic eyes and an easy smile softening his face. He slid a tall glass of ice water in front of her.
“Drinks are on the house,” he said. “And you’re not dying. I’ve seen real emergencies. That wasn’t one.”
She groaned. “I hate dating.”
He chuckled. “Yeah. I get that a lot.”
Renae closed her eyes again, mortified, overheated, and absolutely certain she would never, ever do this again. Fate, of course, was already laughing.
********
Author's Note
Still Allowed: A Perimenopausal Love Story, Book 1 in the Still Series, is now available to read on Kindle Unlimited!
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0GYYXX5PK
