Falling for My Son's Best Friend

By: Cassandra Dee


To all the ladies who have a thing for young studs. Cheers!



“Seriously Marie, lighten up,” scolded my friend Angie. “Guys are going to think you have the shakes, you’re so wound up.”

I bit my lip as the elevator zoomed to the top of the tower.

“I don’t know Ang,” I said nervously, heart fluttering. “It’s been a long time since I was out.”

“That’s it exactly,” huffed my friend. “It’s been a long time since Marie Sands was out, way too long in fact. What, were you going to join a nunnery next? Seriously Marie, you’re divorced, not dead.”

And I bit my lip again because Ang had a point. I’ve been divorced for five years now and haven’t found it in me to date yet. I guess I got burned hard when Rob, my high school sweetheart, left me for a woman ten years younger, a bouncy bright blonde that made me feel old and washed out in comparison. But Ang had all the answers.

“Stop tugging at your skirt, girl,” she scolded. “You look fine, if I had a body like yours, trust me, I’d be showing a lot more skin.”

And I laughed then because the outfit I was wearing was totally out of character. Angie had coaxed me into a wine-colored cocktail dress with a shockingly daring décolletage and a skirt up to there, skimming the tops of my thighs, showing off creamy flesh. And to top it all off, I had on four inch heels, elongating my legs and making me feel positively willowy.

Well, as willowy as a curvy girl can be because I’m round all around. It was part of what stung so bad about the break up. Rob had told me he wanted petite, tiny and neat, and I was none of that. I was juicy, with boobs out to there and a behind out to here. I can’t help it, I’ve been this way since I was fifteen and started developing, and it was a slap in the face when my ex said I wasn’t “desirable,” that I wasn’t “sexy,” and he wasn’t attracted to me anymore.

But all that was in the past. Even though it felt like it happened yesterday sometimes, making me gasp with pain, five years was five years, and I made myself take a deep breath and summon my courage.

“Come on girl,” chirped Angie as the door slid open. “Let’s meet some men and have a good time!” she yelped, sashaying into the cocktail lounge like she owned it. Tentatively, I stepped forward, a little disoriented by the dark interior, lit only with flashing strobe lights and some dim wall sconces. Figures milled about in shadow, drinks in hand, the men in suits and the women in tiny cocktail dresses, everyone elegant and suave, like they belonged here. I gulped, feeling like the odd man out. I hadn’t been social in years. Because sure, I have my women’s book club, I play tennis, swim, I even crochet sometimes with the local ladies, but dating? No, my heart had been torn to shreds five years ago and it’d taken that long to recover. If I was even recovered. So yeah, I hadn’t dated in ages, since I was eighteen in fact, and the rules had definitely changed.

“Excuse me,” harrumphed one elderly gentleman, bumping into us. “Pardon me, lovely ladies.”

“No worries,” chirped Ang, a smile lighting up her striking features. “Nice to meet you, I’m Angela.”

I was furtively making eyes at her, signaling “No, no!” Because the gentleman, while nice looking, was far too old. He had to be at least seventy, with snow white hair and deep grooves around the corners of his mouth, jaw slack with age. But Angie completely ignored me, instead allowing the man to take her hand and press a kiss to the back, like she was a princess.

“You two are so beautiful,” he purred. “What brings you here tonight?” he asked.

And Angela, ever the big blabbermouth, immediately spilled the beans.

“My friend Marie here hasn’t been on a date since her divorce,” she said promptly. “You got any friends for her?”

I turned beet red at that, ears going hot, cheeks flaming pink. Oh god hopefully they couldn’t see, hopefully it was so dark in here that no one could tell that I was currently the color of a tomato, flashing hot and then ice cold within seconds, a cold sweat breaking on my brow.

“No, Ang, that’s not it,” I protested. “I’m just, you know, getting to know myself,” I said helplessly, smiling at the old man. “Stepping back into the world after a couple years of self-imposed exile.”

But the gentleman was kind, if a little old-fashioned.

“A woman as beautiful as you isn’t going to have any trouble,” he said with a bow, even waving his hand as a flourish. “You’re a breath of fresh air, a breeze amid these shadows, and men will be throwing flowers at your feet, dying to escort a femme fatale.”