I considered heading down to the South Side to see if any live music was playing, but I didn’t feel like putting on my face. It was daunting, going through the whole makeup routine and picking out just the right outfit that said available but not slutty. Then sweating my ass off on the dance floor amid a crowd of twentysomethings fifteen years my junior while they scowled at me like I didn’t belong. None of it sounded like fun tonight.

I headed back to the kitchen, thirsty for alcohol but not wanting to throw off my diet completely. Chips and a health shake—a perfect combo for a rainy night in. Throwing a handful of kale and blueberries in a blender, I added a banana, Greek yogurt, and almond milk, then watched the concoction swirl into a delicious pale blue. I poured the liquid into a glass and boom—dinner served. Maybe avoiding glutens, eating antioxidant-rich food, and working out obsessively weren’t a guaranteed recipe for eternal youth. But I was damn proud of my toned body—it was the only thing that made being single and forty endurable.

I sipped the blended shake between mouthfuls of chips, sitting at my cluttered kitchen table while scrolling through my Facebook newsfeed. If only Tony could see me now. Ah, the one that got away. My only real true love who got me. There was no act with him. No vow of submissive silence like wallflower Mackenzie, or playing the perfect housewife like Robin. I backed up my bark with a helluva bite. A proud woman who stood on her own two feet, lived by her own rules. And was shamelessly confident. Why hide who I was when it got me what I wanted?

Don’t get me wrong; I’m not self-obsessed or more vain than any other woman on the planet. But I knew I was a catch, and self-assurance was key at my age. You didn’t dispel lonely nights or find your bliss by moping around at home or worrying if you were pretty enough to keep your husband faithful. Confidence is what I gave my clients—women who needed to discover their beauty and embrace it, enjoy it, flaunt it. My job was as satisfying as sex . . . or at least a close second. Fitness, nutrition, balance—they were what I taught, what I lived.

Except my balance had been recently upended by a man. Of course it had to be the wrong man. The wrongest man.

I closed Facebook and checked my email. One message, which I would have ignored except for the subject line: Legal Action Forthcoming.

Dear Ms. Santoro,

Because you have ignored my requests for a full refund, I will be pursuing legal action against you and your company, Workout Wonder. This is your last chance to settle out of court.

Sincerely,

Irving