When we got back from Mexico, I assumed that what happened there would stay there.

So when Mr. Neon himself reached out a month or so ago, I was floored. And a little embarrassed (did he read what I wrote about him? probably not but omfg, what if he did?). And a lot intrigued.

Anyway, that cautious first message turned into a full on group chat with the four of us. Turns out they’re pretty fun to talk to even when we’re all stone cold sober. So when they suggested we meet up somewhere halfway between our two cities, we happily agreed and suggested a date.

Fast forward to this past Saturday. We were scheduled to meet at a Mexican joint (fitting, right?) and I woke up equal parts nervous and excited. I mean, we weren’t going to do anything, but the possibility was there.

And then I discovered my period had unexpectedly started. Whomp whomp. But still, no big deal. We weren’t going to do anything anyway.

I went about my routine, shaving all the things, moisturizing lavishly, fixing my nails… you know. The things you do when you’re going on a date. In your 40s. With your husband and another couple. You know, like normal people do.

And then I got a phone call. My mom, sobbing incoherently. Her best friend and all around lifeline since my dad died had, well, died. Of a heart attack. Five days after the first anniversary of my dad’s death.

Really, universe? Really? Fuck you.

There were tears. My makeup melted. My brain overloaded. I looked at Bruce and said, “do we still go?”

He nodded. “Yep. It’s kinda late to cancel. And it’s not like there’s anything we can do, right?”

There wasn’t. So I pulled myself together. Patched up my makeup. And put on my very favorite dress. As we drove, I alternated between fielding calls from my mom and trying to find my inner sexy bitch (I never quite did).

Fast forward a bit and we’re finally there. The parking lot is packed and as we searched for a spot I realized that holy fuck he really does have that super sexy car he was talking about (I had assumed he was just talking shit).

Okay. Sure. We’re not outclassed or anything. It’s fine. We park our perfectly acceptable kid hauler and Bruce reaches for my hand. “You ready for this?”

I smile. “Sure. It’s just dinner, right?”

“Right.”

I was a little worried we wouldn’t recognize them. But nope, the fireflies in my belly knew exactly who Mr. Neon was. Okay, guess that wasn’t just a Mexico thing. Huh.

Dinner went well. Conversation flowed. My hands finally stopped shaking halfway through my margarita and by the time I polished off the very lovely tequila shot they bought me, I was feeling almost like myself.

Mrs. Neon smiles over at me. “So, would you two like to head somewhere we can chat without yelling?”

I look at Bruce. Are we doing this? He looks at me and raises an eyebrow. It’s up to me? Fine. Yep. I sure as hell do.

So we agree on a bar and head out. I’m not going to lie. I kinda want to beg to go with Mr. Neon in that amazing ass car (So sue me. I’m from Detroit. Cars are in my blood). But I keep my dignity.

The bar? It’s empty. We’re literally the only people in there. And when Mrs. Neon goes to sit next to Bruce and Mr. Neon puts his hand on my back, the bartender smirks so hard her face almost cracks in half.

Whatever. I don’t know anyone in this town.

We chat some more, about all the things. Kids, life, booze, vacations… I don’t even know. I’m too aware of the men on either side of me to pay too much attention. Plus, you know. The sobbing mom soundtrack is playing on repeat in my head. It’s a great combo.

Still, when Mr. Neon kisses my neck, he has my attention. But I don’t know how to handle myself. This isn’t Mexico, after all. I’m pretty sure I come across as awkwardness personified (is that a character in Inside Out 2? It should be).

But at the end of the evening, he still kisses me good night. And they want to see us again.

Stay tuned for Mexico meets the Midwest Part 2…