The following Friday is a day off school for the kids, and my sister is happy to have them come early, so I take a vacation day to extend my weekend, as well.

I take the train from Ottawa to Toronto, and spring for a first-class seat. Four hours of wine and reading and no children or husbands annoying me.

Husbands.

Maybe that’s the problem. I only have one husband. If I had two, it wouldn’t be a big deal that Stew’s job had become insane. I could have Work Stew, who I’m ridiculously proud of, and I could have… Home Stew. The guy who chops wood for our fireplace, who makes salsa from scratch—and then margaritas to match. The guy who likes to sleep in on Saturdays and go hiking on Sundays. Who puts the kids to bed and then comes to find me with a dirty grin that says it’s my bedtime, too.

I miss that grin.

I miss his salsa, too.

If I could have a third husband, I’d pick Young Stew. I’m not sure he’d be interested in being married to a twenty-five-year-older version of his university girlfriend, but she’d be all over him and his youthful enthusiasm for late-night adventures and endless sex.

Although the real Stew has some advantages over his younger self. He’s way more patient than he used to be. He knows my body better. He just doesn’t get as many opportunities to prove his mastery of what makes me shiver.

I sigh and close my book. I really need this getaway, but I’m barely halfway to Toronto and I’m moping over how much I miss my husband.

But I’d miss him even more if I’d stayed home and he’d had to work.

He drove me to the train station. He had to leave work to do it. He came home and picked us all up. We dropped the kids at my sister’s first, then he took me to the train station and helped me unload my bag. Then he wrapped me in his big, strong arms and kissed me.

He’d poured a lot into that kiss, and it left me breathless.

Now I touch my lips and think…okay. It’s not always going to be like this. His mantra, and I believe him.

For now, I need to do some self-care. Adrienne Time, not Mom Time.

I twist around and find the first-class car attendant. “Could I have another glass of wine?” I ask, and she brings it right away. Ah, yes. Adrienne Time.

I’m staying at a boutique hotel west of downtown. I don’t have any specific plans, really, but once I check in, I open my suitcase and realize with a thud that I hate everything I’ve packed.

None of it says night out in the city. I’m not even talking about fancy shit. It’s that none of it is fun. It’s all mom clothes, and that’s great for Ottawa. I’m a mom there.

I’m a mom now, too, but whatever. Whatever, indeed.

Okay, first step is shopping. I grab my purse and head downstairs.

The desk clerk calls out my name, and when I turn around, holds up an envelope. “This was dropped off for you, ma’am.”

Shudder. I hate being called ma’am. I take the unaddressed white envelope with a polite thank-you. Inside is a piece of paper bearing the letterhead of a concert hall around the corner, wrapped around a general admission ticket for tonight. I don’t recognize the band name.

I glance back at the desk clerk and hold out the ticket. “Have you heard of this band?”

She nods enthusiastically. “They’re awesome. Should be a good show. There’s a band from the nineties opening for them, too. Ever heard of The Replacements?”

I laugh. “Small world. They were my first real rock concert.”

“Oh, how cool is that?”

Very cool. I look at the ticket. No note, but I have a sneaking suspicion who’s responsible.

As I head into the sunshine, clear now in my goal to buy something to wear to a concert, I send Stew a quick text.

I can practically hear his laughter from Ottawa.

I shake my head. Sigh. He’s a good man, just a bit clueless. There’s no way I’m wearing tight anything.

Except an hour later, after wandering in and out of a dozen shops, I find myself in a hole-in-the-wall t-shirt store just off Queen Street, and I fall in love with a v-neck tee with a wild skull painted on it. It’s the kind of thing I’d totally have worn twenty years ago, and I want it now, if only for tonight, when nobody will know who I am.

“Can I try that on in a medium?” I ask the sales girl.

She rifles through the stack, then shakes her head. “We’ve got a small and a large. But they fit kind of generously, so I think the large will be too big on you. Try the small.”

Nope. I haven’t bought size small clothes since before kid number one was born. I shake my head. “It won’t fit.”

She just smiles and pushes it into my hands. “Give it a go.”

I take the t-shirt, but I don’t move. I glance at the other designs on the table. “Which of these do you have in medium?”

She does a quick search up and down the stacks of fabric, with the kind of practiced eagle-eye hunting that only a retail pro has, and pulls out two options. I don’t like either of them as much as the skull shirt, but I take the red one—because I don’t want to come out of the change room feeling stupid because the small doesn’t fit. Easier to pretend I liked the red one better.

Except once I’m in the change room, and I’m tugging the skull shirt over my boobs…it kind of does fit.

Only kind of. The v-neck helps. Man, when was the last time I showed this much cleavage?

The shirt is snug down my entire torso, but long enough to end at my hips. Lots of overlap over my jeans so nobody will see my mummy-tummy if I get excited and throw my hands in the air at the concert tonight.

I take a quick selfie and send it to Stew.

Holy shit. A warm thrill wobbles through me. Okay, if he likes it. Maybe I can wear it as a sleep shirt when I get home.

I don’t bother to try on the red t-shirt.

After a dinner at a noodle shop—where I read more of my book, uninterrupted, as I enjoyed hot food that didn’t require any kind of compromise with family members or threats about being polite to eat it—I head back to the hotel to shower and change and get ready for my throwback to my youth.

The Replacements.

I think Stew first told me he loved me at that concert. He was drunk out of his mind, so I hadn’t believed him, but then he said it again the next morning when I looked like something the cat had dragged in, so I believed him then. And I’d agreed to marry him a few months later.

I finish blowdrying my hair. Big, lots of hair spray. Then I do my makeup—more than usual, because my usual these days is lipgloss and mascara—and I send Stew another selfie.

This weekend was supposed to be just me-time, but I’m really liking this flirting from a distance thing, too.

There’s a short line outside the concert hall, and I get in the queue behind a couple holding hands. I think of Stew, then I shake it off. Adrienne Time.

I need a beer.

The bouncer barely looks at my ID, then I’m inside. There’s no line at the bar, so I pull a twenty out of my cross-body purse and order a bottle of Stella.

The crowd is a mix of ages. I’m definitely not the oldest person here, which makes me feel better. Lots of silver temples, just like Stew has, but nobody’s in a suit. Lots of tight jeans—hello, hot guys—and visible tattoos.

I scoot down the bar, so I’m out of the bartender’s way, but the show hasn’t started yet, and I don’t want to just randomly wander through the growing crowd when I don’t have anyone to talk to. The bar makes a good base for people-watching.

Across the room, a thirty-something hipster guy catches my eye.

I smile and feel a hot blush spread across my cheeks. I’ll have to tell Stew about that. He’ll tease me mercilessly, but it’ll turn him on a little to know his wife caught some young thing’s attention.

The beer goes down smoothly, and since I don’t have kids to worry about or a car to drive, I twist around and order another one.

When I turn back to the crowd, Hipster Guy is standing in front of me.

“Hey,” he says.

He’s taller than I thought from across the room. Almost as tall as Stew. Slimmer, with narrow hips and big feet.

Yes, I noticed his feet. And hands. I’m married, not dead.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

I lift my beer with a smile. “Just got one, but thank you.”

“Are you here alone?”

I nod. “I am.”

His gaze drops to where my left hand is wrapped around my beer. To my wedding rings. Oh God, I’m going to need to tell Stew how filthy this feels. When he drags his eyes back to my face, I’m still smiling.

He slowly steps past me and leans against the bar, waving at the bartender, who holds up his index finger. One minute. “I’m Fallon.”

Is that even a real name? “Nice to meet you.” I extend my hand. “Adrienne.”

“And what do you do, Adrienne?”

“I’m a teacher.” And a mom, a chauffeur, a wife, lunch-maker, peacekeeper…

“My sister’s just finished teacher’s college.”

“Is she on the supply list yet?” I slip right into the professional stuff, and we talk about how hard the job market is until his beer arrives.

He holds his bottle up. “Nice to meet you, Adrienne.”

I clink my bottle against his. “You as well.”

“Maybe I’ll see you after the show.”

No, but it’s a nice thought. “Maybe.”

I watch him disappear into the crowd as activity starts on the stage. A roadie scurries across, setting a last guitar in place. Then the drummer comes out, the lights go down, and the crowd roars.

By the end of the second song, I’ve left the bar and pressed into the crowd myself. It’s hot and sticky, and I’m grateful for the cold beer. I press the bottle against my neck, and the guy beside me takes a quick glance at my cleavage.

This is fun.

And the songs are totally taking me back.

I pull out my phone to text Stew, but I’ve got zero signal. Crap. There is a text message from him, though. I just can’t respond to it.

What? That’s…weird. Why would he think I’d forget?

I’m tempted to draft a reply, remember, I’m wearing a tight t-shirt, but with my luck, it wouldn’t send until a random time much later and make zero sense.

Instead, I put my phone away. Okay, no more thinking about my husband in another city. Music and beer and fun.

From behind me, somebody bumps into me. Under the thump of the music, I hear a low apology, then a hand on my hip.

Whoa, hands off, buddy.

I spin around, and my breath catches in my throat. The hottest guy I’ve seen all night is standing in front of me. Dark jeans hug his thighs, and a black t-shirt with you only live once spelled across it hugs his broad chest and strains around his biceps. He’s tall and big and giving me a totally obvious once over.

My skin warms under his appraisal.

He’s holding a beer, and as I look up at him, he takes a long, slow sip. The way his mouth is a bit wet afterward makes my thighs tense up. The way his eyes are molten pools of heat makes the rest of me turn to goo.

I remember what I’m supposed to say. “My husband’s a big guy who boxes with the prime minister.”

He laughs and leans in so I can hear him. “Is that right? Why isn’t he here tonight?”

“He’s…in Ottawa working.”

“His loss.”

Oh, God. The heat radiating off his body slides under my skin and swirls around in my belly. “Really my loss,” I whisper.

He leans in even closer. “I didn’t catch that.”

I hesitate, then push up on my toes and press my hand against his chest. “Never mind,” I say, lifting my voice over the music.