Soaring (36 page)

Then Aisling and Cillian went back to their mother, something that surprised me considering her behavior that week. I thought he would keep them or at least have words with her about what she’d done, warning her that couldn’t happen again, especially if they were
with
her, and what might happen if she did.

Mickey didn’t explain this decision to me and I didn’t ask about it because it wasn’t my place. It concerned me, but it wasn’t my place to share this either. They were his kids not mine, and he knew Rhiannon and all the history, I didn’t. So I kept quiet.

I learned the week he didn’t have his kids just how crazy his life was, juggling work he hated, kids back and forth and volunteering as a fireman.

I learned this because he had no time for me.

He did most of his evening shifts at the firehouse when the kids weren’t with him. He made up paid work for Ralph for day shifts he did at the firehouse both when he had his kids and when he didn’t. And all this meant he had no time left over.

Since the diner was just down from the firehouse, he had asked me to meet him at Weatherby’s for dinner one night that week, something I did. Something that lasted for an hour before Mickey had to get back. Something that ended with me not even getting a kiss.

And he’d had one other night off before he got the kids back. A night where we talked on the phone, even though he was on his couch in a house across the street from mine, and I was in my fabulous armchair in a house across the street from his.

We did this for half an hour before he stated, “Wiped, Amy. Gotta hit my bed.”

Obviously, without demur, since he was tired, I let him go.

The kids came back and we’d actually had a family outing, all four of us going to some burger shack out in the middle of nowhere that frankly was kind of scary (the being in the middle of nowhere business
and
the restaurant, which, even without me doing a full inspection, I knew had to be making a variety of health violations).

It could not be denied, however, that the kids loved it, the burgers were delicious and I loved family time with Mickey and his kids.

But outside brief phone calls and texts, that was it for that week with Mickey.

Now his kids were gone again. It was Tuesday,
my
kids were coming that weekend and my relationship with my own offspring meant that it was too early to add Mickey to that mix.

So we wouldn’t be seeing each other that weekend.

And it was nearly five and he had not called or texted all day. In fact, the last text I got from him was the day before at nine thirty in the morning that said,
Need to make plans.

I’d replied,
We do. Do you have some time off some evening this week?

I’d received no return text.

Nothing.

I didn’t wish to be a spoiled, selfish, dainty heiress, but if I was going to have a man in my life, I wanted to have a man in my life, not the specter of a man who became real only infrequently.

And I didn’t wish to allow Conrad to destroy the possibility of me finding something good and healthy (if Mickey and I miraculously found together time to actually build a relationship) by wondering what, precisely, was taking all of Mickey’s time.

The fact was he’d been with
Bridget
, the tall, buxom redhead. I’d mentioned her, but he’d said nothing about her.

Were they still dating?

Was she being fit in here and there, whenever Mickey had time not working, volunteering, fathering or being with me?

It had been a long time since I’d been in the dating game, but Mickey had told me to end it with Bradley. I did. It might be an incorrect assumption but Mickey, clearly not being tolerant of me being with another man when there was not one thing between us but a lot of arguing and a kiss, would lead me to believe I could expect the same and that, although relatively new, our relationship was exclusive.

Since I’d grown up, I would have broached this subject with Mickey just to make certain we were on the same page.

Unfortunately, I rarely saw Mickey in order to broach this subject.

But obviously, that niggled at me.

Was Bridget still in the picture?

And last, there was the fact that Mickey had said straight out that men needed to fuck and I was right across the street. I didn’t say it outright but it was implied I was a relatively sure thing. I liked the idea that he wanted to take his time with me but
I was right across the street
.

A man had needs.

A woman had needs.

But he was not seeing to these needs for either of us.

So what was that all about?

The only good thing that came of the last two weeks (and it was a
very
good thing) was the fact that things were progressing with my own kids. Pippa had started high school, and I was anxious to know how she was handling that. But both of them were back to school, and I was just interested to know how things were going.

So I asked.

And they answered.

Their phones.

As in,
not through texts.

I could not say the conversations lasted for hours and included them baring their souls to me, telling me they forgive me and explaining they wished to spend more time with me.

But I called, they answered, we chatted, it was amicable and relatively informative and the more it happened, the less stilted it became.

I did not push this. I texted every day just to say something to let them know they were on my mind.

They texted back.

But I’d called them both more than a couple of times since Mickey and my first date, and they always answered.

Except once, when I got Auden’s voicemail.

But then he’d called me back, getting mine, apologizing for not picking up and sharing things were going okay.

I was ecstatic, completely beside myself with joy.

About that.

But things with Mickey—being fast, heated, crazy and ending with me floating on air, only for them to stall almost completely—made me again feel leaden, carrying the weight of worry that something so exciting, so promising would end so soon after it began.

I couldn’t wait to see my babies that weekend.

But things with Mickey had gone from understandable to frustrating to irritating in a way I knew I was feeling that rather than concern that what seemed to be the beginning of happy would dwindle into nothing.

“Yes, I’m in a bad mood,” I told Lawr.

“Why?” he asked. “You said things were improving with the kids.”

“They are.”

“And you’ve found someone to spend time with.”

“I did. And that’s past tense.”

“Oh fuck,” Lawr muttered. “You two already broke up?”

“I’d have to
see
him to break up with him and, again, I’m uncertain of the laws, this time of dating, but I would assume you’d actually have to see each other regularly, and, oh, I don’t know, maybe have sex at least once for a relationship deterioration to be considered a breakup.”

Lawr was silent.

“Did I lose you?” I called.

“You haven’t…” He sounded like he was being strangled. “You haven’t had sex with him?”

“No,” I snapped, slapping the top cookie on the frosted one and setting the sandwich aside, going on, “You’re a man, tell me. You have a sure thing you pretty much know is a sure thing across the street, would you sit on your couch and talk with her on your phone for half an hour before stating you’re wiped and need to go to bed? Or would you find your second wind, walk over and fuck her dizzy?”

“Maybe you should talk to Robin about this,” Lawr suggested.

“Robin’s not a man,” I noted.

“So maybe you should talk about this to a man who is not me, a me who’s your brother.”

“Lawr, honestly?” I asked.

“Mariel and I have not had relations for over two months and the last time we had them it lasted ten minutes and
I
finished alone.”

I made a gag face that also included a gag noise my brother heard.

Thus Lawr continued, “Do you wanna talk about sex with your brother?”

“Maybe not,” I conceded.

“Right. Call Robin,” he ordered.

“She’s at her new Pilates class.”

There was a moment of silence before Lawr begged, “Please tell me she’s not—”

“She is,” I interrupted him to confirm. “The lover of her ex-husband’s soon-to-be-ex-wife is her new instructor. She says the class is magnificent. The instructor knows who she is. They go for chai teas after and the other one meets them. They’re all bonding over mutual hatred.”

“Jesus Christ,” Lawr muttered.

“It’s actually quite healthy.”

“It’s nutty, like that woman is,” Lawr returned. “And she’s been burned badly enough, she shouldn’t court more.”

“She’s healing, Lawrie,” I said softly. “Let her do it her way.”

There was another moment of silence before Lawr said, “Right.”

I scrunched another sandwich together and replied, “I should probably let you go.”

And I should let him go because he had to get going.

I had an evening of nothing ahead of me.

“Yeah. I’ll let you know about Thanksgiving.”

“That’d be great, Lawrie. Hope the rest of your day goes well.”

“Yours too, sweetheart. And MeeMee?”

“Yes?”

“Slow is not bad,” he said gently.

He was right. Slow probably wasn’t bad.

Crawling to a virtual stand-still wasn’t all that hot, however.

I didn’t share that.

I said, “Thanks, Lawrie.”

“Talk to you soon.”

“Back at you.”

“’Bye, MeeMee.”

“’Bye, Lawrie.”

I hit the button to disconnect and kept at my cookies, thinking it was getting late and I’d not planned anything for dinner hoping that there might be some possibility I’d be eating whatever I’d be eating with Mickey.

After the cookie sandwiches got finished, packed up for transport the next day and I did the cleanup, I realized that was not happening and then got annoyed because I hadn’t taken anything out to defrost, and I had nothing in the fridge to make.

I opened the door, stared in the fridge and saw my only choice was an omelet, which didn’t sound appetizing.

But at least it was something.

Therefore I made my plans. Omelet. Wine. Book. Bath. Bed.

And no Mickey.

Before I started all that skin tingling excitement, I sent my kids their texts of the day and gave myself my only thrill of the day because I then got their replies.

I had the cheese grated, the garlic minced, the mushrooms sliced and was beating the eggs when my phone on my counter rang.

The display said “Mickey.”

I glared at it and the time above it, which told me it was ten to six.

I wanted to let it ring, go to voicemail, force him to make more of an effort to get in touch with me, but that was petty.

And I was no longer petty.

So I hit the button to accept then hit the button for speaker.

“Hey,” I greeted.

“On my way home from work.”

What?

No.

Whatever.

“Fascinating news,” I replied.

He said nothing for a few seconds before he stated, “Forgot if you had bacon on your burger.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I’m at Tinker’s. Picking up burgers for us for dinner. Remembered you got Swiss and mushrooms. Forgot if you got bacon.”

He was picking up dinner for us at Tinker’s, the scary burger joint out on route whatever?

No, he was not.

“Don’t worry about me. I’m having an omelet.”

“What?” he asked.

“I’m making an omelet. Right now. I’m covered for dinner.”

“You’re making an omelet for dinner,” he said like this was beyond belief.

“I’m hungry,” I replied.

“Tink’s burgers are better, baby.”

The edifice and its environs might be sketchy, but there was no denying the burgers would be better than an omelet.

“I’m beating the eggs now. If I don’t cook them, they’ll go to waste,” I shared.

There was a smile in his voice when he replied, “Amy, you’re a gazillionaire. Thinkin’ you can probably afford to pour a coupla eggs down the sink.”

“I am, indeed, quite wealthy as we’ve discussed
frequently
,” I replied tartly. “However, that does not negate the fact people on this earth are starving so it would be irresponsible and insensitive to have food and waste it.”

“Then throw in a coupla more eggs. When I get to your place, I’ll eat that with you,” he returned, sounding like he wanted to eat a roofing shingle between two pieces of bread more than he wanted to share an omelet.

“You can get your burger. The omelet’s just for me. And you can’t come over. I have plans this evening.”

He didn’t sound amused when he asked, “You got plans?”

“I do,” I confirmed.

“What plans?” he pushed.

“I’m washing my hair,” I snapped. “Now, the butter in the skillet has melted. I have to go. I’m sure I’ll talk to you later…someday.”

“Am—”

I hit the button to disconnect, turned off the ringer and turned my phone over so I couldn’t see the display. When it vibrated, making noise against my counter, I shoved it in a drawer and picked up the remote to turn on my system across the room, bringing up Pandora and listening to my Billie Holiday station.

The day was gray and drizzling. I was eating alone. Mickey was probably still dating a redhead who was not me. And he thought he could come over whenever he could squeeze me into his life.

It was time for the blues.

I was about to slice the side of my fork through the finished omelet, and not looking forward to it, when the banging came at my door.

My head whipped that way.

Through the glass, I saw Mickey.

On no, he was
not
banging on my door like
he
was angry when
he
said we needed to make plans and
I
agreed and asked when, then
he
did not bother to reply to me.

I wasn’t sitting around, anxiously awaiting his attention!

And I was not going to be the type of woman who accepted the scraps of attention from a man.