Soaring (9781311625663)

by Ashley, Kristen

  “Yeah, baby?” he prompted.

  “Yeah, Mickey,” I replied breathily.

  He gave me my favorite grin of his, the one filled with heat and promise, before he turned away, lifting a hand in a short wave.

  I lifted mine back before I looked to the truck and waved at Cillian.

  He returned it.

  Unsteadily, I closed and locked the door.

  Moving into my dark house, I walked to the kitchen and turned on the pendant lights.

  I looked across the space I created that was all me and I did it feeling something I’d never experienced feeling.

  Light and airy, like I was floating above the ground and didn’t have my feet solidly under me.

  It should have felt scary.

  It was exhilarating.

  The weight of my life had been lifted. The weight of my upbringing. The weight of the mess I’d made of my family.

  All was not right in my world, but I’d discovered me and found that I’d done something right along the way.

  I’d built a support network, new and old, of people who cared about me and were generous enough to take care of me, listen to me, understand me. And I was able to build this because I was me.

  And that said everything. Everything about me.

  Not the me I wanted to be.

  The me who had always been.

  Not to mention I was walking on air because Mickey liked my dress.

  As in, really.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Soaring

  “Marriage counselling?” I asked my phone sitting on the kitchen counter beside where I was working.

  Lawr was on the other end and we were talking on speaker so I could continue to make my chocolate chip cookie sandwiches stuck together with chocolate buttercream frosting. A double delight. A real winner. And something I was making because the next day was Mrs. McMurphy’s ninetieth birthday, and she might think I was a Nazi, but I was going to be a Nazi bringing her birthday treats.

  “Marriage counselling,” Lawr confirmed.

  I slathered buttercream frosting on the back of a cookie and asked, “Are you crazy?”

  “No,” Lawr replied with a smile in his voice.

  “Okay, you think that then I’ll ask, is it working?”

  “I’ve learned she doesn’t mind my working hours because, in three sessions, she hasn’t mentioned them. However, it annoys her that I sometimes don’t hit the laundry basket with my dirty socks. This is something I can’t imagine why it would be annoying since she has a woman come in twice a week who cleans and does laundry so she doesn’t even touch my socks. However, now I make certain I hit the basket with my socks.”

  I knew long hours. My ex-husband had worked them too. I hated it but he loved his job, had wanted to be a neurosurgeon since his uncle, who also was one, allowed him to stand in an observation room and watch a surgery when Conrad was sixteen.

  Alas, now I knew that those long hours weren’t all about patients.

  I’d also had a cleaning lady and Conrad hadn’t even bothered to throw his clothes anywhere near the hamper. I didn’t really care. He worked. I didn’t. I had the time to gather clothes and dump them in a hamper.

  If we had marriage counselling, I might mention the work hours…tentatively.

  I wouldn’t give a fig about the laundry.

  “Lawrie—” I started.

  “It’s got to be done,” he told me.

  I scrunched the top cookie on and set them aside, asking, “Why?”

  “Because I have to tell myself, and my sons, that I did all I could do.”

  I shut my mouth but I did it fuming.

  He was correct. He should do that so he could live with whatever came of this, but also so his boys could see him giving it one last go with their mother before hopefully he made the decision to leave his wife and find some happy.

  But I hated the idea of whatever that witch would put him through in the meantime, including during those sessions.

  I mean socks?

  Really?

  “So, if you’re committed to this, then I take it Thanksgiving is out,” I remarked, irately snatching up another cookie.

  “I talked with Mariel about going. We’re considering it.”

  I threw up a little in my mouth at the thought of the Wicked Witch of Santa Barbara tainting my whimsical, beachy guest bedroom with her malevolence.

  When I powered past that, I declared, “If she’s coming, I’m inviting Robin. Her ex has her kids this Thanksgiving. She’d be all over it.”

  “MeeMee,” Lawr stated irritably.

  “Mercer and Hart love Robin,” I reminded him, and they did. My nephews thought she was a hoot.

  “She drives Mariel up the wall,” he reminded me.

  “Of course she does, due to all the sexual tension that’s crackling between her husband and a beautiful, vital woman who’s learned how it feels to have a jerk break her heart so she’ll know it’s worth any effort needed to make a good man happy.”

  “You do realize you, and Robin, lost your minds when your husbands cheated on you and now you’re attempting to set me up with your best friend right under my wife’s nose.”

  I didn’t care what it said about me that this didn’t cause me the slightest unease.

  And I explained to my brother why, “I’d have qualms about that if your wife gave indication she’s still breathing. Heck, if she gave indication she was still human. I’m uncertain of the law, you’d know better, but I don’t think you can cheat on the undead whose sole purpose on this earth is to spread evil. In fact, I’m uncertain your marriage is even valid. Can you pledge your troth to a vampire?”

  “Christ, you’re in a bad mood,” Lawr observed, and I could hear the humor in his voice, which made me settle more firmly in my belief he needed to leave his wife. No man who still loved his spouse would allow anyone, even his little sister, to talk that badly about them.

  But he wasn’t wrong. I was in a bad mood.

  A very bad mood.

  And this was because, according to me, things with Mickey were not going very well.

  And this was because we had not had sex, something that was admittedly hard to do since I rarely saw Mickey.

  It started off so promising and continued that way…for two days.

  The first, dinner at my house, had changed to dinner at Mickey’s because Ash wanted to cook something, wanted me to help, and she knew her kitchen so felt more comfortable in it.

  Of course, I went over there. It wasn’t hard. It was just walking across the street.

  And I’d had fun cooking with Ash.

  But it was more. Me being there before her dad got home from work was me being an adult and taking some of the onus off her taking care of her family since she watched her brother while her dad was away. She also liked female company it was plain to see, and while we cooked and chatted, we bonded. She came out of her shell a little bit, lost some of her timidity, and we’d had a marvelous time.

  Mickey got home and it got better, mostly because he was Mickey and he was home. But also because this wasn’t a formal dinner gathering. It was an informal gathering of family having dinner. We ate Ash’s meal in front of the TV, Mickey doing this sitting beside me. He was not demonstrative, something I agreed with as it was too soon for that in front of his kids, but he sat by me and it was a thrill to feel the heat of his thigh pressed to mine and have him close, even if he wasn’t really touching me.

  When that was done, he walked me home and we made out behind my closed front door, doing it hot and heavy.

  He ended it, saying, “Gotta get back or those two’ll know what we’re up to.”

  Again, appropriate.

  Again, I agreed on this propriety.

  But also disappointing.

  During our dinner, we’d made arrangements for the kids to go with me to Dove House the next day, which happened the way it did before: Mickey dropping them off and picking them up. The kids had been just as helpfu
l and charming and the residents and staff again had enjoyed having them around just as much as the first time.

  But this was when it started going bad.

  Understandably, Mickey couldn’t spend all his time with me when he had his kids or shove me down their throat constantly.

  This began our days of brief phone conversations where we said absolutely nothing, their entire purpose, from what I could tell, was reminding each other we knew the other existed.

  There were also texts, which were obviously briefer.

  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 wip
ed 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.”