Soaring (9781311625663)

by Ashley, Kristen

  “That would include before he was with his friend Chopper and his family,” I told her.

  Her eyes slid to Alyssa, which meant she had no reply to that.

  “We talk…about everything,” I shared. “We call each other all the time. We touch base. We keep in the know. He’s hardly calling me at all.”

  Josie looked back to me. “He is on vacation, honey.”

  “That isn’t Mickey,” I whispered.

  She sat back and her pretty blue eyes turned worried.

  I pressed my lips together to stop myself from crying.

  When I succeeded in this endeavor, I told them, “No matter what, for months, we talk before we go to sleep. We haven’t done that since he left. I asked him about it, him being away, and he says it’s the time difference.”

  “They are hours behind us,” Josie said gently. “They could be busy.”

  “You love a bitch, you find the time,” Alyssa snapped.

  I looked at her.

  Oh yes. She got it.

  “I don’t know what happened,” I said.

  “I don’t either,” Alyssa returned. “But you should call his ass on it and set up a meet to find out what’s up his ass the minute he gets back.”

  Confronting Mickey Donovan. Not high on the things I found exciting.

  No, I did find it exciting because that was our thing.

  I just didn’t find it exciting now if, in doing it, he broke up with me.

  “If he’s done, he’s going to be done,” I said, sitting back, shoulders slumping. “He’s Mickey.”

  “He owes you an explanation,” Alyssa retorted.

  He did.

  I just wasn’t sure I wanted to hear it.

  My eyes drifted to the salad I’d barely touched.

  Since we got together, nothing, not anything, not in all that had happened gave indication that this wasn’t heading to something real. Something permanent. Something forever.

  Mickey giving me a happy life and more importantly, me having the opportunity to give the same to Mickey.

  There had been extreme craziness, the kind that could tear people apart, and it had all ironed out. Alcoholic ex-wives. Dirtbag ex-husbands. Troubled kids. Crappy jobs.

  Heck, Mickey’s business was all set to go. He had two big jobs lined up to start on his return (contracting work, which was more money) and he was quitting Ralph his first day back to work.

  I couldn’t imagine what had gone wrong.

  Except in all that goodness, I was still me.

  Boring Amelia Hathaway, no job, no drive, no ambition, spending her time baking and decorating and volunteering at an old folks’ home.

  “Amelia,” Josie called.

  I glanced her way, mumbling, “I’m not hungry. Do you mind if I take off?”

  “Think you should stick with your girls, baby,” Alyssa told me gently.

  I looked to her. “You have to get back to work and so does Josie.”

  I, however, did not. It was one of the few days I didn’t go to Dove House.

  With my kids at Conrad’s, I had exactly nothing to do.

  “I’ll juggle an appointment,” Alyssa offered.

  “I make my own hours, Amelia,” Josie reminded me.

  I shook my head, digging in my purse at my side to pull out some bills. I took out a lot of them and threw them on the table.

  “Lunch on me,” I said, not looking at either of them and sliding out of the booth.

  “Amelia, stay,” Josie cajoled as I grabbed my jacket off the hook that was on a high bar that led up from the end of each booth.

  I looked to her. “Really, I just need some alone time to think.”

  “Babe, you should—” Alyssa started.

  “Later,” I interrupted her, and pulling on my coat while juggling my bag, I made my escape.

  I went to my house, walked in from the garage and stopped by the glorious dining room table on top of which, weeks before, Mickey had fucked me.

  Then right there, he’d told me he loved me.

  There were no used pop cans or cake plates with crumbs or cookie tins with the top askew along with no kids at my bar.

  There was a fabulous chaise lounge with standing lamp and a table on a magnificent rug on the landing by the windows, this courtesy of a good find by Josie’s interior designer.

  The space was huge.

  Huge and beautiful.

  Huge and cold and empty.

  And I found myself standing there, staring at the beauty I created, thinking that I hoped when my kids went to college that they did it far away and never came back to Magdalene.

  Because after Mickey ended it with me, once they were gone, I was moving from my show home across the street from the Donovans.

  I didn’t know where I’d go. I didn’t even know if I’d survive those years living across from Mickey and his kids.

  I just knew I’d be gone.

  * * * * *

  I was on my chaise lounge under an afghan with my book, and I was taking a sip from a glass of wine when my phone rang that evening.

  I looked down at it on the table beside me, saw who was calling, set aside my wine and took the call.

  “Mickey,” I greeted.

  There was a pause before he said, “Hey.”

  I said nothing.

  “You there?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I answered.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Perfect,” I lied.

  “The kids with you?” he went on.

  “No,” I told him.

  He fell silent.

  I didn’t jump in.

  He ended the silence with, “We’re back tomorrow.”

  “I remember.”

  “Early flight here, get back late there.”

  “Yes.”

  A pause before he asked, “You sure you’re okay?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

  “You don’t sound right.”

  I wasn’t.

  I was head over heels in love with a man who no longer wanted me for no reason at all.

  “I’m fine,” I lied again.

  “You don’t sound fine.”

  “Well, I am.”

  “Amy, what the fuck? Talk to me,” he ordered.

  Now, after weeks of me gently trying to get him to talk, he wanted me to talk to him?

  “About what?” I asked.

  “What’s up your ass,” he answered irately.

  I would not rise to the bait. I couldn’t imagine why he wanted a reaction from me, but he couldn’t have it because I didn’t have it in me.

  “Nothing’s up my ass, Mickey. I was having a glass of wine and reading when you phoned. And it isn’t exactly early here.”

  “It’s nine thirty,” he stated.

  “Yes. And I’m relaxed and was into a book. I had lunch with the girls today. No Dove House. Not a big day. Nothing to report. I’m mellowed out and am probably going to go to bed soon except I’m into this book so it might keep me up reading.”

  He took a moment as if to digest that while assessing its veracity (and there was absolutely no veracity) before he said, “Then I’ll let you get back to your book. But I gotta ask you somethin’ tough and that is, keep your kids at your ex’s tomorrow. Once I get us home and the kids settled in, I’m comin’ over. We gotta talk.”

  So he wasn’t wasting time.

  “Text me when you’re on your way over,” I told him.

  “Will do. Now I’ll let you go.”

  “Okay. Enjoy your last few hours of cactus and sunshine.”

  “Sun went down already, baby.”

  There was humor in his tone. I hadn’t heard that in over a week.

  It pained me.

  “Then enjoy your last few hours of cactus and warmth.”

  “Will do that too. Later, Amy.”

  “Good-bye, Mickey.”

  I didn’t hang up.

  He didn’t either.

  “Babe?” he called.


  “Yes,” I answered.

  “That it?”

  What could he possibly want?

  “Sorry, was juggling wine, didn’t hit the button,” I lied. “Anyway, ’bye again, Mickey. See you tomorrow.”

  Then I hit the button and set the phone down.

  I stared at it. I did this a long time.

  It didn’t ring.

  So that was it. I knew it then.

  Mickey didn’t call me back.

  He should have because I disconnected without telling him I loved him.

  But he didn’t care because it was over between him and me.

  Why, I had no clue.

  Except I was me and when shit like this happened, I’d learned there didn’t really need to be a reason.

  * * * * *

  The next evening after eight, my phone chimed.

  I looked to it and saw it was Mickey.

  On my way.

  Swiftly, I snatched it up and replied, Door is open.

  I was in the kitchen making tea.

  As he lived right across the street, my torture in waiting for him didn’t last long.

  The door opened.

  Jeans. Sweater. Boots. He looked tired around his eyes from all the travelling but he still looked all Mickey.

  The weight I was carrying pressed down further.

  “Hey,” I called, opening the paper around my teabag.

  “Hey back,” he replied, closing the door and moving toward me.

  “Want tea?” I asked the mug I was putting the bag in.

  “Babe, you know I don’t drink tea.”

  I looked to him. “A beer?”

  He stopped at the end of the counter.

  God, not even getting in my space.

  I looked away, crumpling up the paper from the teabag and frantically trying to think of something I could do to keep my hands busy.

  I could do this. I could lose him. I could live my life without my head in the clouds experiencing the bright flashes of happy he consistently gave to me.

  I could do it.

  I might even find contentment (one day, in about twenty years).

  But it would take everything.

  So I’d never do it again.

  Mickey was it for me. He had my heart in a way I never wanted it back, not even if he didn’t want it anymore.

  I’d go to movies alone. I’d go to bed alone. I’d watch my kids grow up and move away (alone).

  I’d find a way to live my life alone.

  But I’d never put myself out there again. I’d never give my heart to anyone else.

  Because it wasn’t mine to give.

  It was Mickey’s.

  “Seriously?”

  I looked to him again. “I’m sorry?”

  “Been away a week, Amy,” he told me.

  “As you just returned, I do remember that, Mickey.”

  His eyes narrowed and his voice lowered. “Something is up your ass.”

  I stared at him, stunned he appeared angry.

  “As I shared last night, nothing is up my ass,” I returned.

  “Then what the fuck?” he asked.

  “What the fuck what?” I asked back.

  “Last night you answer the phone like I’m the guy you hired to paint your kitchen. You hang up without sayin’ you love me. Now I get to you after I’m gone a week and you don’t come to me and kiss me and you barely even look at me?”

  Was he insane?

  “Why would I kiss you?”

  His expression went from annoyed disbelief to stormy in a flash.

  “Why would you kiss me?” he whispered sinisterly.

  “You know, Mickey,” I threw out a hand, “just do this. Don’t draw it out. It doesn’t help anything when you draw it out. Clean cut. Surgical. That’s the way to go.”

  “Clean cut. Surgical.” He was still whispering.

  The kettle whistled and I moved to it, taking it off its flame.

  “Yes. If you would, please,” I requested, not looking at him and moving back to my mug.

  “All right then, Amy. I did it,” he stated.

  I poured my tea. “Did what?”

  “Took my inheritance.”

  I set the kettle with a crash to the cement countertop as my eyes flew to him.

  “What?” Now it was me who was whispering.

  He didn’t answer me.

  He turned and walked away, disappearing into the hall that led to my bedroom.

  I stood wooden where he left me staring at where I last saw him. This must have lasted some time because by the time I came unstuck and was about to move into the hall, I saw him prowling back down it. He did this in a way that I quickly backtracked, walking backward.

  I stopped in the kitchen.

  He stopped at the end of the counter and threw what he was holding on top of it.

  I looked at it and saw it was the letter from Addison Hillingham that I’d shoved in a bathroom drawer I didn’t use so the kids wouldn’t see it.

  I’d forgotten all about it.

  “Forget to tell me something?” he asked.

  Again, my eyes flew to him.

  “Mickey—”

  “You’re not gonna live any way than what you’re used to living. They yank your money out from under you, I cannot give you that. So I set about makin’ it so I could give you that as best as I can. Called my dad. Had a chat. He already wanted to do it so he was all over it. He talked with Sean, Frank and Dylan and they were all in. Then he went to his accountants to finagle whatever the fuck they gotta finagle so the IRS wouldn’t take a huge fuckin’ chunk outta what my dad wanted me to have. They did their conniving, got it sorted, Dylan was on board, so Dad gave both him and me fifteen million dollars. We signed away any claim to the company, that’s Sean and Frank’s. I can’t touch the money unless there’s an emergency but I get the interest. When I die, it’s split and my kids get it. The interest is a fuckload. And it might not be what you had, but you aren’t the kinda woman who needs that anyway. It’ll still be better than what I could give you without it. So I did what I had to do to make it so you don’t feel the hurt your parents wanted to lay on you for whatever fucked up shit they got in their heads that made them strike out and make their daughter bleed.”

  And again, I stood completely still, staring up at him, speechless.

  He kept going.

  “When we get married, I sell my house, pay back Dad’s investment, the company is ours free and clear to make a go of or fuck up, however that goes down.”

  When we get married.

  That rattled around in my brain and it was no surprise, since that was happening, I continued to be incapable of speech.

  “I get home after spendin’ a lot of my vacation on the phone with my dad, mom, brothers, gettin’ Fed Ex’ed shit to sign, goin’ over papers and emails, I come to my woman and she doesn’t even fuckin’ kiss me?” he asked and before I could answer (not that I was yet able to do so) he demanded, “So, tell me again how nothin’ is up your ass.”

  “It’s a ploy,” I forced out and his stormy expression turned thunderous.

  “What’s a fuckin’ ploy?” he bit out.

  “That.” I made my arm move to indicate the letter from Hillingham. “It’s a ploy. It’s Dad and Mom’s way of saying they’re pissed at me. Trying to get me to react. Playing their games. I’m not going to lose my trust funds. Hillingham called me a week ago saying he’s shared that with my parents and I have nothing to worry about.”

  Mickey scowled at me.

  “You didn’t have to take your inheritance, Mickey.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me that shit went down?” he asked, also tossing out an arm to indicate the letter.

  “Because it was a nuisance,” I replied. “It didn’t mean anything. I got it on Thanksgiving and obviously that day other things took my attention. And to be completely truthful, I forgot all about it.”

  Mickey drew breath in through his nose and looked over my head.
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  I stared at him.

  He took his inheritance for me.

  I kept staring at him.

  He took his inheritance for me.

  “All I need is you,” I said softly.

  His eyes moved down to me.

  Do what I gotta do.

  He’d found that letter when he’d spent the night the first time all our kids were together.

  And he’d done what he had to do.

  “First, I have the Bourne trust fund, Mickey,” I began gently. “Prior to me turning thirty, if I did something that the board or my parents petitioning the board meant they could withhold it from me, they could have withheld that money permanently. Once I receive it, there are no caveats. It’s irrevocable. And that has enough money in it to live on comfortably.”

  A muscle ticked in his cheek.

  “Second,” I went on, “it could all go up in a puff a smoke and I wouldn’t care. Yes, I might eventually want better countertop appliances when we moved in together, but even that wouldn’t matter and not because I have my own. Because I’d have you. I’d have you and Auden and Pippa and Ash and Cill. If I had all that, since that would be having it all, what else would I ever need?”

  “I got here, you barely looked at me,” he returned.

  “You’ve been pulling away,” I shared. “I thought you were going to end things with me.”

  His face again went stormy. “Are you fuckin’ crazy?”

  “Think about it,” I returned. “Our conversations have been perfunctory. And you didn’t say you loved me once since you were in Phoenix.”

  “That is not fuckin’ true,” he growled.

  “‘Same here’ is not ‘I love you,’ Mickey.”

  “It fuckin’ is, Amy, especially when Chop’s around. We been best buds since we were five. He takes every opportunity to bust my ass about anything and he’s good at it ’cause he’s had a lot of practice. Makes the boys at the firehouse look like amateurs. Then again, he gives me shit because I give it back. It’s what we do. And with me, Ash and Cill yammerin’ on about you, he knows what you mean to me, he’s lookin’ forward to meetin’ you, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t take his opportunities, and he got a lot in. He made a point of hangin’ close when I’d call you just to get the chance to give me shit. I wasn’t gonna give him more openings. And it may sound fucked, but I’d never hear the end of it. And seein’ as that would be about me tellin’ the woman I love that I love her, it might piss me off. I didn’t take my kids to Phoenix to visit a man who’s like a brother to me and then spend that time bein’ pissed off. ”