by Sarina Bowen
We are going to have to celebrate. Right away.
At ten p.m. I’m bouncing around my apartment, waiting for Meg to get home from her shift at the bar. She didn’t have to close tonight, at least. But I’m not a patient man.
I am, however, a hungry man who’s made a kickass dinner and can’t wait to eat it. I’ve marinated some fish filets, and the water is boiling for fresh Michigan sweet corn. The salad has a homemade dressing, and I even baked some rolls just so I’d have something to do with my hands while I waited for her.
The whole setup is awfully domestic. I’m waiting here in a freaking apron, for fuck’s sake. But Meg doesn’t scare me like so many other women do. She gets me. We have a good time. I still don’t know if I’m capable of being someone’s other half. But Meg makes me want to find out. Test the waters, as they say.
So here I am with my homemade meal, listening for her knock at the door.
When it finally comes, I almost don’t hear it, because I’m singing along to some jazz on the radio.
“Maguire!” she yells through my thin front door. “I can hear you. How come you can’t hear me?”
I run over to the door and fling it open. “Sorry, Trouble. Come in.”
She does, and immediately flings herself into my arms. “Congratulations, Copper! I’m so excited for you!”
I grip her tightly to my chest, because she feels perfect there. “I’m pretty psyched,” I admit. “He said all I had to do was ask.”
“Some things are just that easy,” she says, kissing my jaw.
“I guess.” I’m not the kind of man to trust it, though. “Can I cook the fish, now? I’m dying here.”
“Oh, sure. I suppose you can feed me a gourmet meal. If you really want to.” She dances farther into my apartment. “Can I shuck the corn?”
“Already done. But if you want to peel some things off, you can start with your clothes.” I give her a cheesy wink.
“Feed me first.” She tosses her bag on my sofa. “And there must be something I could do to help.”
“Pour the wine?” I grab my fish and carry it out onto the deck, where the grill is already hot. I carried a small table out here and set it for two. There’s even a candle in the center, because I’ve clearly lost my mind.
I wonder if optimism is addictive? Am I gonna end up in a twelve-step program, jonesing for my next impossible hit of good news?
When I glance back into the kitchen to see Meg smiling at me as she pours the wine, I don’t think I care that much.
“Yum!” Meg says for the tenth time. “This food is so good I want to marry it.”
“Fine, but you cannot throw the reception on a boat.”
We both crack up.
“Copper,” she says, sliding her bare foot up my ankle. “I have a couple of key questions about your promotion.”
“Shoot.” I take a gulp of the wine. It’s a nice, crisp white. The guy at the store did me a solid.
“Does your schedule change much?”
“Yup. I’ll work more normal business hours.” Honestly I’ve never minded the weird hours I had on patrol. A single guy doesn’t care as much, I guess.
“Cool. More importantly, though, if you’re out there helping victims all day, you won’t have much need for your handcuffs.”
I shrug. “Guess not.”
“Huh.” Her smile widens. “Might need to find other uses, then.”
“Really,” I say slowly. “You’re into that?”
“I’m into you. And they’re part of your persona. So...” She shrugs. “I guess I am.”
The ladies always like the handcuffs. Meg never brought ‘em up before, though, and for some reason I don’t like this development. I guess I thought Meg saw me as more than just a cop.
But I try to shake it off. Restraining her would be fun, right? Who am I kidding. “More wine?”
“Thank you.” She accepts another half glass. “I have some news, too, by the way.”
I can tell by the tone of her voice that she’s super excited with what she’s about to tell me, and that adds a little more charm to a pretty good fucking day.
“You know how I’m going to Chicago to finally film Pierson of Interest?”
“Of course,” I say. She talks about it every day. Every hour, really.
“This is so unreal, I almost can’t believe it! Guess who they just cast as the evil dude who seduces me?”
My smile stays in place. But inside I feel suddenly cold. I don’t like the idea of anyone seducing Meg but me. “Who?” I ask. If my luck holds, it’ll be someone who’s married. Or gay. Or both. Yeah, both married and gay. And even then I won’t be able to watch the seduction scene.
This is very unsettling. I never used to be a jealous man. Where the hell did this come from?
“The actor is Peter O’Hare! Can you believe it?”
Peter O’Hare. “You mean...Danny from Downtown Blues?”
“Yes!” she squeaks. “The network is casting him against type, you know? It’s a bit of a publicity stunt. They’re trying to pull in new viewers. On my episodes! In a decade of acting I have never been so lucky.”
“Lucky,” I spit. My reaction to this news is full-on primal. If Meg had physically punched me in the gut, it would hurt less than what’s just happening to me now.
Meg keeps going. “Can you just imagine that I’m going to get up close and personal with Danny...Mr. Playboy himself? Now we won’t have to ask What Would Danny Do? We’ll know!” She laughs. She actually laughs.
And that’s the final kick. Straight to my groin this time. Perfect shot.
I don’t just see red. Red floods my entire body.
Because I know how this story plays out. I’ve seen it all before. Meg will meet Danny, act with him, kiss him. And she’ll realize he’s like a better version of me. Same handcuffs, prettier face. Better connections.
I mean, she’s told me that sometimes acting can feel very real and intense. So what Meg and I have had will pale in comparison. Hell, she won’t even think about me at all. Because she’ll be with someone who doesn’t have to pretend to be charming. Someone she can’t stay away from. Some famous dude who can give her everything she most desires, including love.
It’s Julie and Morris all over again, because of course it is.
“You in there, Mac? You’ve gone ridiculously quiet, even for you.”
Am I in here? Of course I’m fucking in here. I’m always in here.
“You know what,” I say. “That’s great, Meg.” At this point I’m not really in control of what I’m saying. I’m just reacting. I see flashes in my head of Meg fucking good ol’ Danny Boy. Because she will. And she’ll love it. She’ll moan in a way I haven’t heard before. And what can I offer her really? I’m a simple, boring cop. I just got a promotion which will probably mean more hours, not less. I can’t offer her a vacation home or trips abroad. With me, she’ll just get everyday life. Maybe an occasional splurge for chili dogs.
Pathetic.
This is why I don’t do relationships. They rip your heart out. Or at least they rip my heart out. What was left of it anyway.
The blackness that is sweeping over me is intense and I can’t fight it. “Chicago is gonna be great for you, isn’t it? But it’s also probably a natural breaking point for us.”
Meg blinks. “Breaking point,” she repeats slowly.
“Yeah.” We haven’t talked about her time away. In my head I’d been assuming we’d pick up again when she came back. But why did I even think that? This is already the longest I’ve spent with anyone.
“What if I’m not looking for a breaking point?” she asks in a voice that’s suddenly high and strained.
“Well I am,” I grunt. “We had a deal. And the wedding is over.”
“A deal,” she hisses. “We are so far past that deal, Mac. You know it’s true.”
I shrug uncomfortably. I do know that. But it just doesn’t matter. I never should have put myself in this position. “
We’re fuck buddies, right? I told you that’s all I do.” Even if—for a minute there—I might have been fooling myself into thinking we could have more.
A silence descends on us. Meg stares at her wine glass, like she’s expecting it to do something interesting. And I expect her to start crying. To start yelling at me in hysterics.
Bring it on, Meg. I’m made of steel. Whatever you want to say, I can take.
But she doesn’t react the way I expect. Instead, what she says is real quiet. And maybe that’s worse. “It scares you that much?” she whispers. “Danny from Downtown Blues has to pretend to kiss me and push me down on a bed. Fifteen seconds of airtime, tops. It’s acting, Mac. Not cheating.”
“That’s not it,” I lie. And then I break out in a sweat, because I’m the worst actor in the world.
“You are so full of shit,” she whispers. “I’m worth more than this, Macklin Maguire. I am. And maybe I should’ve listened to you when you said you didn’t want a relationship. I get it. You like living in misery. Being the big strong hero, the man on the white horse. Only you know what? I don’t need you to rescue me. I’m fine on my own. In fact, I’m terrific. And what we have, what we had was great. If you don’t want me, that’s fine. I’m outta here.”
She pushes her chair back very gracefully. Then she stands up, snatches her purse off the sofa, and heads for the door. I sit stock-still. Coiled and ready for a fight. With whom, though, I don’t know.
“Maybe, Mac, the person you should try to rescue is yourself.” That’s the last thing she says before walking out.
She doesn’t bother slamming the door.
She just leaves it wide open.
Maybe that’s worse.
She leaves without a sound, as if she doesn’t care enough to even let me hear her walk away.
27 A Two and a Half Hour Drive
Meg
I am numb. Completely. I don’t feel anything.
And this worries me.
Usually, I’m all about feelings. Emoting. Expressing. It’s what drew me to acting. But this is different. This is real life, and if I had to say I feel anything, I’d say I feel pain.
I look back on my time with Mac and maybe it was all mapped out in front of me, and I just refused to see it. How I had to pull him into the relationship. Convince him to date me. Force him to open up.
Love shouldn’t be like that. Healthy, balanced love shouldn’t be like that. Love should be the way that my sister Sadie and her husband Liam have: effortless. Liam loves her with total surrender. And that’s what I want. That’s what I deserve.
I’ve got my car loaded. Chicago is just a two and a half hour drive, and couldn’t come at a better time. What I need right now is complete and utter distance from Mac, and my apartment, and the reminders of all the things I thought I could have with him.
Am I crying? Maybe a little.
I’m sitting in my car. I can go early to Chicago. I can stay with a friend. We film next week. But there’s no reason to stay here. In fact, the only obstacle to my departure right now is my feng shui plant. Someone has to water it while I’m away.
I could ask Sadie, but I don’t think I can handle seeing her right now.
And I almost call Aubrey and Cassidy, but I also can’t handle that right now. I know what they’ll say. All the good things girlfriends are supposed to say when your heart is breaking. “He’s such a douchebag!” “I never liked him.” “He’s an asshole for treating you this way.” “You deserve better.”
I do deserve better, but those aren’t the things I want to hear right now.
I could chuck the plant on the curb and leave it forever. But none of this is the plant’s fault. So I do something that surprises me a little. I pick up my phone, hit my contacts list, and press call.
“Hi, Rosie,” I say. “Can I ask a tiny favor?”
Rosie and Kwan don’t leave for their honeymoon for a week, so Rosie waves me in when I show up toting the plant.
When Kwan takes it from me, though, Rosie gets a good look at me.
“Oh, no,” she breathes. “What did he do?”
“It’s…” my eyes water again, dammit. “It’s a long story.”
“This calls for mimosas.” She leads me straight to her comfy front porch with more pillows than they have on a home-decorating Instagram feed. It’s very satisfying.
“I’m not really in the mood for champagne,” I say.
“Nonsense,” she says. “You know why there’s so many bubbles in champagne?”
“Why is that?” I ask, sorta genuinely curious.
“To lift you up. And that’s what you need. I can tell.”
She’s not wrong.
She pushes me gently down so I sit on a wicker couch, surrounded by a garden of pillows. Ten seconds later, mimosas in hand, she sits across from me.
“What did he do?” she demands.
I smile. She’s made this so easy. So I just start talking. I tell her that I’ve dated a lot and never wanted anything more than that, but maybe it’s turning thirty, or maybe when I met Mac, something just clicked.
“Like a puzzle piece,” she says. And it reminds me of what Julie said at the boat, and how of course Rosie heard it all.
I nod. “I thought, maybe, after all this time and bad relationships, that I’d found the one I didn’t know I was looking for.”
“I agree,” she says, nodding. “I think you and Mac are a fit. I’ve never seen him so at ease with someone. And the way he looks at you…”
I can’t hear any more of that sentence so I say, “I know. I know.” And then I tell her the rest. What happened after the wedding, the connection we had, the smooth ease of today and earlier, and then how everything went to hell.
“He said WHAT?” she says. “That fucker!” she explodes.
I’m a little taken aback. Rosie is usually, well, sort of like champagne herself. Bubbly. And you don’t expect a glass of sparkling wine to drop the F Bomb. Only she’s just getting started. “That motherfucker! Dipshit! Asshole. Smug, emotionally blocked son of a bitch…”
There’s a pause. I can’t help but laugh. “Are you done?” I ask.
“Dick needle swizzle stick ass munch!” She explodes. And then she just pants.
This. This is exactly what I needed to hear. And it’s better coming from his own sister.
She takes the champagne out of my hand, sets it on the coffee table. Then she grabs both my hands in hers and looks me in the eyes. It’s a little uncomfortable at first, but then, I don’t know, it’s sort of magical. Like everything else just kind of focuses and zooms in.
“Look,” she says. “Mac has come a long way. And I can tell he loves you. I know it. This is going to work out.”
I try to pull my hands back, but she squeezes them tighter.
“This. Is. Going. To. Work. Out,” she says.
Somehow, I believe her.
28 Not a Picky Man
Maguire
It’s a Wednesday evening in mid-September when I walk into an unfamiliar hipster bar in Eastown. I give the place a quick scan. Groovy brick walls? Check. Alternative track playing on the sound system? Check. Eight page beer menu? Skinny bartender with tons of ink and a handlebar mustache? Check, check, check.
Morris isn’t here yet, though. I wonder if he’ll even show. But I grab a bar stool anyway.
The bartender hurries over before I can even pick up the menu. “Hey dude. The usual?”
I blink at him in confusion for a second. But then it hits me. He thinks I’m Morris.
That used to happen all the time. But for ten years I’ve been living my life as if I don’t share my face with someone else. I’ve been apart from him long enough to forget that we’re a matched set.
“Sure,” I say, because it’s the path of least resistance. It’s rude, but Morris and I used to do that sometimes—play along when an unsuspecting stranger confused us. Not in a creepy way, of course.
But what’s the point of sharing your fac
e if you can’t goof with people a little now and then? Besides, this is a little window into Morris’s life. I have to admit that I’m curious about what he drinks when he comes to this place.
I used to know him so well. And now that I’m sitting here, I can admit that I miss it.
The bartender walks past all twenty of the artisanal beer taps to pull a bottle and a chilled mug from the cooler. He opens the bottle and sets it down in front of me, along with the mug. And then he also slides a bowl of wasabi peas in my direction.
“Thank you,” I mutter, feeling like an imposter. I pick up the bottle and glance at the label, which is in German. Huh. I pour the light yellow beer into the mug and take a tentative sip. And it’s...just okay. A little bland. No, really bland. Unlike the rest of the world, my brother’s taste in beer has not evolved toward hoppy, complicated brews.
I’m fascinated. I wonder why he comes to this snobby beer bar and orders this? It’s a good thing I’m not a picky man.
I take another sip of the beer, which is wonderfully cold. And I relax my elbows on the bar. Life is good, I remind myself. Everything happening right now is more or less exactly what I wanted.
My new job is only three days old, and already interesting. Today I went on my first call to a crime victim’s house. I visited a family who’d lost a daughter in a drunk-driving accident. The perpetrator is out on bail, and they wanted to know what’s stopping the perp from killing more people.
“No one else should experience this,” the victim’s mother had said in a shaking voice. “How can we keep this from happening again?”
I spent a long time with the family, explaining that the driver of the car would not be behind the wheel of a car anytime soon. But also giving them a realistic vision of the criminal justice process. They had so many questions about sentencing, and about plea deals, and even about parole.
