And we all sat, munching, sipping, Cillian doing most of the talking with Mickey and I interjecting.
Not long after, Mickey got up and went in to get the meat.
He started grilling.
At their father’s good-natured demand, without complaint, the kids got up and grabbed outdoor table stuff, including nice plastic plates, and set the table.
When it was time, Aisling went in to make the spinach salad.
In the end, I ate more than I had in weeks (and my stomach protested, but I didn’t listen because it was all so delicious) and surprisingly in Mickey’s company, did exactly what he wanted me to do.
I kicked back, drank beer, ate good food, sat with a nice family on the deck during a comfortable summer day in Maine, and relaxed.
* * * * *
“Babe.”
I was in the danger zone.
“Hey.” A hand was on my hip.
Highway straight to the danger zone.
That hand gently shook me. “Amy.”
My eyes fluttered open and I saw dark purple twill.
I knew exactly where I was.
I was in a home with a family that liked me.
A home where we sat in the sun on the deck and ate three different salads (all excellent), superbly grilled brats and chicken breasts slathered in barbeque sauce. This being followed by a heavenly chocolate cake that made my meringue-frosting-topped cupcakes seem like sawdust topped with pillow foam.
A home where I told a fourteen-year-old girl I felt that way about her cake, and she handed the world to me when her blue eyes started shining.
A home where we chatted and laughed and ended our meal playing Frisbee.
A home where I could run around the backyard with kids who enjoyed my company, demonstrating my Frisbee prowess because I was an awesome Frisbee player, seeing as my brother and I would go to the beach as often as possible (it was what you did, we grew up in La Jolla, we had a beach, we used it) and we’d play Frisbee. And being good at Frisbee was apparently a skill you didn’t lose.
A home where, during Frisbee, an eleven-year-old boy told me I was “da bomb” because I was an awesome Frisbee player.
A home where, after Frisbee, we camped out on a big cozy sectional to watch Tom Cruise and Val Kilmer play volleyball (amongst other things) and with beer, a full belly and wonderful company, relaxed and at ease, I’d fallen asleep curled into a corner of that big, cozy, purple couch.
Right then, still half-asleep, I turned my head and looked into Mickey Donovan’s amazing blue eyes.
This didn’t make me shake the dream.
No, the dream took hold of me and I stayed in the danger zone because I liked it.
And I liked it because I was in a home with a handsome man who protected me, fed me, laughed with me, was open, honest, loved his kids, didn’t hide his admiration of my Frisbee abilities, and who looked after me.
“Kids are in bed,” this handsome man in his comfortable home murmured to me words a handsome father, a handsome husband, a handsome lover would say to his woman. “You needed to crash, so I let you sleep. Now we both need to hit our beds, Amy.”
We did. We needed to hit our beds.
But half-asleep, staring at the most beautiful man I’d ever seen, having the only really good day I’d had in three years, spending time with him, being a part of his life, a part of his family, I decided first that I needed to hit him.
So I did, blinking at the dream that still had hold of me, unwilling and maybe unable to let it go, I leaned up and in, doing it deep. At the same time, I lifted a hand to curl around the side of his strong neck, feeling the muscle there and also feeling the thrill of knowing that hardness was probably everywhere.
And without delay, I pressed my lips to his, wanting nothing more, nothing else, nothing in my whole life, caring about nothing but living that dream.
Mickey jerked away.
I jerked fully awake.
“Amy,” he whispered.
Oh God, had I just kissed Mickey?
I stared at him, immobile, no, frozen, completely mortified, taking in the look in his eyes.
Surprise.
Remorse.
Aversion.
Oh God.
I’d just kissed him.
I flew off the couch, aiming sideways to miss him where he was leaning over me, mumbling humiliatingly, “God, sorry. So, so sorry. I was half-asleep.”
“Amy,” he called but I was on the move.
“Gotta go,” I kept mumbling, now walking and doing it swiftly. “I’m sorry I fell asleep. A lot has been happening, I guess I let it…” I trailed off, hit the mouth of the hall, turned to him and saw he’d straightened but hadn’t moved. I aimed my eyes at his chest. “Anyway, thanks for a great day. It was just what I needed. You gave me that, I wore out my welcome. Another demerit and I’m so, so sorry.”
Then I turned and I wanted to walk casually down his hall like nothing had happened.
But my feet had a mind of their own.
They ran, taking me down his hall, out his door, across his lawn, the street and to my house, one desperate step after the other, until I was behind my closed door.
I locked it and made another dash through my empty, dark house, straight to my bedroom then to my bath.
I closed that door and locked it too, as if Mickey would come for me, break down my door, demand an explanation for me touching him without invitation, putting my mouth on his when he didn’t want that.
Surprise.
Remorse.
Aversion.
Oh God, I’d kissed Mickey!
I put my back to the bathroom door and slid down it until my behind was on the floor. I bent forward, resting forehead to my knees, my heart slamming in my chest, my breaths coming fast and uneven, my skin burning.
The dulcet tones of my doorbell sounded.
I didn’t move, didn’t even lift my head.
I didn’t know how late it was but it was summer and dark so I knew it was late.
This meant that could be nobody but Mickey. Mickey being a nice guy and trying to make me feel better after I’d embarrassed myself and him, putting us both in an untenable situation that had no escape.
I was forty-seven years old. I should be old enough, brave enough, to get up and go to the door. Talk to my neighbor. Open myself to him (slightly) the way he seemed perfectly okay with opening himself to me, and sharing that I’d lost my husband, my family, and I’d been alone for a long time. And that day I got lost in him and his family, I liked it, and I was half-asleep. I didn’t think.
I didn’t think.
But sitting on my bathroom floor, it didn’t matter that I should be old and brave enough to do it.
I didn’t move.
The doorbell sounded again and I heard my whimper whisper through the knotty wood paneled room of my rustic, elegant, fabulous bathroom.
And I didn’t move.
I stayed in that position, the mortification burning through me, as minutes passed, listening hard and not shifting an inch.
The doorbell didn’t ring again.
After what felt like hours, lifetimes, I crawled on hands and knees to the towel rack. I grabbed a pink towel that looked great in my master bath in La Jolla but did not fit at all in that rustic, elegant bathroom in Maine.
And right there, I curled on my side on the floor, pulled the towel over me, up to my neck, where I tucked it in and closed my eyes.
I knew in that moment I’d hit bottom.
I knew in that moment I could sink no lower.
But I feared with everything that was me, that being me, I’d find new ways to fuck everything up even worse.
I had a talent with that.
It was the only talent I had.
And I didn’t want it.
I just had no idea how to get rid of it.
It was the only part of me I knew was real.
So I lay on the floor in my bathroom, covered in a towel, and thought (maybe hyster
ically) that perhaps I didn’t need to find me.
And thus I fell asleep on the floor of my bathroom fearing that was the only me that there could be.
* * * * *
The next evening, I was sitting on my couch in the sunken living room, feet to the seat, arms around my calves, chin to my knees, eyes to the darkening sky over the sea that had been gray all day, and stormy (reflecting my mood), thinking, priority: since I’d sold mine (all four of them), I needed to get a new TV.
Immediately.
I had not had dinner (or lunch, or breakfast for that matter). And I didn’t have a glass of wine beside me (though I wanted one, I just had an empty stomach and Mickey’s ex made me worry I wasn’t consuming much anymore, but I was going through wine like crazy).
So I was sitting there alone, as always, in a way that felt like it would be forever, wondering where the day went.
The only thing I’d done was make plans to go out with Josie and Alyssa to begin Cliff Blue Project: Phase Two on Wednesday, Alyssa’s day off from her salon.
That’s all I’d done.
Except wallow in my misery.
The doorbell rang.
I stiffened, feeling every sinew tighten inside me, and closed my eyes.
Shit.
Mickey.
“You’re a big girl, Amelia, you’ve gotta grow the fuck up,” my mouth told me.
I was right.
I had to grow up, get up, and go to the door.
I thought moving to Maine was the first step to the new me.
It wasn’t.
Walking to the door to face Mickey was.
Shit.
As hard as it was, I uncurled, got off the couch, headed to the door and I did this swiftly. Not because I wanted to get to the door. Not because I was smart enough to go fast in order to get something unpleasant, harrowing and utterly mortifying over and done with as quickly as possible.
Because I didn’t want to leave Mickey waiting.
I allowed myself slight relief that I’d at least had a shower and changed clothes that day before I unlocked and opened the door.
I lifted my eyes and put every effort into not wincing when I caught his.
Then I said, “Hey.”
“Hey, Amy,” he replied gently.
“I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “I’m sorry you had to come over here and I wasn’t big enough to go to you and apologize. I’m even sorrier I did what I did. I was half-asleep but that’s no excuse. You shouldn’t have anyone touching you who you don’t want touching you. I don’t know what came over me. But I do know, and want you to know, I’m really so very sorry.”
“It isn’t that, darlin’,” he said quietly. “You’re very…”
He trailed off but kept his eyes pinned to mine and I knew in that instant he did it so they wouldn’t wander. They wouldn’t become assessing.
But his next word and the hesitation said everything.
And it destroyed me.
“Attractive.”
I fought back another wince.
“It’s just that you don’t shit where you live,” he went on. “And, babe, you live right across the street and we both got kids.”
That was a lie. A kind one. But it was a total lie.
He didn’t want me, plain and simple.
I was just his…“attractive” neighbor.
I gave him that because he needed to give it to me and I needed to let him.
“You’re right,” I agreed.
“You’re a good woman, Amelia.”
God, that was completely lame.
But worse, I wasn’t even that.
“I…I’m…” I shook my head. “I can’t say how sorry I am. You’re a good neighbor. You’re a good guy. You’ve been so very kind to me. And you’ve got great kids. Can we,” I shrugged, hoping it was nonchalantly, “forget this even happened?”
That’s when the grin came but it killed that it wasn’t easy.
“Absolutely.”
I swallowed before I nodded and said, “Thanks, Mickey.” I drew in a breath and let it out finishing, “And again, I’m really sorry.”
“Nothin’ to apologize for. It didn’t happen.”
A good man. A kind man.
A man with great kids, all of whom I’d now go out of my way to see extremely rarely.
It was wave from the car or haul my behind into the house if I had the bad fortune to be out when they were out time.
“Right,” I said, injecting a firm thread in my voice. “I’d ask you in for a glass of wine but I don’t have glasses and I’m kinda in the middle of something.”
His grin got easier. “I’d say I appreciate the offer but I don’t drink wine and I also got shit to do.”
He was lying.
Then again, so was I.
It was over.
This should have caused me relief but instead, it dug deep then curled out long tentacles, the tips spreading acid through every part of me.
“Okay.” I started to close the door. “See you around, Mickey.”
“Hope so.”
That was a lie too.
I pushed my lips up into a smile.
He held his grin as he lifted a hand and turned away.
I didn’t wait politely to close and lock the door, I did it immediately.
I turned back to the room. The recessed overhead lights were on, dimmed, but I’d normally never turn on overhead lights. I’d use lamps.
Except I didn’t have any.
My feet wanted to take me to my bedroom, the bathroom there, the mirror there.
I didn’t let them.
I walked to the kitchen and I did this thinking, fuck it.
So when I got to the kitchen, I opened a bottle of wine and poured a healthy portion into a plastic cup.
I took it out to my deck. Since moving in, I’d been out there, not much. When I got to the railing and stopped, I felt the chill coming off the sea and I liked it.
I needed deck furniture.
I needed a to-do list.
I needed a to-do list with a variety of headings, this likely ending up the length of Santa’s gift list.
But first, I needed to make a decision.
Stay this low and allow myself to sink lower.
Or get my head out of my ass and pull myself together.
I’d come out to Maine to do the latter, and within a few weeks, ended up kissing my handsome, good guy neighbor, in one fell swoop killing a promising relationship of friendship and camaraderie and turning it into an awkward relationship of avoidance and unease.
I needed to talk this out and to do it, I wanted to call Robin. I wanted to tell her all that had happened and listen to her saying the things she always said to me. How sweet I was. How smart I was. How beautiful I was. How I deserved good things in my life. How I deserved to be treated properly. How I deserved to be cherished and protected and respected.
But I wasn’t taking Robin’s calls, only exchanging quick texts and emails, which would now be only texts since I’d sold my computer.
And I’d cut myself off from Robin.
I couldn’t call Josie or Alyssa because I could tell they were close with Mickey and they’d think I was crazy, stupid, weak and lame for doing what I did.
And in the awkward relationship stakes, they’d side with Mickey. He was their friend. I was just a new acquaintance who was grasping onto friendship with all I had because I was so terribly needy.
And I knew they would, not only because they’d known me two weeks and him for ages, but because my friends who hadn’t defected because I’d lost my mind after Conrad left me had defected when Conrad left me.
No.
I had to figure out what I wanted.
I had to figure out who I was.
I had to create a home.
I had to win back my children.
I had to build a life.
I had to get some self-respect.
I had to stop acting like an idiot, weak and selfish and
stupid.
I had to start looking out for me.
I had to stop being so needy. I no longer had a husband to fulfill me. I had lost the children who, simply breathing, gave me all I could need. I had to find something for me that would fill those voids.
And I couldn’t sink any lower. I couldn’t live another day feeling like I had that day. I couldn’t live another week, another month, an eternity, feeling like I had since Conrad told me across the bed we shared, the bed we made our children in, that he was leaving me for another woman.
I’d left my life behind because it was not a good life.
And I’d come to Maine to change that life.
So I had only one choice.
No matter what it took, no matter how much time, no matter that it made me bleed, no matter what it cost me, no matter that it would take everything I had and force me to find more, I had to do what I’d come to Maine to do.
I had to make a home.
I had to heal my family.
I had to find me.
I had to let go of the old.
I had to pull myself together and start anew.
Chapter Five
Off and Running
“We got…a bowl.”
Alyssa announced this after she pulled said bowl out of its bag and protective tissue wrap and set it on the edge of the bar of my kitchen.
I stared at the bowl.
Josie, standing by Alyssa, spoke.
“It’s a nice bowl.”
“We’ve been shoppin’ all day, all over the county, and we bought…a bowl,” Alyssa countered.
“Decorating an entire house doesn’t happen in a day, Alyssa,” Josie informed her.
“I hear that,” Alyssa returned. “But you go to fifteen shops in three towns over a span of nine hours, you get more than…a bowl.” Then, even though I was wandering to my kitchen dazedly, my eyes still aimed at the bowl, I knew she was addressing me when she stated, “Girl, you got a couch and a bed. You don’t even have a TV. You gotta step this shit up.”
I stopped in the kitchen and took my eyes from that bowl. A beautiful bowl. No, an astonishingly beautiful bowl; big, wide, squat, the outside a rough slate gray, the inside lip a lustrous blue, so blue it was nearly black cascading into a indigo that was so gorgeous, in all honesty, it took my breath away.
Soaring Page 9