by A. M. Geever
He never saw it coming. He had liked Miranda immediately and God knew she was attractive, but fall in love with her? She wasn’t his type. She was too…much. Too much everything: passionate, open, willing to risk. She overwhelmed him, swamped him, left him floundering for purchase over a high slick abyss. Mario had never bought into that soul mate crap until the day he realized she filled all the hollow spaces in his own. That the vestigial organs of his soul weren’t vestigial at all; they just had not encountered the person they belonged to yet. That was when he finally figured out that Emily needed him, but she didn’t love him, and he didn’t love her, either.
“We’re a good team, Mario.” Emily leaned in and kissed his neck just below his jaw. “And we have the children to think of.”
“I know we do.”
He put his hands on her shoulders to disengage himself. Emily was not who he wanted, today of all days, but she recognized the tactic. She slid off the bed to her knees and began to kiss him just above the waistband of his boxer shorts.
“Emily, don’t—”
But she was already rubbing him through the thin fabric, her warm hand encircling his stiffening cock.
“Stop it,” he said as he started to stand.
She let go then, but only so she could pull his boxers down far enough to take him in her mouth.
He gasped, unable to push her away now and hating himself for it, but his longing, jealousy, and anger ignited. He thrust against the motion of her mouth, keeping hold of her head to control the pace. He knew he pushed too hard and far, but he couldn’t stop, couldn’t slow down. He came with a gasp, buried deep in Emily’s throat.
Mario slumped back on the bed, filled with self-loathing. What the hell was he doing? Emily crawled on top of him. She pulled her nightgown over her head. Even after three children, her figure was svelte, her breasts small and firm. He reached for them with his hands and mouth, kneading their softness and sucking the pebble-hard nipples.
Emily pushed him back, her blond hair encircling them in a golden web. “It was such a long time ago. I can make you happy if you let me.”
She leaned in to kiss him, her lips hungrily pressing against his. Mario ran his hand through his wife’s soft hair. He shut his eyes and tried to pretend, if only for a moment, that she was Miranda.
21
“Aren’t you even going to say hello?”
Miranda looked up. Father Doug Michel stood outside the main door of the Mission Church wearing a t-shirt that said, ‘why yes, I AM a rocket scientist’ under a rumpled brown-striped blazer that was too short in the arms. His dark skinny jeans made his legs look even longer and skinnier than they were. Only Doug could make that outfit look cool, Miranda thought. She had been so wrapped up in her thoughts she had not even seen him.
“I didn’t see you there.”
“I noticed. You were a million miles away.”
“Yeah, well, things have been kind of weird,” Miranda said, her mouth twisting into a frown.
Doug sat down on the steps and patted the space beside him. “Not sure what to do about Lover Boy?”
A surprised laughed escaped her. Doug could say what everyone else was thinking and it never annoyed her. Probably because he was irreverent to a fault. She sat down beside him on the cold tiles.
“Yes. That’s exactly it.”
“Ah, my child, tell Father Doug all. I’ll lay some wisdom on you,” he said, his blue eyes twinkling with mischief.
Miranda watched him try to keep a straight face. He almost managed, but could not completely iron the smile from his lips.
“What makes you think I want advice from Father What-A-Waste? You didn’t even have enough sense to not become a priest.”
“You win some, you lose some.”
Neither spoke for a full minute. Finally, Miranda said, “So what do you think of him?”
“Lover Boy?” Doug considered her question for a moment. “Connor seems like a good guy. I like him. He’s obviously insane since he’s so crazy about you, but other than that he seems all right.”
Miranda sighed. “He is a good guy.”
“And the problem is?”
“I just don’t know what to do about him. You’re not so old and removed from the dating pool to have forgotten.”
“I did romance the ladies back in the day.” He grinned. “I have a better perspective on this than you do, Miri.”
She regarded him dubiously. “Which is?”
“You make things more complicated than they need to be.”
Miranda pursed her lips, dissatisfied with his answer. “Apparently I’m good at it. Why stop now?”
“Because it makes you miserable?”
“Way too easy.”
Doug leaned into her. “Speaking of which, Karen tells me dinner at Casa Santorello the other night was a bit of a fiasco.”
Miranda shuddered. “More than you can imagine.”
“That bad?”
“Worse. Guess what Mario did right before we left.”
Doug frowned. “Karen only told me about dinner.”
“Karen wasn’t around for this.”
“What did he do?” Doug asked warily.
“He caught me alone and apologized. Apologized! He said he got jealous and then he said he missed me. Just like that, apropos of nothing. ‘I miss you, Miranda. I miss us.’ I was so shocked I just stood there like an idiot.”
A troubled expression clouded Doug’s face for a second. Sympathy, and something else, but it was gone too quickly to identify.
“And what did you say to him?”
Miranda’s voice dripped with self-loathing. “I said I wished things were different too. It was out of my mouth before I knew it was open.”
She leaned forward and hugged her knees against the increasing chill. The shadows had grown long while they talked, twilight hastened by gathering clouds that promised rain.
“I know there’s no going back. I know that. But when I saw him…” The conflict between desire and duty, love, and betrayal, filled her trailing voice. “I’ve never been more surprised in my whole life, even by zombies. For a second, I wanted what I wanted, and to hell with everything else.”
Doug leaned forward and put his arm around her, squeezing her shoulder tight. “I’m sorry, Miri. I really am.”
“It’s my own fault. I should know better,” she replied, shaking him off. She was furious with herself for having feelings that did not fall into neat categories where bad people were hated and good people loved. She felt helpless and adrift when the lines between them blurred.
“I wanted to talk to him, of all fucking things! Like we used to, instead of seeing who could draw blood first. So then I was a bitch, just to keep myself in check. I wondered what if I’d met him first, what if I’d let him leave her? Would he still have done it?” A tear slipped down her cheek that she quickly wiped away.
“And why was I so adamant he stay married? Everybody knew. Emily never loved him; she just needed— It’s not like we would have abandoned her and the children to fend for themselves. What the fuck was I thinking?”
“You felt guilty, as I recall,” Doug said. “You are Catholic, Miri. And Italian. And a woman. When it comes to guilt, you’re kind of screwed.”
Miranda smiled despite herself, shivering in the breeze. She had left her jacket in the Rover, not expecting the temperature to take such a plunge.
“So, little Coppertop,” he said, giving her auburn head a rub. “You’re going to see Lover Boy.”
Miranda hid her face on her knees. The whole situation felt over-the-top ridiculous.
“I’m on my way to see Lover Boy, yes,” she admitted, never lifting her head. “I might as well see if it’s any less weird today.”
“It can’t be that weird if you’re asking me what I think of him.”
She sighed and raised her head. “It’s not. I just don’t know what to do, or what I want. And that’s without He Who Shall Remain Nameless screwing with me. I don�
��t want Connor to think I’ve been hanging around pining for him all this time. That’s just too humiliating.” Her frown returned. “Why are you pushing this, anyway? Has Karen recruited you for her Miranda and Connor Live Happily Ever After Campaign?”
Doug’s face became serious. “I’m not pushing anything, Miri. Maybe there’s still something with you and Connor; maybe you just need to get laid. I sure as hell don’t know. Why do you feel like you have to decide now?”
“I don’t,” she said, sounding more defensive than she cared for.
“That’s not what it sounds like.”
“It’s not every day someone really important to you turns up alive.”
“That doesn’t mean you have to rush into anything, especially right after you’ve seen Mario for the first time in years. I know you’re beating yourself up because you can’t just hate him.”
“I do just hate him.”
“And I’ve got a bridge to sell you.”
Miranda scowled at him, annoyed. “You make it sound simple.”
“It is simple. You’re putting all this pressure on yourself when there’s no need for you to make decisions about anything.” Doug stood up, pulling her with him. “I was going to go to karate and then teach physics to some acne-afflicted teenagers, but you need an intervention. Let’s get Lover Boy and go to The Hut. We can get good and drunk and just be silly.”
“I have a pretty good idea what’ll happen if we do that.”
Doug laughed and twitched his hair out of his eyes. “If all it takes for you two to hit the sheets is a couple of drinks, there’s your answer. Problem solved.”
Miranda pretended to be shocked. “Aren’t you supposed to be worried about my soul?”
“And watch our friendship go kaput? Walter can worry about your soul. But seriously Miri, don’t rush into anything? Can you just enjoy hanging out with a friend, maybe have some fun? You do remember what fun is?”
“I’ve got a priest lecturing me about not having enough fun.” She smiled, shaking her head. “I need to call Karen. We’re supposed to meet her at Trials. She’s my out.”
“I’m a much better out than she is,” said Doug. “She’ll meet some creep and leave you stuck.”
Fat raindrops began to fall all at once.
“Have I ever told you you’re far too handsome and entirely too much fun to be a priest?” Miranda asked as they ran for the shelter of the Jesuit Residence.
Doug grabbed her hand and picked up the pace. “All the time. You’re not allowed to stop.”
The Hut was packed, especially for a weeknight. “Free Bird” blared from the jukebox in a lazy twang of electric guitar. The music was just below the threshold of too loud for conversation where they sat at the back of the bar.
Crammed into the booth between Connor and Doug, Miranda was enjoying herself immensely. She had been annoyed with Karen for shoving her into the booth so that she was next to Connor, but a couple hours and drinks later, she didn’t mind anymore. Karen, and Connor’s friend, Seffie, were perched on either end of the worn black Naugahyde cushions. They snagged the waitress to off-load the empty glasses and bottles that littered the table to make room for new ones.
“We thought we had cleared the room, so Miri climbs up to check out the loft,” Doug said.
He was telling his favorite Miranda story. Connor and Seffie were the only ones who had not heard it. Miranda sat back, waiting for the punch line.
“The loft wasn’t high, maybe six and a half feet from the floor. All of a sudden, this shambler staggers out of a nook by the fireplace that I never even noticed. The place smelled like a slaughterhouse; it wasn’t like I could smell it. It startled me, so I kind of hopped back and ended up tripping and falling flat on my ass like it was amateur hour. I knocked my head so hard I saw stars! Miranda takes one look and lies down on her stomach with her arms out over the side, holding this machete in her hand like Thor’s hammer.”
Doug held his beer bottle high over his head in demonstration.
“She reaches down over the edge and catches it by the hair. Before I can even get up, she cuts clear through its skull with the machete. She’s lying there hanging over the edge of this loft, holding the back half of this shambler’s head by the hair with black blood dripping and its brains falling out and says to me, ‘Are you seriously going to be a priest?’”
The table erupted. Seffie fell out of the booth, which made Karen snarf her drink up her nose. Connor laughed so hard Miranda thought he might hyperventilate. Even she and Doug, who had heard and told the story countless times, could barely breathe.
“That story never gets old, Doug,” Karen snorted, dabbing the front of her top with a napkin.
Doug squished into Miranda, trying to make room for Seffie to cram herself back in the booth.
“You are unbelievable,” Connor said, still laughing as he reached for his beer.
There was a momentary lull while the jukebox switched to a new song. A dramatic ascending slide of piano filled the bar, then Gloria Gaynor’s voice began to sing about how she had been alone and petrified.
Karen dropped her glass onto the table. Doug bolted up like he had just received an electric shock.
“They’re playing our song, Karen!” Doug cried as he pushed Seffie out of the booth. He grabbed her hand as he and Karen bounded toward the dance floor. “You haven’t lived till you’ve survived with us.”
“Do you want to join them?” Connor asked as the trio headed for the dance floor.
“Nah,” Miranda said. “‘I Will Survive’ is much more fun to watch.”
Now that there was more room in the booth, Miranda and Connor readjusted themselves, but only slightly. She could feel his arm where it rested over the top of the seat behind her.
“Are they always so outrageous?” Connor asked, tipping his head toward Doug and Karen, who bounded around the small dance floor like bouncy balls.
Miranda smiled over her gin and tonic. “Always. You should see them at weddings.”
“Were they ever a couple before he became a priest?”
“Seriously, Connor?”
“Oh, right.” Comprehension filled his voice. “He’s way too nice a guy for her.” He paused. “How about you?”
“Me and Doug?” she said, her voice squeaky with surprise. “No, though sometimes people thought so.” She watched Doug twirl Karen and Seffie at the same time. “And I used to worry he’d get all priest-y on me.”
She felt Connor’s torso shake more than heard his laughter. “You have nothing to worry about, Miri. The guy is out of control.”
Miranda nodded, fuzzily remembering what Doug had said earlier. Not rushing into anything made sense, yet she could not shake the feeling that doing nothing meant missing her chance. But what if Connor let her down? She didn’t think she could handle it. After Mario…she was not sure she deserved to be happy. She wasn’t sure she was capable of letting anyone get close to her, even if she wanted. What if she managed to let Connor in and he decided she was too fucked up?
“What are you frowning about?” Connor asked, his breath warm on her ear. His arm slid down around her shoulders.
“Nothing.”
He tipped her face up to look at his. She could tell he did not believe her.
“What’s wrong?”
His face was an open book, earnest and honest. This is a no-brainer, she thought, unable to stop herself from comparing him to Mario. Connor wasn’t perfect, but he’d never do what Mario had done. She felt it in her bones. Connor had broken her heart all those years ago, but only because he’d been young and clueless. It had not been malicious, though it had felt that way at the time. Connor hadn’t used her before smashing her soul into a million pieces and grinding them into dust. He had loved her all this time, and come so far to tell her, with no guarantee what the outcome might be.
A longing, sharp and bright, welled up inside her.
“Do you want to get out of here?”
An eterni
ty of seconds passed before he answered, his question at odds with the desire that infused his gaze. “Are you sure? I don’t want this because you’re drunk.”
“I’m not that drunk. Let’s get out of here.”
He didn’t need telling twice. She held his hand tight as they wound their way through the bar. A heady mixture of relief and anticipation thrummed through her. She could easily pick out Doug, head and shoulders above the others on the dance floor. He led a laughing Seffie through a faux tango.
“Do you want to let them know we’re going?” Connor shouted over the music.
Miranda smiled at him and shook her head. “They’ll figure it out.”
22
Miranda nestled into the crook of Connor’s arm, her head on his shoulder. Earlier, Delilah had whimpered from exile on the floor until Miranda had gotten up to let her out. She stopped at the bathroom to pee and brush her teeth before crawling back into bed and Connor’s warm body. She had forgotten how warm he was. She smiled against his soft skin as he stirred beneath her. She had forgotten a lot of things, but he had reminded her with hands and lips and whispers in the dark.
“Hey, sleepyhead.”
Connor rolled onto his side to face her. Their noses almost touched. “Hey yourself.”
“Sleep okay?”
He grinned. “Eventually.”
Miranda felt a blush that started at her breastbone creep upward.
“I’ve managed to make Miranda Tucci blush,” Connor said as he kissed his way across her face. “She’s remembering all the terrible things I did that made her squeal like a little girl.”
“I do not squeal.”
Connor smirked, then ducked his head and made lazy circles around her nipple with his tongue. She squealed.
“Maybe I squeal a little,” she allowed, breathless. “But only when it’s done right.”