When he came back with an armful of toiletries and a precariously balanced box of Tampax Pearls on top of it all, my suspicions were confirmed. At the bottom of all of this, Mike needed a mama. Someone to tell him what to do and how to do it, not because she had romantic feelings for him, but because she felt responsible for him.
And though I had never had a child, I knew exactly how that felt. I decided then and there that I would be responsible for Mike from now on. Not just because I owed him atonement, but also because I was thankful to Nicky for doing the same thing for me, and this felt like a good way to pay it forward. I went back to the closet and dug out my air mattress.
. . .
Mike was surprised when I set up the air mattress outside his door. “Why are you sleeping here?” he asked.
“Because you’re a low-down addict,” I answered. “And I don’t trust you not to sneak out of here and try to get your gamble on.”
“You don’t have to do that,” he said. “I won’t go anywhere.”
He tried to hold my gaze as he said this, but his eyes dropped after only a few seconds.
I pointed to his room. “Go to bed.”
. . .
Before I lay down, however, I surveyed the entire house and was pleased to see that he hadn’t gotten rid of the gym equipment in his personal fitness room. I could just hear his addict mind reasoning that he’d be using it again, just as soon as he started winning. He had probably been promising himself for years now that he’d lose the extra weight.
The next morning, I woke him up at eight in the morning and made him run on the treadmill at seven miles an hour. I stopped him after forty-five minutes.
“I can do more,” he said, panting.
I gave him what I hoped was an appropriately stern look and said, “Forty-five minutes of exercise a day. That’s it. Your life from now on is about moderation. Now go stretch out and take a shower.”
Mike’s eyes went to the readout on the treadmill’s monitor. He looked like he wanted to up the speed and ignore me, but in the end he did what I said.
. . .
Mike’s refrigerator was also empty, so I went out to get groceries.
When I returned, he was waiting at the door in a towel, his love handles hanging out for the world to see. “I thought you had left.”
He didn’t have to add “for good.” His panicked eyes told me that. I added “abandonment” to the list of issues I was compiling for my informal psych evaluation.
“No, I just went to get some groceries. There’s more in the car. Put on some jeans and a shirt and go get them. We don’t want any paparazzi taking a picture of you in your towel.”
“I don’t have any paparazzi anymore,” he said. He sounded glum about it.
“Don’t be so sure. Get back in the house unless you want to end up in somebody’s ‘Look Who’s Gotten Fat’ feature.”
Mike looked skeptical, but he went back in the house and put some clothes on.
. . .
After Mike helped me unload the groceries in his large kitchen, I set him up with three egg whites, turkey sausage, and a whole-wheat English muffin. It was basically a smaller version of what I used to make Nicky for breakfast when we had been together.
He looked at the food distastefully, but ate it anyway. Later that afternoon, I made him an open-face patty melt from a Cooking Light recipe that I had found online, and he ate that, too.
Then we talked some more until it was time for me to go to work.
I told Mike about how I had gotten used to Paul driving me into work from James’s house, and that I missed having a driver, then I told him to get the keys to his car.
Nicky was surprised to see Mike Barker come through the door with me, and even more surprised when I installed him at the bar and told him to wait.
“No comps,” Nicky said, when I asked if he could send the chicken piccata over for Mike. “What are you doing with him, anyway? Is this part of that atonement mess?”
“Yes. I’m allowed to eat one meal for free as a waitress, right? Can I just give it to Mike for a few nights?”
Nicky screwed up his face in that familiar way. “How many nights?”
“I don’t know. Twenty, maybe more, depending on how my shifts and his therapy sessions work out.”