He did not want a woman who had to be fixed.
Because he’d tried that twice and he’d failed once, miserably, and lost out the second time around.
Clearly this was one of those occasions where he could be a dick. But he was forty-three. He knew himself. He knew what he wanted. And he knew he did not need this shit in his life.
His decision made, his gut heavy, a sharp pain piercing through his chest, he stood.
Then suddenly and uncharacteristically his arm sliced back then cut forward and Dusty’s teenage girl journal tore through the air then thumped hard against the wall before falling to the floor.
Layla jumped up from where she was lying by his feet and barked.
Mike ignored his dog and stared at that fucking book lying on his carpet.
He was glad Denny Lowe was dead not just because he was a complete whackjob who murdered people. Because he took the Dusty everyone knew away from her family and he took Dusty away from Mike.
Twice.
“Fuck,” he whispered, lifting a hand and tearing it through his hair. “Fuck,” he repeated, continuing to stare at the book on the floor. “Fuck,” he clipped then bent, tagged the book on the couch, walked to the book across the room with Layla following and then sauntered to the stairs with Layla still following, jogged up them and hid them in one of his drawers.
Then he went back downstairs with Layla following and grabbed his gym bag.
Because one thing he did need was to go to the fucking gym.
*
Sunday evening…
“Hey,” Mike greeted in my ear after two rings went by when I called him.
“Hey,” I replied. “Everything cool? You didn’t call yesterday. I left a couple voicemails. Did you get them?”
“No, everything isn’t cool.”
His voice was weird in a way I didn’t like.
“What is it? Clarisse?” I asked.
“No, it’s not Reesee,” Mike answered.
I waited for him to share.
He didn’t speak.
“Mike, honey,” I started softly. “What is it?”
He didn’t answer for a few seconds then he asked, “You comin’ back soon?”
That made me feel better and I smiled.
“Yeah, that’s my good news for today. Got my tickets. I’m coming next weekend.”
“Right, we’ll talk then,” he said tersely and I blinked.
Then, cautiously and slowly, I asked, “Just…then?”
“Pardon?”
“I mean, between now and then we’re not talking? We’re just talking then?”
“That’s probably a good way to do it.”
I felt my chest get heavy. I knew where this was going. I’d lived this before too many times.
Even so, I whispered, “Mike, what’s wrong?”
“Face-to-face, Dusty. Text me. We’ll sort a time. The kids are gone next weekend. You can come to my house. We’ll have privacy.”
“Are you going to break up with me?” I asked and felt like an idiot. We hadn’t even been on a date. We’d had sex, conversation and some phone calls that, incidentally, included more sex but of the phone variety.
Still, there was something to break.
Or at least I thought so.
“Just…” he started then finished, “We’ll talk next weekend. Face-to-face.”
I was beginning to get angry. “I’m not sure I want to come over just so you can tell me to my face you don’t want to hear from me again, Mike.”
This was met with silence.
Then, soft, sweet, “Angel, straight up, the conversation is not gonna be good. But trust me when I say I’m lookin’ out for you and you’ll wanna hear what I have to say face-to-face. Yeah?”
My voice was soft and not sweet when I replied, “Suffice it to say this is scaring me.”
“Dusty, face-to-face, honey,” he repeated.
“And nothing in between?” I asked.
“I need time,” he told me.
For what? I thought but didn’t ask.
Instead, I whispered, “Right.”
“Text me,” he ordered.
“Right,” I repeated.
More silence then from Mike, “One way or another, honey, you’ll be okay.”
One way or another, I’d be okay?
It was good he sounded sure.
I, however, was not.
“Right,” I said again.
“Take care, Dusty.”
The brush off, God. The brush off from Mike Haines. God!
“You too, Mike.”
“See you next weekend.”
“Right.”
“Later.”
I just disconnected.
Then I stared at my living room wall.
Times like these, I called my brother because he was my best friend but also because he was a man and he knew how men thought and was happy to provide insight.
But my brother wasn’t there to call.
“Welp, one way or another, I’ll be okay,” I muttered.
Then I burst out crying.
Chapter Five
Strike Three
Saturday, a week later, 2:00 p.m.
I walked up to Mike’s house a bundle of nerves.
I didn’t remember the last time I felt nervous. I didn’t get nervous. That just wasn’t me.
But I was nervous.