“Hey,” I called. “Went good tonight.”
It did. I’d had nothing to worry about. The kids were like they were when they were hanging at my bar eating my baked goods or shuffling around Mickey’s kitchen making dinner.
His eyes came to me and I saw they were distracted, but he answered, “Yeah.”
It was then I noticed that he’d walked in but he didn’t continue walking in. He was one step into the room and not moving.
“Everything okay?” I asked.
His head gave a slight jerk and he focused on me.
“Yeah,” he repeated.
I studied him and from my study, I was forced to push, “You sure?”
“Yep,” he muttered, moving around the bed to his side.
I shifted my lower body to pull the covers out from under me. I unfolded and yanked them over me as Mickey pulled his side back and slid in.
I rolled to face him.
He rolled to face me and got up on an elbow. “Cill and Auden are in Auden’s room playin’ some game. Think the girls are out, but my kids are in new beds. May take them time to settle. Until I know they’re down, not gonna fuck you, babe.”
I agreed because this was always our way when we were at his house, but the deadpan way he shared this made me uneasy.
“All right, honey,” I whispered.
He dropped to his back then twisted to reach to his light.
It went out.
I stared at him as he settled on his back.
Then I forced myself to reach to my light. I turned it out and settled myself, also on my back.
I stared at my ceiling.
My bed was big and for the first time ever with both of us in it, there felt like miles between us.
And Mickey didn’t reach out to me.
What was happening?
Before I could ask, he did. Pulling me to him, tangling us up, and I stifled my sigh of relief.
“You ever get anything back from your folks?” he asked.
I blinked at his throat in the dark.
Where did that come from?
“Well…” I started hesitantly. “Yes and no. They sent something through their attorneys but it’s just their way. They do stuff like that. It makes no sense. They’re angry with me for not taking their calls but that was months ago. They’ll chew on it awhile and get over it. Though,” I said with a smile, “the way it is with them in my life, it’s awful to admit, however true, that I’m kinda liking the reprieve.”
“Yeah,” he replied like he didn’t exactly believe me.
“It’ll be okay, Mickey,” I assured him. “They’ll get over it and then they’ll come out because it’s what you do, you spend time with your daughter and grandchildren. You’ll meet them. They’ll heartily disapprove of you. I’ll share that you’re Michael Patrick Donovan of the Magdalene Donovans who own Maine Fresh Maritime and they’ll stop heartily disapproving of you and start simply disapproving of you. Then Dad will attempt to talk Cillian out of his dreams of being a fighter pilot and into a role at Calway, which will drive you up a wall. In the end you’ll beg me to do something that will get us six more months of peace.”
I was joking.
He wasn’t laughing.
He just repeated, “Yeah.”
This troubled me at the same time the mention of Cillian being a fighter pilot reminded me that the first day the kids were off school, Mickey was taking them on a Christmas vacation to Phoenix. Something that was happening imminently.
He had not asked me to come, maybe because he knew I couldn’t considering my kids were with me. But we’d be separated for a week. We’d talked about planning some late Christmas celebration with all of us after they returned but we hadn’t nailed anything down.
I cuddled closer. “This night went so great, we should plan when we’re gonna do our belated family Christmas, honey.”
“After we get back. First day I have off when I got the kids. Your kids at my place.”
Decision made with no input from me.
His strange, highly unusual mood meant I didn’t challenge that.
Mickey was quiet.
I was worrying.
Mickey ended his silence.
“This goes the distance between us, my kids and me move in to Cliff Blue.”
My head tilted back instantly. “I’m sorry?”
He didn’t repeat himself.
He said, “You got enough rooms where the kids each can have their own space and you got that den for a guest bedroom just in case your brother or my folks come. I’ll sell my place, give you the profit. But I pay all utilities when we move in.”
“I…but…you…that’s…I don’t know—” I stammered but never finished the thought I didn’t quite get around to having.
Mickey interrupted me, “This market, I could make eight, nine hundred K off my house. That’s not a fifth of this place so I take over utilities so I feel I’m doin’ what I gotta do.”
“How about, when we get there,” I began carefully, “that we share things equitably? What you can do a percentage of what—?”
I stopped that time because his arms gave me a squeeze and his mouth added, “Don’t finish that, Amy.”
I said nothing further.
“Do what I gotta do,” he stated.