“It’s nine thirty,” he stated.
“Yes. And I’m relaxed and was into a book. I had lunch with the girls today. No Dove House. Not a big day. Nothing to report. I’m mellowed out and am probably going to go to bed soon except I’m into this book so it might keep me up reading.”
He took a moment as if to digest that while assessing its veracity (and there was absolutely no veracity) before he said, “Then I’ll let you get back to your book. But I gotta ask you somethin’ tough and that is, keep your kids at your ex’s tomorrow. Once I get us home and the kids settled in, I’m comin’ over. We gotta talk.”
So he wasn’t wasting time.
“Text me when you’re on your way over,” I told him.
“Will do. Now I’ll let you go.”
“Okay. Enjoy your last few hours of cactus and sunshine.”
“Sun went down already, baby.”
There was humor in his tone. I hadn’t heard that in over a week.
It pained me.
“Then enjoy your last few hours of cactus and warmth.”
“Will do that too. Later, Amy.”
“Good-bye, Mickey.”
I didn’t hang up.
He didn’t either.
“Babe?” he called.
“Yes,” I answered.
“That it?”
What could he possibly want?
“Sorry, was juggling wine, didn’t hit the button,” I lied. “Anyway, ’bye again, Mickey. See you tomorrow.”
Then I hit the button and set the phone down.
I stared at it. I did this a long time.
It didn’t ring.
So that was it. I knew it then.
Mickey didn’t call me back.
He should have because I disconnected without telling him I loved him.
But he didn’t care because it was over between him and me.
Why, I had no clue.
Except I was me and when shit like this happened, I’d learned there didn’t really need to be a reason.
*
The next evening after eight, my phone chimed.
I looked to it and saw it was Mickey.
On my way.
Swiftly, I snatched it up and replied, Door is open.
I was in the kitchen making tea.
As he lived right across the street, my torture in waiting for him didn’t last long.
The door opened.
Jeans. Sweater. Boots. He looked tired around his eyes from all the travelling but he still looked all Mickey.
The weight I was carrying pressed down further.
“Hey,” I called, opening the paper around my teabag.
“Hey back,” he replied, closing the door and moving toward me.
“Want tea?” I asked the mug I was putting the bag in.
“Babe, you know I don’t drink tea.”
I looked to him. “A beer?”
He stopped at the end of the counter.
God, not even getting in my space.
I looked away, crumpling up the paper from the teabag and frantically trying to think of something I could do to keep my hands busy.
I could do this. I could lose him. I could live my life without my head in the clouds experiencing the bright flashes of happy he consistently gave to me.
I could do it.
I might even find contentment (one day, in about twenty years).
But it would take everything.
So I’d never do it again.
Mickey was it for me. He had my heart in a way I never wanted it back, not even if he didn’t want it anymore.
I’d go to movies alone. I’d go to bed alone. I’d watch my kids grow up and move away (alone).
I’d find a way to live my life alone.
But I’d never put myself out there again. I’d never give my heart to anyone else.
Because it wasn’t mine to give.
It was Mickey’s.
“Seriously?”
I looked to him again. “I’m sorry?”
“Been away a week, Amy,” he told me.
“As you just returned, I do remember that, Mickey.”
His eyes narrowed and his voice lowered. “Something is up your ass.”
I stared at him, stunned he appeared angry.
“As I shared last night, nothing is up my ass,” I returned.
“Then what the fuck?” he asked.
“What the fuck what?” I asked back.
“Last night you answer the phone like I’m the guy you hired to paint your kitchen. You hang up without sayin’ you love me. Now I get to you after I’m gone a week and you don’t come to me and kiss me and you barely even look at me?”
Was he insane?
“Why would I kiss you?”
His expression went from annoyed disbelief to stormy in a flash.
“Why would you kiss me?” he whispered sinisterly.
“You know, Mickey,” I threw out a hand, “just do this. Don’t draw it out. It doesn’t help anything when you draw it out. Clean cut. Surgical. That’s the way to go.”
“Clean cut. Surgical.” He was still whispering.
The kettle whistled and I moved to it, taking it off its flame.
“Yes. If you would, please,” I requested, not looking at him and moving back to my mug.
“All right then, Amy. I did it,” he stated.
I poured my tea. “Did what?”
“Took my inheritance.”
I set the kettle with a crash to the cement countertop as my eyes flew to him.
“What?” Now it was me who was whispering.
He didn’t answer me.