I shake my head, even though she can’t see it because her head is still resting on my shoulder. “I think you’re mistaking bitter for sad. I’m thoroughly bitter, down to my core.”
She raises her head and looks at me. She’s staring again. And it’s not a surface stare, Faith doesn’t do anything surface, she’s staring into the heart of me. I feel vulnerable and naked. I look away, but when I do I start to panic like I did on the stairs when it felt like I’d lost something, so I look back. And the feeling passes.
“How long have you been without her?”
“Miranda?” I correct myself quickly because Faith doesn’t know her name, “My ex-wife?”
She nods.
“Physically? Several months. Emotionally? Several years. Maybe forever, hell I don’t know.”
She pulls her legs up under her, so she’s kneeling on the couch next to me, but she’s still holding my hand. I’m forced to turn sideways to face her. There’s a pull I can’t explain to keep my attention on her. She’s one of those people that you couldn’t ignore if you tried.
“You still love her?” she asks sincerely.
“She’s a bitch,” I answer solemnly. I mean it…and I don’t mean it…in equal measure.
“Bitches need love too.”
I don’t know when we shifted from sloppy drunk to intensely drunk, but it’s happened fully and completely. I laugh, but it’s humorless because something’s changing, I can feel it. “I don’t love her.”
“You’re lying. You may not like her, but you still love her.” She rocks back on her heels.
I huff out a breath and with it comes the truth. And it hurts, the piercing pain of an admission that doesn’t want to be released. “I do.” I shake my head. “How is that even possible?”
“Time, commitment, children, lots of reasons I’m sure.”
I release her hand and stand and walk to the window to look out at the street. I have to hold on to the windowsill to steady myself. “More reasons to hate her, though.”
“Tell me your story, Seamus. The story of Seamus and Miranda and your three adorable kids. I want to hear your story.”
I turn my head and look over my shoulder. She’s still sitting sideways with her butt resting on her heels. She looks patient and receptive. So, I begin. “I met Miranda in college. She was a senior, and I was a junior. I chased her for months before she gave in and agreed to go out with me. She was pretty and smart. So smart. She got her degree in finance and had several job offers immediately after graduation.” I look back out the window lost in the memories. “Have you ever met someone who gets everything they want?”
“Yeah.” It’s the first time I’ve detected anything mildly hateful in Faith’s voice.
“That’s Miranda. Early on, I thought it was a result of hard work on her part and luck. A lot of luck. But, the longer I knew her, the more I began to see the manipulation. She talks a helluva good game. Always has. She’s tells people exactly what they want to hear. And she seems to know what that is before they even do.”
“That’s a powerful gift to wield—a silver tongue.”
I laugh a little at her word choice, but she’s dead on. “It is powerful. And ultimately destructive.”
“Was she a good mom? Is she a good mom?”
This is part of the story that always makes me sick with guilt and regret because we don’t get a do-over. “No, not really. She worked all the time. That was her excuse. She was climbing the corporate ladder. She had her sights set on a vice president title by the time she was thirty. Which meant I was the present parent. The only parent really. She was more like an aunt who visited on the weekends for a few hours. She went to work before the sun came up, and I woke the kids every morning. I fed them. I got them to daycare when I went to work. I picked them up from daycare. I fed them. I bathed them. I played with them and read to them. And I tucked them into bed before she got home—”
Faith interrupts. “It sounds like you got the better end of the deal. You shouldered the blessing, not the burden.”
I think about her words and agree immediately. “My kids are a blessing. Without a doubt. But I wish they knew what a real mother is.”
“They have a mother. She’s just not perfect. Most parents aren’t.”
It annoys me that it sounds like she’s defending her. “But she should be!” I yell. “They’re her fucking flesh and blood! And she treats them like an afterthought!” Everything I’ve been feeling for years, but held inside, is flooding out.
She’s not shaken by my outburst. “Is that how she treated you? Like an afterthought?”
I don’t answer because I can’t acknowledge the comment without getting emotional and I don’t want to yell again.
“I’ll take that as a yes. I’m assuming she left you? She’s the one who initiated the divorce?”
I nod.
“Why?”
I’m whispering now because the alcohol and my anger and hurt are bringing me down. “Because I’m broken.”
Her hand on my shoulder makes me jump. I didn’t hear her get up from the couch. “You’re not broken.”