I nod again.
“What is it about her, Seamus? Why is she so special?” I would expect this to sound whiney or pouty, but she sounds sad like she’s finally come to the realization that we’re over and there will never be a second chance.
I don’t want to have this conversation, especially in my current state and hers, but I also fear that if I don’t air this, we’ll revisit it again because Miranda is nothing, if not persistent. “Her heart. It rules her. Every action, every smile, every word, every touch, is driven by it. Do you have any idea what it’s like to be on the receiving end of that?”
She pulls back the sheet and climbs out of bed, immediately pulling on her nightgown. “I do.” She shrugs. “She’s you.” She walks out without another word. Understanding firmly in place.
Maybe it’s the alcohol in my system muddying it up, but I feel bad for her. It’s overwhelming pity; that downgrades hate to dislike, with disclaimers that ward off lifting the veil to allow forgiveness in. Damn her; hate is preferable where Miranda’s concerned.
Parenthood isn’t genetic
present
Miranda is out with her realtor looking at a house. She took the kids with her, which was considerate given they’ll live with her half the time according to the new custody arrangement my lawyer is working on. Miranda’s committed to staying in this neighborhood to make things easier for everyone, which shocked the hell out of me, but I’m thankful. So thankful. My lawyer wants to make sure that happens before we finalize the paperwork. We already have Miranda’s written agreement to modify custody to joint. It’s just the details we’re waiting on now.
It’s Saturday morning, and I’m not quite sure what to do with myself. The apartment is too quiet. I don’t like being here alone without the kids, it’s almost terror inducing because my mind reverts to the months they were gone. I don’t ever want to go through that again.
A knock on the door saves me from myself.
When I open the door, I want to close it immediately.
“Seamus.” There’s an odd combination of formality and friendliness in his voice. The friendliness seems out of place.
I meet it with formality. “Loren.”
“I know this is unexpected.” He looks pale, thinner than he was weeks ago.
I nod. “I assume you’re looking for Miranda. She’s not here. She’ll be back later this afternoon.”
“Actually, I’m here to talk to you.” I can’t read his voice, but the look in his eyes is regret.
“Okay.” I sound confused. I am confused. Very confused. “Come in.”
He sits down on the couch and sets his leather briefcase on the floor next to him. He looks out of place. His eyes are darting around the room taking in everything. He’s judging me, I can feel it. Fuck him and his superior attitude.
“Seamus, I’m going to get right to the point.” I feel like I’m being talked to by administration at work. It’s the tone taken by those in a position of authority when they have to deliver bad news, and they’ve already divided themselves from the emotional aspect of it and are going in as a spokesperson only, not a supporter.
“I’d appreciate that,” I offer. I wish he would just spit it out. He’s making me nervous now.
He clears his throat and sets his briefcase on the coffee table, unlatching the lid while he says, “Please sit down.” He looks at me and his eyes tell me he’s not messing around, that this is serious.
“I’ll stand,” I counter. I want to sit now, but my stubborn streak has just been issued a formal challenge.
He looks down like he’s displeased with my decision. “Very well. I’ll begin. I had a massive heart attack days after Miranda left. Triple bypass surgery to put the pieces back together immediately followed. They tell me I’m extremely lucky to be alive.”
“I’m sorry.” I don’t know why I said it, he didn’t pause his story looking for a reaction; I guess I just felt it needed to be said.
He nods. “Thank you. Coming that close to death led me to a re-evaluate my life and my priorities. I’m selling my business and retiring. I’m selling my home to travel the world to see all of the places I never allowed myself time to visit. Hopefully, I’ll find somewhere that suits me, and I’ll settle down there.”
“Okay. No offense, but I don’t understand why you came all the way to California to tell me this.” I’m not trying to be rude, but this doesn’t make any sense. This is a conversation you have with friends or family, I’m neither.
“I have something that’s yours, and I need to make that right before I leave.” There’s compassion in his eyes.
Now I’m nervous again. “What?” It’s the only thing I can say. My brain won’t come up with anything else.