Soaring (Magdalene #2)(122)

Mickey was silent and the night was still. This lasted so long it made me tense.

“Mickey?”

“Sixteen years. Fuck, that * blew it.”

I relaxed against him.

“I spoiled our kids,” I admitted. “Gave them everything they wanted.”

“Yeah, got a dose of that,” he returned.

“Conrad didn’t like it. He talked to me. I didn’t listen.”

“God, f*ck, sorry. You’re right. It’s a wonder your kids are functioning instead of in inpatient therapy. Now I get it. You spoiled your kids. That guy had every reason to step out on you.”

There was lightness to his voice but just to be sure, I asked, “Are you joking?”

“Fuck yeah, Amy. Shit,” he answered, his voice shaking.

I pressed my cheek into his chest and also started shaking.

Then audibly giggling.

Mickey audibly chuckled with me.

When I stopped, I lifted my glass and took a sip of wine.

When Mickey stopped, he did the same with his beer.

We fell silent and sat in the dark.

But I did it hoping it was one of Mickey Donovan’s moments of decent.

Or maybe even a hint of a flash of happy.

* * * * *

The next afternoon, my phone on my kitchen counter rang.

I saw it was Mickey calling and I snatched it up, glanced at my landing, saw the TV on and bits of both my kids’ limbs. Neither of them looked my way, so casually, I took the call while walking to the hall and heading toward my bedroom.

“Hey,” I answered.

“Hey back. Havin’ a good day?”

“I think so, although I’m a little concerned about what appears to be evidence that suggests my kids have a serious television habit.”

“They’re there again?”

I made it to my room, silently shut the door and went to my bed to sit on it, saying, “Yes. It’s Sunday but they texted this morning around ten, were here within the hour. We had lunch. We took the Rover out for a spin. And we’re having dinner.”

“This is good, Amy.”

“It is, Mickey. So good. Amazingly good. But a little freaky.”

“Kids watch TV, babe.”

“I know. But something about this isn’t right.”

“How’s that?”

“One minute they’re barely speaking to me. And it wasn’t like the next minute they were. We worked up to it, got over the hump, skidded down the other side.” I crossed my legs under me on my bed. “But now we’re speeding. They’re here a lot and I want them here a lot. I want them here for good. I’d take them here forever. But there’s something about this change that makes me think that either they’re escaping their dad’s or Martine is perpetuating cruel and unusual punishment by not allowing two teenage kids to DVR anything.”

“Maybe they saw they were bein’ hard on you and they’re tryin’ to make up for it,” he suggested.

“Maybe,” I mumbled.

“Go with it. Build on it. And just have this good without makin’ it dark when you don’t know if there’s anything to worry about.”

That was good advice.

“I’ll do that.”

“Good,” he said. “Now, speaking of kids.”

“Oh boy,” I muttered.

“Yeah. Ash and Cill know their friend and next door neighbor, Amy, is Dad’s girlfriend.”

The girlfriend again.

It felt nice again.

But I was still braced.

“And?” I prompted.

“Cill’s cool with it. Not straight up, he looks after his mom, had questions about what this means for me and his mom and it wasn’t real fun to share that there was not ever gonna be a me and his mom again. He came to terms with it without throwin’ a shit fit, which was a surprise but it was good. Ash didn’t have much of a reaction except to say, ‘No kidding, Dad?’ which started to set Cill off because he thought she knew something he didn’t know and he isn’t big on that.”

“But it’s all okay now?”

“Woulda had you over for dinner tonight, but don’t think spendin’ the day with you yesterday then havin’ you back tonight would be good. But I do think, if we keep easin’ them into it, they’ll get there.”

I smiled at the phone. “That’s good.”

“So, tomorrow and Tuesday, I’m at the firehouse. That means phone on your nightstand.”

“Right,” I agreed, still smiling.

“Wednesday, your kids aren’t with you, I’m takin’ you to dinner and a movie.”

Me and Mickey in a dark movie theater.

That sounded fantastic.

“I’d love that, Mickey,” I told him. “But we’re taking my Land Rover.”

“Fine. I drive.”

“You drive?” I asked. “But it’s mine.”

“I strike you as a man who rides?”

“Jimbo drives the fire truck,” I pointed out.

“Jimbo doesn’t have a vagina.”

My back shot straight. “Really?”

“Your ass is in my Expedition in the passenger seat or in the same place in your Rover,” he declared.