Soaring (Magdalene #2)(18)

The problem was I didn’t want Mickey over at my house first thing. In fact, Josie, Jake, Junior, Alyssa and their families were going to be there at six thirty so I didn’t actually need Mickey and his kids there.

I stared into his blue eyes and decided not to share that.

Mickey broke contact and looked from his boy to his girl. “Now, say goodnight to Miz Hathaway and then let’s get home.”

I got two goodnights, one disgruntled (Cillian), one quiet (Aisling) and gave them back as they headed to the door.

Mickey did too.

So I did as well.

At the door, Mickey stopped just outside of it and ordered his children, “Careful of the street, I’m right behind.”

“’Kay, Dad,” Cillian muttered, starting to trudge across my yard.

“Boy, path,” Mickey directed.

“Oh, right,” Cillian looked to me, changing direction and heading toward my front walk. “Sorry, Miz Hathaway.”

I wanted to tell him I didn’t think his feet would damage my grass simply treading on the turf and he could take the more direct path to his house, but I didn’t.

I said, “It’s okay, kiddo.”

He grinned at me.

Aisling silently put her hand between her brother’s shoulder blades and guided him down the path.

Mickey stood watching.

I did too.

When they’d crossed the street safely and Cillian was racing up their yard while Aisling meandered behind him, Mickey turned to me.

“Their mother drinks.”

At his blunt honesty and the fact it came from left field, I could do nothing but stare.

“I’m tellin’ you that because, for the most part, she’s functioning,” he went on. “But those other parts, she’s sloppy so everyone in town knows it and that means you eventually will too.”

“Oh God, Mickey,” I whispered. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Nothin’ to say,” he replied matter-of-factly. “Time will tell if it was right or wrong I ended that nightmare so my kids would have one home where they had a parent who was all there all the time, they need them or not, rather than a parent who was takin’ care of his kids half the time and coverin’ shit for his wife the other half. And the good news is the functioning parts are when she has our kids. So it’s bad and somethin’ I hate for my kids instead of bein’ bad and I gotta keep my kids away from their mom.”

I pressed my lips together, shocked at his sharing, saddened by what he was sharing and unsure what to say or do.

Mickey wasn’t unsure. He continued sharing.

“I’m also tellin’ you that because Aisling loves to bake, to be with her family, to take care of us in a lotta ways. But not when she’s next to a woman who’s got a wineglass soldered to her hand who’s slurrin’ her words and droppin’ the flour and forgettin’ how much sugar she put in.”

Oh God.

Poor Aisling.

“Right,” I said softly. It was lame, far from enough, didn’t cover a smidgeon of what I felt or wished I had it in me to say, but it was the only thing I could force out.

Mickey kept going.

“It sucks for me, but I’m strict ’cause she’s not. Somewhere deep, she knows she’s gotta make shit up to them and she does it by lettin’ ’em get away with a load of shit that she shouldn’t.”

That struck close to the bone but obviously I said nothing, which was a good call because Mickey still wasn’t done.

“It also sucks that I gotta lean on the village with my kids,” he continued and his blue eyes grew intent. “And you’re in that village, darlin’, right across the street. It doesn’t take much with my Ash. She’s the best girl there is and not just because she’s fourteen and smart enough to know the simple things in life can bring the most joy. That means she dug slappin’ frosting on some cupcakes with you, even if she spent ’bout fifteen minutes doin’ it. She’ll also dig helpin’ you out tomorrow. And I’ll say now, I appreciate you lettin’ her.”

“I…” I stopped speaking because I was worried I’d start weeping. I pulled in a deep breath, controlled the urge and blurted, “I’m across the street for her or Cillian anytime you or they need me.”

Now, why did I do that?

Why?

They were Mickey’s and would come with Mickey. I couldn’t exactly avoid him and befriend his children at the same time.

Still, I knew I was going to and in doing so probably fail spectacularly at the avoiding Mickey part.

This gave me the feeling I was in trouble and with all the other feelings I was burying, that was really not good.

He reached out and touched his finger in a whisper against the back of my hand. That fleeting touch raced a tingle up my arm, over my shoulder and down my chest, right to two specific targets.

I stood still and let it, liking it—no, loving it—at the same time stunned by it as I’d never experienced anything like it my entire life.

And through this profound experience, Mickey made it more profound by saying softly, “Thanks.”

My voice was low and had a husk that I hoped he put down to emotion for his children and not the fact that he could touch the back of my hand for less than half a second and it had the power to make my nipples get hard when I replied, “Don’t mention it.”