Soaring (Magdalene #2)(63)

“What?” he clipped.

“Our children,” I repeated. “And if Lawrie’s calling you and you don’t want to hear from him, don’t answer the phone.”

“If this is your latest tactic—”

“Right,” I cut him off. “We’re not doing this,” I declared firmly. “I had no idea Lawrie was calling you but he’s a big boy. He does what he does. I can’t control him. I’ll phone him to ask him to stop. If he doesn’t, you be a big boy and don’t take his calls. Problem solved. What I won’t do is have you blaming me for something I didn’t do. And, I’ll ask, since I didn’t do it, that you don’t bitch to our children about their uncle badgering you when calling twice is hardly badgering, and doing that bitching blaming that on me. Truly, Conrad, with all that’s happening, you should man up and not complain to our children about the situation you created.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked hostilely.

“Think on it,” I answered. “Now, I’m late preparing for a date and I have to get going. But I’ll say one last thing and that is, you made it clear that communication between us should be curtailed completely. I’ve had you communicating with me twice while I’ve been in Maine, and twice it was unpleasant and unnecessary. So that goes both ways. I’ll leave you to your life. You leave me to mine. And in between, we share our children. Now, have a good evening, Conrad.”

“Amel—” he started.

I hung up and when I saw his name pop on my screen when my phone started ringing again almost immediately, I ignored it and kept digging for my lipstick.

* * * * *

“Yes, two. I have a reservation. Bradley Tinsdale,” Bradley said to the hostess as I stood by him, holding his hand, looking into the restaurant called The Eaves that I knew was very nice because I could see it. But also because Josie and Alyssa had both squealed over it when I told them Bradley was taking me there (well, Josie hadn’t actually squealed, but her excitement was clearly evident).

At that moment, it made me nervous because Bradley was taking me somewhere very nice, each date the escalation of nice was rising, as with each date the make out session at my door got more heated (okay, so there was only one other time, still that time was more heated).

I didn’t know if he was hoping to coax me into bed by buying me increasingly more expensive meals (which wasn’t happening) or if with each date he liked me more and was trying harder to impress me.

Neither was good since I was ending things with him that night (prior to any make out session happening, obviously).

This was what was consuming my thoughts when I heard the hostess say, “Please, follow me,” and felt Bradley tug my hand.

I followed him wishing I hadn’t used my most awesome outfit on this.

It was my first little black dress since Conrad divorced me. Simple. Skintight. Hem well above the knee (but not skanky). V at back and front, both deep, front exposing cleavage, back exposing skin all the way down to my black, lacy bra strap (which I hoped would be attractive should the V dip lower).

The dress was an Alyssa pick and it might be simple, but it was spectacular (incidentally, the lacy black bra was also an Alyssa pick, it was not simple and the jury was out on if it was skanky because it, and its matching panties, were sexy).

My legs were bare but I’d used this oil/lotion stuff on them that Robin had bought me for Christmas the year before that I’d never had a reason to use. But I found the results were divine as it gave a sheen to my skin that seemed natural, was absolutely not, but it was utterly fabulous.

On my feet I had black pointed-toed, slingbacks with pencil-thin heels, these covered in lace so the rim of the shoe was scalloped delicately…and amazingly.

I’d also spent a huge amount of time on my hair, arranging it in a messy side bun that took ages to pull off but I thought looked great.

Why I’d gone gung-ho, I didn’t know. The outfit didn’t say, “I’m ending it.” It said something else entirely.

Except perhaps that night, I was using my clothes as armor.

My mind still consumed with what would happen at the end of the evening (as well as uselessly contemplating the pros and cons of my outfit, something I should have done two hours ago), it came as a surprise when I heard Cillian cry, “Amy!”

I was studying my toes in my amazing shoes moving across the carpet, so at my name, my head shot up, and at what I saw, my whole body jolted.

Seated at a table were Cillian in a white dress shirt, Aisling in a pretty pink dress, and Mickey in his own white dress shirt under a well-cut, navy blue sports jacket.

They were perusing menus.

Oh God.

Why?

Why me?

Cillian circled his hand to me as Aisling turned and looked over her shoulder, the timid smile on her face dying the instant she saw Bradley.

That troubled me but I had no time for it because Mickey looked our way.

When he did, his eyes dropped the length of me and shot up, cut to Bradley briefly, then back to me, his face turning to stone.

Seeing that, how my daughter could think he was into me, I had no idea. He obviously disliked me and I knew this because he didn’t bother to hide it.

“Do you know them?” Bradley murmured, pulling me closer to him.

“They’re my neighbors,” I answered.