So Much More(28)

He holds me like I’m not the devil incarnate.

He holds me like he loves me.

All of which I probably don’t deserve, but I soak it up like a goddamn pathetic sponge.

And I think, Fuck you, universe.





All that’s left is we





present





Miranda just picked up my kids from apartment three for her visit today. I refused to deliver them to her. Truth be told, I wanted to barricade us inside the apartment. And not let her in. Or put the kids in my car and drive far away. And never come back.

A court date is set up for two weeks from now to discuss custody. I know she thinks I’m going to give in to her and sign the papers she had delivered to avoid a battle because she knows I don’t have the money to hire a lawyer. I would sell my f*cking soul to fight for my kids. Miranda’s always been self-absorbed, selfish, but it seems the more power she gets career-wise and the more money she makes, the more unreasonable she is. She can’t relate. Everything is a competition…that she counts herself the winner of before it even gets underway. Fuck the opponent—half the time they don’t know they’ve been screwed, and should’ve been fighting with everything they have, until it’s too late.

It’s not too late.

I’m fighting.

I’m stir crazy. Trapped by four walls. I need to get out of this apartment for a few hours. I decide a sandwich from Mrs. L’s deli is in order. I haven’t had one in a few weeks. I’ve been living on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for lunch. They’re cheap. And cheap is what sustains me these days. But today I’m splurging on a foot long roast beef with extra spicy mustard and banana peppers. Maybe it will help soak up the misery I’m feeling.

Mrs. L sold me a foot long for the cost of a six-inch. I feel like a king. And my mood is lifting slightly. The sunshine begs for my company as I walk out the door of the deli. Its warmth is a hug.

Hug.

And now I’m thinking about Faith as I take a seat at the table in front of the deli. And I’m missing her. And her smile. And her good nature. And her brightness—not just her boldly colored hair, but her presence. Everything about her is colorful like a rainbow set against a backdrop of gray.

My world.

Gray.

She’s contrast. She shines effortlessly, unknowingly imploring me to take notice. It’s an attraction I wholeheartedly feel but have unconsciously tried to deny.

Faith doesn’t answer when I knock, so I write on the deli receipt in my pocket, and tell myself this is not a date.





The ground under the apartment building is settling and there’s a slight gap under the right side of her door, so I slip the paper underneath.

Returning upstairs to my apartment, I lay down on the couch and in no time I’m asleep. It’s sleep I desperately need—making up for all that was lost to worry this week.





Rap rap…rap…rap rap.

It’s Faith’s trademark knock, random and improvised. It’s never the same sequence.

I blink away sleep, but the pace of my heart is so erratic it has me sitting and reaching for my cane before consciousness fully engages.

“Coming!” I yell, even though we can see each other because she’s peeking in through the front window next to the door.

When I open the door, she’s standing with her feet centered between the remaining letters on the W…E mat looking down at them. “We,” she says. “Do you think it means something?”

I’m pretty sure I’m awake now, but the question catches me off guard. She lifts her chin and trains her blue eyes on me. I’d forgotten how deep they are, her eyes. “What do you mean?”

She doesn’t move. “I mean the rest of the letters are gone. As if removed purposely. All that’s left is ‘we.’”

Her words ring in my ears. All that’s left is we. Her. And me. I shrug. “I suppose that’s true. All that’s left, tonight anyway, is we. You and me.” She smiles, and I feel the acceptance of my apology before I even say it. “I’m sorry. It was a misunderstanding. I was laughing at her jealousy, not at you. I should’ve come to you sooner. Life’s been—”

She cuts me off with a finger held to my lips and repeats, “We.” And then she steps off the mat and enters my apartment. “What’s for dinner, Seamus?”

As she follows me to the kitchen, I scratch the back of my neck, wondering the same thing. “I’m not sure. We’ll have to make do. I haven’t been to the grocery store in a week.”

She shrugs. “I’m easy to feed.” She’s always agreeable, and I wonder if that’s a direct reflection of her parents and how she was raised, if it’s just her, or if it’s something she works at.

I open the cupboard and the refrigerator and survey. “Looks like ramen, mac and cheese, cereal, oatmeal, or bologna sandwiches. Oh, or toast. Or any combination of the aforementioned.”

Looking over my shoulder to gauge her reaction, I find her smiling. “How about mac and cheese bologna sandwiches?”

“What do you mean, mac and cheese inside the sandwich?”

“Yeah,” she confirms. “I’ve never had that. But we have to fry the bologna. I don’t like cold, dirty meat. It makes me gag.”