So Much More(45)

I take in the shake, hand pat and all. I know it’s an apology.

“Take care of yourself, Seamus. Your kids belong with you. See what can be done to make it happen. And have some faith.”

I don’t say anything. I can’t say anything. When her hands leave mine, she enters the store. I decide I feel too sick to look at pickles and turn around and walk to my car.

And I drive home and wait for a letter that I’m sure will break my heart.

Again.





Compressed wood pulp and bad intention





Present





Two days later I’m standing on the W…E mat, favoring the E half when I pull three items out of the mailbox next to my door.

The first is my cell phone bill.

“Next,” I say out loud, as if by flipping to the next piece of correspondence this phone bill will be erased from existence.

The second is a flyer for a Chinese restaurant down the street. My mouth waters at the sight of the sesame chicken photo on the front until I remember that their food tastes like shit and looks nowhere this appetizing.

“Next,” I say, swallowing down the rancid reminder of a bad meal I had weeks ago.

The third.

The third is...

I drop the papers in my hands as if their heart-wrenching contents, words written on compressed wood pulp, have already singed my hands with their bad intention.

My mail is now lying on the W…E mat, perfectly placed between the W and the E.

Justine’s handwriting is scowling at me. The letters each written deliberately, pressed deeply into the paper by the point of a pen with purpose. They scare me.

I know I should think of the mat as the unwelcome mat again, but the truth is, all I can think about is WE. Faith and me. I can’t read this letter without her.

So, without giving it any logical thought, because logic would tell my heart to shut the hell up, I pick up the letter and make my way downstairs to her apartment and knock on the door.

She doesn’t answer, so I knock again in desperation because anxiety is starting to fill my lungs like water.

Tears accompany the silence that follows the unanswered knock.

I lean my forehead against in the door and beg, “Faith, please answer the door. I need you.” And then I cover my mouth to cap off the sound and I sob.





I never thought I had a type





present





Seamus.





Seamus McIntyre.





The first time I laid eyes on him, he literally took my breath away. That’s never happened. I stopped breathing for several seconds, as if it was physically impossible for me to draw air into my lungs until my brain let the imprint of his perfection settle in and develop into a memory I’d be able to recall at will when I needed something beautiful to focus on. I never thought I had a type. Apparently that’s because I’d never met Seamus McIntyre. As soon as I saw him, I didn’t want to look away. Ever. He was tall, the kind of tall that denotes a definite presence, but the way he moved and postured himself signaled a kind and laid-back nature. His dark hair was short but looked like he was overdue for a cut, the perfect mix of untamed and messy that a little extra length creates. It also hinted that he wasn’t the kind of guy who was hung up on his appearance—the worn out jeans, scuffed up Doc Martens, and simple white t-shirt backed up my theory. Everything about his face, the set of his jaw covered in days old scruff, high cheekbones, strong nose, and dark, deep-set, mysterious eyes, was a contradiction. Intensity versus gentleness. Youth versus wisdom. Strength versus vulnerability. I’d never seen such an expressive resting face. And after getting to know him, I realize it’s because he doesn’t hide anything— it’s all there written all over his features.

The first thing that attracted me to Seamus, the man, was when I watched him squat down on the sidewalk to talk to his little girl, Kira. She was crying, a hiccupping, distressed howl. The transition from standing to kneeling isn’t a big deal for most people, but for him it is. He could’ve patted her on the head or just talked to her, but he didn’t. He struggled to get down on his knees, the progression slow and painful, but also beautiful to watch, because I knew at that moment, that he would do anything for his kids. Anything for his kids. It was so simple, but so telling. And that’s when I realized that being attracted to someone happens at a visceral level. It happens when you see and feel the other person’s heart and your heart twinges in your chest in reaction. I watched him get face to face with his daughter, so he could look her in the eye while he consoled and then hugged her. That’s when my heart decided it liked Seamus McIntyre more than any other person I’d ever met before.

The first time I kissed Seamus, my mind went blank and ran wild all at once. I was stunned by physical sensation. And decided that though other men’s mouths had moved against mine, I had never been kissed until that moment. Seamus’s lips told a story. A story I wanted to live in. Forever. A realistic story that was sprinkled with darkness, but that always came back to light. A light that made me believe love exists. Pure, intentional, forgiving, enduring love. Bone-jarringly beautiful love. He took his time, pace was part of the allure and signified sincerity. There was presence and intent in every movement, every sigh, every moan. Seamus’s kiss was a kiss within a kiss…within a kiss…within a kiss. Layers upon layers of Seamus assaulting my senses in the most satisfying, impassioned way.