So Much More(59)

I can’t take my eyes off his face. Maybe it’s because I’ve spent the past few hours immersed in nostalgia and sentimentality, but it’s as though I’ve gone back in time. Way back. I’m waiting for his eyes to meet mine. I’m waiting for him to say something sweet. I’m waiting for him to kiss me.

I would give anything to kiss him.

Anything.

But that can’t happen because he’s a saint.

And I’m a bitch.

And everyone knows it.

Including me.





“What are you doing here?” My voice sounds hopeful, something I learned a long time ago not to give Miranda because she uses it like a weapon. She can impale me with my own hope.

No one answers. Instead, the kids all look at Miranda like she alone holds the magical answer, which makes sense because she always wields the power.

“I moved back to California.” The words make sense, but they don’t give anything away.

Hope surges again. “What does that mean?” I want to yell, Just tell me I get my kids back! But I wait.

“Loren and I split up.” She would’ve said, I left Loren, if that were the case because she loves to gloat, which means he kicked her out.

I want to point my finger and laugh so f*cking loud in her face, but I don’t want my kids to see that sort vengeful display. I need to talk to her alone, because if she’s teasing me with my kids and doesn’t intend to share custody, or preferably give me full custody, I’m going to go mental on her. “Hey, why don’t you guys grab your bags from the car and you can spend tonight in your room,” I tell my kids. I don’t give a shit if she had other plans tonight. You don’t dangle the carrot and expect me not to grab it with both hands.

My kids are out the door and down the stairs before she has a chance to revoke my offer.

I don’t have much time before they come back up, so I go back to what I originally wanted to shout, but I ask it quietly instead, “Just tell me I get my kids back?” A lack of volume doesn’t downgrade ferocity. I’m showing all my cards. I don’t have one up my sleeve, which is how you should always play with Miranda, but I don’t have time for a test of wills or a pissing contest. I want my kids back!

I hear a car door slam, and she looks back out into the parking lot and then back to me. “Can we talk after they go to bed?”

Talking after they go to bed would require Miranda staying here, which I am not all right with, but if it means there’s a chance I get my kids back I’ll do anything. I step back from the doorway so she can step in. “Fine. We’ll talk after they go to bed.”

When she sits down on the old couch, she looks out of place. She’s shiny and fake perched atop comfy and real.

The kids lug up their suitcases, and I help them get to their room. We talk for a while, and even though I saw them only a week ago, there’s no shortage of conversation. When Rory and Kira both start yawning we hunt for their pajamas and toothbrushes, and they all get ready for bed. After I hug and kiss them goodnight and close the door behind me, I step out into the hallway and my happiness is put in a chokehold. Miranda is still sitting on the couch just where she was almost two hours ago. There’s a bottle of wine in her hand. She must’ve brought it with her or went to the liquor store while I was with my kids. It’s half full. And there’s no glass in sight, she’s drinking straight from the bottle. She watches me walk into the room and pats the cushion next to her. “Sit.” She’s not drunk. She could always hold her alcohol better than me.

I sit on the other end of the couch leaving maximum space between us.

“You’re not using your cane,” she says it like she’s surprised.

I nod. “I’m having a good day. When I’m having a good day, sometimes I don’t always use it when I’m home. It makes me feel free. The numbness is gone for now, and the pain only amps up when I overdo it.” And then I shut up because I’m oversharing. She doesn’t care, oversharing only gives her ammunition that she’ll stockpile until she needs it.

She extends the bottle toward me. “Have some, Seamus.”

“No.” Denying her feels so damn good, even something small and inconsequential.

She retracts it and takes a long swig, unoffended. “More for me.”

Bitterness floods in when I realize I’m sitting here forced to engage her. That’s when I rise and walk to the kitchen where I take a shot of tequila, followed by another, and I return after I pluck two beers from the fridge—both for me.

“Remember when we first started dating, how you used to write me love letters?” She’s talking to me, but she’s not looking at me. Her eyes stare out across the room, glazed with the image of her memories.

I’m not going to talk about that. My mind says it before my mouth does, “I’m not going to talk about that.”

She drops her head back against the couch cushion and rolls it until she’s looking at me. The alcohol is starting to soften her purpose, and when I look closer, I see age encroaching on her features. Lines on her forehead and at the corners of her eyes that I’d never seen before. “Why not?”

I down several big gulps of beer before I answer, “There’s no point. We need to talk about my kids.”

She shifts in her spot and sits sideways bending her knees and pulling her feet up next to her. “I was leading to our kids. It all began with a love letter.” She’s not being snotty like I would expect, she’s talking reasonably, truthfully, which scares me a little.