So Much More(66)

“Since when have you ever been worried about that?” This conversation is almost comical.

“Since now.” She sighs again and closes her eyes. “It’s a non-profit, a homeless shelter.”

Stunned. I’m stunned. So stunned that a chuckle escapes me. A stunned chuckle.

She opens her eyes and raises her eyebrows as if she’s calling me out.

“What? You can’t expect me to not be surprised?” I ask.

“Surprised is judging, Seamus.” She sounds hurt and leaves.

She’s right.

How is she right?

How did this get turned around on me?





I always have a choice





present





There have been times in my life I prayed for change.

For rescue.

For strength.

For answers.

There have been times in my life I blamed others for everything that went wrong, bypassing accepting responsibility, because it was easier.

And didn’t require self-analysis.

Or growth.

Or maturity.

And there was a time in my life I hit rock bottom, like a boulder dropped from the top of the Empire State Building. It was ugly.

And soul-splintering.

Like the darkest death.

Death that I survived.

Even though I shouldn’t have.

It shed perspective.

And in time, it led to research because, at that point, I had nothing to lose.

Everything, and anything, to gain.

Going to Kansas City again felt like a necessity, like picking a scab or scratching a mosquito bite, because in the end I knew it would only serve as an antagonist. An aggressive antagonist that’s selfish and unconcerned about others. When I arrived I intended to stay, not because I wanted to, but because I didn’t think I had a choice.

Claudette reminded me I always have a choice.

And she bought me a bus ticket.

Back home to the only place that’s ever felt like it accepted me— imperfections and all.





The air, when I step off the bus, is warm. The warmth of an old friend I’ve missed, even though I’ve only been gone for a few weeks. I can’t resist taking deep breaths, filling my lungs with California, someplace I thought would always remain a memory.

The month is almost up, Mrs. Lipokowski will be renting my apartment to a new tenant. I don’t have the money to pay next month’s rent and renew the lease, but at least I’ll have a roof over my head for a few days. My heart explodes into a riot thinking about Seamus. I think about him every day, but knowing he’s just miles away is so tempting.

I’m good about not giving into temptation. It’s not an option. Temptation leads down a path of destruction.

But Seamus is so damn hard to resist.

It’s late when I reach the apartment on foot. I only have fifty dollars to my name, and I wasn’t about to spend any of that on a cab, so I walked the eight miles to my apartment.

My scooter is sitting in front of Hope’s apartment where I left it. I gave it to her though I doubt she’ll ever learn how to ride it. I hope she does. It would make life easier for her and might encourage her to get out.

The lights are out in all of the apartments. The neighborhood is sleeping.

When I unlock the door of apartment two, it smells musty, like it’s been locked up for eternity and not allowed to breathe. I open the windows, change into my nightshirt, and sleep comes for me when my head lands on the pillow.





I wake to the sound of children talking. Even freshly roused from deep sleep I know those voices, Seamus’s kids. Kira is singing, and Rory is complaining about not liking celery packed in his lunch—it doesn’t sound right in an American accent. I lay there a few seconds and listen because it makes me smile—Seamus got his kids back. And then I crawl to the window and peek between the curtains hoping to catch a glimpse of Seamus and his kids leaving for school.

It’s not Seamus. It’s his ex-wife.

My heart drops initially, but then it backpedals because partial custody is better than visitation out of state any day of the week. They’re obviously going to school—the kids all have on their backpacks and are carrying lunch sacks. Maybe she moved back to California with them. Or maybe she’s visiting during the week, rather than the weekend. So many possibilities, but all of them work in Seamus’s favor. I’m happy for him. I’m happy for his kids.

Before I tuck away back under the blanket, I see movement on the stairs. Cautious movement. A cane and a beat up pair of Doc Martens. Then dark denim. Followed by a navy blue sweater. And finally the back of a head covered in hair so dark and so soft. Seamus. Goddamn. How is it possible that he looks better than I remember?

And what I remember was breathtaking.

I want to open the door.

I want to invite him in.

I want to take off his clothes.

I want him to take off mine.

And I want to feel us again.

So badly.

But I can’t.

He’s headed to work. I don’t know the whole story yet on his kids and their custody, and I would never jeopardize any of that.

So I stay hidden away.





At lunchtime, I venture over to Hope’s.

“You’re back.” She sounds surprised. Happy surprised, which isn’t like her.