I did too.
When they’d crossed the street safely and Cillian was racing up their yard while Aisling meandered behind him, Mickey turned to me.
“Their mother drinks.”
At his blunt honesty and the fact it came from left field, I could do nothing but stare.
“I’m tellin’ you that because, for the most part, she’s functioning,” he went on. “But those other parts, she’s sloppy so everyone in town knows it and that means you eventually will too.”
“Oh God, Mickey,” I whispered. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Nothin’ to say,” he replied matter-of-factly. “Time will tell if it was right or wrong I ended that nightmare so my kids would have one home where they had a parent who was all there all the time, they need them or not, rather than a parent who was takin’ care of his kids half the time and coverin’ shit for his wife the other half. And the good news is the functioning parts are when she has our kids. So it’s bad and somethin’ I hate for my kids instead of bein’ bad and I gotta keep my kids away from their mom.”
I pressed my lips together, shocked at his sharing, saddened by what he was sharing and unsure what to say or do.
Mickey wasn’t unsure. He continued sharing.
“I’m also tellin’ you that because Aisling loves to bake, to be with her family, to take care of us in a lotta ways. But not when she’s next to a woman who’s got a wineglass soldered to her hand who’s slurrin’ her words and droppin’ the flour and forgettin’ how much sugar she put in.”
Oh God.
Poor Aisling.
“Right,” I said softly. It was lame, far from enough, didn’t cover a smidgeon of what I felt or wished I had it in me to say, but it was the only thing I could force out.
Mickey kept going.
“It sucks for me, but I’m strict ’cause she’s not. Somewhere deep, she knows she’s gotta make shit up to them and she does it by lettin’ ’em get away with a load of shit that she shouldn’t.”
That struck close to the bone but obviously I said nothing, which was a good call because Mickey still wasn’t done.
“It also sucks that I gotta lean on the village with my kids,” he continued and his blue eyes grew intent. “And you’re in that village, darlin’, right across the street. It doesn’t take much with my Ash. She’s the best girl there is and not just because she’s fourteen and smart enough to know the simple things in life can bring the most joy. That means she dug slappin’ frosting on some cupcakes with you, even if she spent ’bout fifteen minutes doin’ it. She’ll also dig helpin’ you out tomorrow. And I’ll say now, I appreciate you lettin’ her.”
“I…” I stopped speaking because I was worried I’d start weeping. I pulled in a deep breath, controlled the urge and blurted, “I’m across the street for her or Cillian anytime you or they need me.”
Now, why did I do that?
Why?
They were Mickey’s and would come with Mickey. I couldn’t exactly avoid him and befriend his children at the same time.
Still, I knew I was going to and in doing so probably fail spectacularly at the avoiding Mickey part.
This gave me the feeling I was in trouble and with all the other feelings I was burying, that was really not good.
He reached out and touched his finger in a whisper against the back of my hand. That fleeting touch raced a tingle up my arm, over my shoulder and down my chest, right to two specific targets.
I stood still and let it, liking it—no, loving it—at the same time stunned by it as I’d never experienced anything like it my entire life.
And through this profound experience, Mickey made it more profound by saying softly, “Thanks.”
My voice was low and had a husk that I hoped he put down to emotion for his children and not the fact that he could touch the back of my hand for less than half a second and it had the power to make my nipples get hard when I replied, “Don’t mention it.”
He nodded to me. “See you in the mornin’, Amelia.”
I fought back a defeated (or possibly aroused) sigh and forced a smile. “Yes, Mickey. See you in the morning. And thanks for introducing me to your kids.”
He started moving even as he threw a return smile over his shoulder at the same time he shot an arrow straight through my heart.
“Look forward to you returnin’ that favor.”
At this juncture the way things were he’d meet my kids when I was on my deathbed and they were making their guilt trip visit to say good-bye and make sure I put them in my will.
I kept the smile pinned to my face even knowing it now looked totally fake.
Luckily he’d turned his back to me and was walking away.
Not to appear rude, I waited until he was halfway down the drive before I closed the door.
And so he wouldn’t hear me doing it, I waited until I knew for certain he was well out of earshot before I locked it.
And when the only thing I wanted to do was curl up somewhere and let loose all the feelings I was feeling, all the things I kept burying, everything I continued to push aside, even if doing that allowed them to destroy me, I didn’t do that.
I went to the kitchen, made sure everything was covered, decided against a glass of wine and hit the shower.
Then I hit the bed.
I fell asleep slowly and once asleep did it fitfully.
And when I woke, not refreshed in the slightest, I knew this had happened for a variety of reasons.
But I didn’t allow myself to feel any of them.
* * * * *
“When are your kids gettin’ here?”
I turned my head at Mickey’s voice.
It was nearly noon the next day and clearly my decision not to pay for simple notices but place ads not only in Magdalene’s weekly newspaper but every paper in the county with a short list of the items for sale (and the brands) had made the day an unqualified success.
We’d been overrun.
In fact, there were cars lining the street before six o’clock.
This meant good things, including us making wads and wads of money and all my stuff heading out the door.
It also meant that I’d been way too busy to fret about spending time with Mickey.
But now, most of the stuff had been picked over, the dregs were remaining (which meant all of my stuff that I had on sale was gone and even some of it I didn’t intend to sell but sold anyway) and the crowd was waning.
Which meant Mickey could get to me and do it sharing the fact that he’d noticed my children hadn’t shown.