“Margaret, thanks for coming tonight. Priscilla said she would deliver the message.” Sheila pulled me into a hug, air kissing both my cheeks as if she were European, and hopefully missed my wince as she gripped my left rib cage a little too tight.
Pulling back, she went on. “She’s such a sweetie and so well-mannered, almost afraid to act her age. I wish I could get more of that out of Penny.”
“It’s an only-child thing,” I said, brushing off any hint of what might be happening at my house.
Sheila took my elbow and leaned in. “Listen . . .”
I really wished she would stop touching me. It wasn’t welcome—now or ever. I’d endured enough being touched without my permission for a lifetime.
Smiling, she said, “I was hoping you could talk to your magazine about a big sponsorship.”
A shudder ran through me. I stayed in my lane when it came to my work, especially with how it set Tommy off. Keeping my head low, I pitched and wrote articles and kept my peace of mind in life. I didn’t like to owe anyone any favors, or more than what I already did for keeping me on as I was. If I ended up getting a donation, Tommy would claim his manhood was threatened and potentially threaten my sanity.
“I’d thought Tommy’s firm’s donation counted for both of us?”
“Of course, of course it does.” Smiling smugly in her perfectly snug sweater dress, with her poker-straight red hair and green eyes outlined in chocolate brown, Sheila was the consummate parent representative. “I was hoping for a little more from both of you this year. You know, I really wanted this year to be the best?”
I nodded. “I’m freelance, but I guess I can ask.” I don’t know why I said it, probably because I wanted to get rid of her, and mostly because Mick was silently beckoning me from the bar area.
“Perfect!” She clapped her hands together and dismissed me.
Unsure what to do, I made my way to the ladies’ room, spending some time freshening up and hoping all the ladies were gone by the time I came out.
Pulling in a deep breath, I debated leaving. Priscilla was home alone, a newfound freedom she adored. She made me promise not to rush home, so she could watch the whole movie online while cyber-chatting with Penny. Sheila was probably heading home to be the perfect mom. Tommy had to stay late, dining on steak and smoking cigars with his mentor group. Why shouldn’t I enjoy myself?
Drawing in another big breath, I felt a small twinge of pain in my ribs and decided to stay. If I couldn’t get out of my shitty life, I should at least have fun for an hour.
“Hey,” I whispered softly when I made it back to the bar.
“You survived the moms?” Mick said low, keeping his head facing forward.
“Barely.”
“Can I look at you?” he asked, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.
“Yes.”
Turning toward me, his dark gaze caught me, crinkles in the corners of his eyes that made me want to dive in and feel what he’d felt, live the good times he’d lived.
“That’s much better,” he said. “Have a seat. If anyone asks, we just met while sitting here.”
“Right. I’m an independent woman who can have a drink—”
“So, what will you have?”
“I had a sparkling water at the meeting, so another wine. Two’s my limit.”
Palms up on the bar, he said, “I’m not judging.”
I felt myself smile.
“Chardonnay for the lady,” he told the bartender.
I noticed Mick’s Scotch was refilled, but he was nursing it.
Once my wine was placed in front of me, Mick raised his glass. “Cheers.”
“Back at you,” I said.
“Parents’ meeting, huh? Fascinating stuff, I’ll bet,” he said, side-eyeing me.
“Titillating, for sure.” I rolled my eyes. “Private school, so it’s necessary for my daughter. We’re planning the holiday gala.”
“Ah, now I understand. A far cry from my little corner school in Brooklyn, but when I was young, I remember all the kids walking around Central Park in uniforms. I’d be there for the zoo, and they were rushing to hockey or something fancy.”
“It’s a bit off base—okay, far off from the real world—but she’s happy and challenged. I want Priss to learn from my mistakes. Be an independent person and have a career, family, all of it. Not broken like me.”
I focused on my glass, not having a clue as to why I was opening up like this. In a bar with basically a stranger, a man who wasn’t my husband, someone who was quickly becoming a close friend.
Mick nodded, his brow furrowed and eyes squinted as he thought over what I’d said. “You know, I’ve only known you a short while, but I repair broken things, and I don’t think you’re broken.”
“Maybe at one point I wasn’t, but since then . . . whenever that was, I’ve started to crack.”
“Forgive me for saying, but you need to walk away from the defeatist attitude. I see you as a game changer, Margo.” He looked deep into my eyes when he said my name, as if he were making sure I truly heard what he’d said.
Sipping my wine, I searched for added courage in the perfectly blown glass. “You know those bookmarks and coffee mugs with inspirational slogans like DREAM BIG? Maybe you don’t get to Target often, but you get the picture. Aisles of tchotchkes with this slogan on them. Anyway, I was passing through Target one day, getting toilet paper, and I passed a section of all this stuff. Stickers, tumblers, stationery, you name it . . . all marked with DREAM BIG, and I thought, why not me? Why can’t I dream myself out of this existence?”
Mick nodded but didn’t interrupt.
“Then I got home and put away the TP and placed a spare deodorant in the closet for my husband, tossed a box of tampons in my drawer, and placed a little notepad that said DREAM BIG on my husband’s desk.”
Mick opened his mouth to say something, but I held up a hand to stop him.
“For some stupid reason, I thought sharing the sentiment with him would make him understand how I was feeling. That I had dreams and aspirations too, and together we could both have a good life. A big life. How silly of me to think a notepad would help him move forward with me, but it didn’t. All it got me was a bruised ass and a broken heart.”
Although my last confession was barely a whisper, I still glanced around to make sure no one heard other than Mick. Maybe I was a little hopeful he didn’t hear.
He took a long gulp of his Scotch and swallowed. Running a hand through his hair, he turned to face me, a raging fire in his eyes. For a second, I thought the intense emotion was directed at me.
“For the record,” he said, “I know what I’m about to say is overstepping, but I don’t give a shit. I should also say if we weren’t here at this bar, I’d pull you into my arms and hold you tight while I told you that you’re worth something better. Not only something or someone more decent than what you landed, but someone who would light a fire under you. I can tell you after knowing you for five minutes that your passion is meant to be big. You were put here to do something huge. The drive burns right through you. It radiates through your whole being.”
Drinking in his heartfelt inspiring words, I could feel my own heart beating a furious accompaniment to them. “Mick . . .”