“I wish I could say it was, but I have to pick up my daughter.” I let him off easy, not wanting to mention my marriage, or the shell of one.
Standing, I followed him out of the bar. He held the door open for me, and I stepped out first.
Turning to say good-bye, I said, “Thanks, this was fun.” It felt a bit like something a young girl would say, but I had never quite felt that way in all my life. Or at least, in a very long time.
“It was,” he said and leaned in to give me a quick kiss on the cheek.
I let him, and why not? Okay, there were a million reasons why I shouldn’t—or at least two, as in Tommy and Priscilla. But in that moment, none of them mattered compared to the ego boost I was getting. It was unprecedented and exhilarating.
He stepped back, and as I was turning to go, grabbed my wrist and said, “Here.”
I yelped, “Ouch,” and glanced down to see he was holding a card in his other hand.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” His face was stricken with worry. This was a man who toppled businesses with a metaphorical wrecking ball, but would never hurt a human being.
“It’s nothing. Injury from exercise,” I said quickly when he frowned at the fingerprint bruising around my slight wrist.
His grip gentled, still lingering around the cuff of my shirt, which had now risen up my arm, but he didn’t say a word. Concerned, he looked into my eyes, and for the first time in my life, I felt not only seen, but seen through. It was an unfamiliar yet strangely welcome feeling.
I didn’t even know what it all meant, but my soul felt both whole and halved at the same time, if that makes sense. Christ, I was a writer, and I couldn’t even string together a few words about how I was feeling. Hollow and filled up. Bursting with happiness and lonely as hell.
“I really have to go get my daughter.” Ducking my head, I swallowed my rioting feelings and cleared my head of the wine and of Mick.
He gently placed the card in my hand. “Take this. Please. Call me if you ever need . . . put back together,” he said before turning and walking away.
“I . . .” I didn’t know what I was going to say, but I let it go and started to walk away, turning the card over and over in my hand until a rush of guilt and apprehension burst through my veins and I spun around.
“Mick!” I called out, walked quickly toward him. “Wait up!”
God, I’m making a spectacle of myself.
He stopped and turned, then took a step or two forward to meet me.
I stared down at the card, noting his name. Mick Grantham. Committing the sexy name to memory, I decided to think about this day fondly. It was a few minutes’ reprieve of the nothingness I typically dwelled in.
“I, uh, I don’t do this often,” I stammered. “Or ever.”
Mick raised an eyebrow at me, then glanced down at my wedding band. His dark hair fell in front of his eyes, and he brushed it back, keeping his gaze on me. “Oh, that. That’s not what I meant. I was talking about day drinking, but that too. I don’t do that either.”
The undercurrent between us was torrid. Did he know what I meant? Did I have to spell out that I wanted him?
Feeling the need to explain, I said, “What I mean is this isn’t really me. Making waves.”
“I know,” he said.
Fishing his card out of my pocket, I waved it at him. “I can’t take this.”
Mick stood there, thinking for a moment as time ticked away. If I didn’t leave quickly, I’d be late picking up Priscilla.
“I get it,” he finally said. “Tell you what. Why don’t you put your number on the back, and if I ever need a listening ear over a day drink, I’ll call you.”
“Um . . . okay.”
I grabbed a pen from my purse before I could change my mind, and without thinking about it, scribbled my full name, Margaret Long, on the back of his card. I guessed I really wanted to be found—by Mick.
Taking the card back, he said, “See you around, Margo.”
The nickname he gave me struck a chord with me, leaving me with a warm, gooey feeling inside. I had no idea I needed something like that, but I sure lapped it up.
We both turned and walked away with no promise of anything in the future, but I knew that wouldn’t be the last I saw of Mick Grantham. The feeling swept over me like an out-of-control wave at the beach, knocking me over with its strength and conviction.
Giving me hope.
Margaret
Tommy poured a heavy splash of half-and-half into his coffee, sealed his travel mug, and walked over to me. “I’ll be home in time for dinner tomorrow,” he said curtly, tugging me close with his free hand.
Luckily, it was his left, meaning my good wrist didn’t get jarred any more than it already had been. His lips brushed my cheek before stopping to bite my earlobe. Some would have thought it sensual or promising, except it wasn’t a gentle nibble. His teeth sank painfully into my ear before releasing and scratching a trail to my mouth, taking hold of my bottom lip.
“Behave while I’m gone,” Tommy murmured. Using his left hand again, he cupped my jaw and held me in place for a kiss.
Deciding to give in, I went through the motions, my lips moving with his. I didn’t know what he meant by behave while he was gone, and a surge of panic rolled up my spine. Did he know about my day drink and who I met?
“I mean it, Margaret, don’t go touching yourself. Save it for me. Tomorrow night.”
Oh. That.
I breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Tommy had this thing with my orgasms being his. Little did he know, they were fake. I hadn’t climaxed in years, and even back when I did have orgasms with him, they were few and far between.
“I won’t.” My promise came out in a whisper, but it was enough for Tommy.
With a hard squeeze on my hip, he said, “See ya.”
As soon as he was gone, I pulled in my first easy breath of the day. Pouring myself a coffee and adding a splash of milk and sugar, I let out a loud sigh, something I wouldn’t dare do in front of Tommy.
Free for a day, I thought as Priscilla rounded the corner, a small duffel bag in hand.
“Hi, baby,” I said, and she rolled her eyes but didn’t insist that I not call her that.
“Hi, Mom.” She rifled through the fridge and grabbed a yogurt while I started packing her a lunch.
“What will you eat tomorrow?” I asked.
“Oh, it’s grilled cheese and tomato soup day. I was going to ask you if I could buy my lunch anyway.”
I paused for a moment, taking her in, with her hair twisted into a braid and the pink lip gloss on her mouth. It astounded me how quickly Priscilla was growing into a young woman. And an organized one at that.
“No problem.” Something unfamiliar started to beat in my chest. Priscilla growing up meant she wouldn’t be here forever . . . and I could be free. Did I have to wait?
My brain rapid-fired questions while we prepared for the day in quiet contentment.
“Dad still here?”
“No, sweetie. You need him for something?” I asked. It was almost as unusual for Priscilla to ask after him as it was for him to care about her.
“No, I like when it’s just us. That’s it.”
I thanked God and Buddha and Allah that I wasn’t cutting her sandwich in half at the moment, or I might have sliced my hand in two instead.