So Much More (32 page)

“The girl with the dreadlocks.” They’re fading from what they were months ago when I met her, muted pastels and blond now.

“Oh, Faith?” he questions.

I nod. “Faith.”

“She’s a resident. She’s been here for a few days now. She’s in transition between jobs and homes.” He always sounds so damn considerate when he talks, respectful and professional.

Which makes me sound like a miscreant when I ask, “You’re shitting me?”

His forehead pulls up in mild confusion. “No. Is there a problem?”

“She slept with my husband.” I’m talking to myself more than I’m talking to him, but he responds anyway.

“I didn’t know you were married?” he asks. He’s uncomfortable talking about all of this I can tell. Clearly political correctness is an adage he subscribes to.

“I’m not. He’s my ex-husband. She slept with him while I thought I was married to someone else.” I shake my head because that sounded ludicrous. “It’s a long story we don’t have time for.”

He nods slowly. He’s confused.

I wave him off. “Thanks for the information, Benito. You can get back to work.”

My mind is reeling, I haven’t been this angry in months. Depression dulled everything. Now that that’s lifted, and I’m working again and working on Seamus again, I was flying high. I was making plans. She’s just pissed on my rainbow. Nobody pisses on my rainbow. Especially not beautiful, young women who’ve fucked my ex-husband. Sonofabitch, I hate that word…ex-husband. Because in the pit of my stomach, where I try to deny it away but can’t, it feels final, rigid, and irredeemable.

I need to dream to sleep

Present

The kids and I walked to the beach this afternoon after school. I always find myself searching the crowds for Faith. Hoping I’ll see her standing on her milk crate with her
free hugs
sign. She’s never there, and every time I kick myself for not fighting for her. I didn’t have a choice, though, did I? It was my kids or her. So, I dream about her instead. Every night. I don’t have to sleep to dream, but I’ve found lately that I do need to dream to sleep. I dream about her until I drift off…and then I dream about her some more.
 

It’s Friday night. Miranda moves out this weekend. We all watched a movie together at home. The kids ate popcorn. Miranda had a glass of wine. And I had a few beers in quiet celebration because shouting, “Yay, you’re finally leaving!” would be a dick move. Getting buzzed and thinking,
Yay, you’re finally leaving!
was much more discreet.

After I put the kids to bed, I’m already dreaming of Faith, but I don’t want to go to bed yet. I’m restless and missing her. Most days I think about her smile, or those eyes, or how she made me laugh, or how she accepted me exactly the way I am, flaws and all; but tonight I’m thinking about our last night together. The way she looked, how she tasted, the sounds she made. It was perfect. I need some fresh air, I feel claustrophobic. Maybe I had too much to drink.
 

Maybe I didn’t have enough to drink.

As if she heard that last thought, Miranda joins me outside. “You look like you can use this.” She’s holding a bottle of tequila and two shot glasses.

I almost hesitate because I don’t want to get drunk. But then I figure what the hell,
Yay, you’re finally leaving!
“Sure, why not.”

She pours two and I throw it back before she toasts. She pours two more and says, “To the future.”

I was trying to ignore her, but I mutter, “To the future,” before I toss it back and finish the thought,
and you leaving
, in my mind. I’m leaning against the railing looking down below at Faith’s scooter, that’s no longer Faith’s scooter. The tequila is mixing with the beer in my system. And slowly everything starts blurring and there’s a whooshing sound in my ears.
 

“One more,” Miranda offers.

I shake my head. I don’t want it. I want to go inside, take off my clothes, crawl into bed, and dream about Faith.

She pours anyway and hands it to me. “I don’t want it,” I say immediately after I drink it. Then I hand her the empty shot glass and stagger inside. I shut my bedroom door behind me, and as I take off my clothes, all I see is Faith. Naked. And so fucking beautiful. And before I know it I’m naked in my bed, taking care of business, and pretending it’s her. The big finish comes quickly, but it doesn’t stop me from continuing the dream while I drift off to sleep.

Her weight on top of me is welcome, her presence foreplay in itself. It’s dark, I can’t see her, but her lips are working their way across my chest, up my neck, across my jawline.

“Kiss me,” I beg.

She does. Lips, tongue, teeth, they’re all in play. Slow, languid sweeps of her tongue. Teeth pulling playfully at my bottom lip. Lips so soft.
 

“I’ve missed you,” I whisper between kisses. “I’ve missed you so much.” I’m talking to her, and to me, and to us.

The rest of my body awakens as her nakedness grinds purposefully against mine. Legs draped on either side of my hips. Flesh on flesh creating friction that speaks to nerve endings and sends jolts of pleasure through both of us.

“I’ve missed you, too.”

I freeze. I’ve dreamt about those words coming out of Faith’s mouth.
 

But that wasn’t Faith.

And this isn’t a dream.

It’s a goddamn nightmare.
 

I push her off me, climb out of bed and turn on the light.

Miranda is lying naked in my bed.

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, as I search for my boxers on the floor and slip into them. This can’t be happening. “Get out.”

She grins, but it’s complete humiliation as she covers herself with the sheet. “You thought I was someone else.” It’s not a question, it’s a statement saturated with embarrassment and regret. Uncharacteristic.
 

I look her in the eye and nod. “I’m drunk. I was dreaming. In the privacy of my own bed,” I add to remind her how warped this whole scene is. “Yes, I thought you were someone else.”

“Faith?” she questions.

I nod again.

“What is it about her, Seamus? Why is she so special?” I would expect this to sound whiney or pouty, but she sounds sad like she’s finally come to the realization that we’re over and there will never be a second chance.

I don’t want to have this conversation, especially in my current state and hers, but I also fear that if I don’t air this, we’ll revisit it again because Miranda is nothing, if not persistent. “Her heart. It rules her. Every action, every smile, every word, every touch, is driven by it. Do you have any idea what it’s like to be on the receiving end of that?”

She pulls back the sheet and climbs out of bed, immediately pulling on her nightgown. “I do.” She shrugs. “She’s you.” She walks out without another word. Understanding firmly in place.

Maybe it’s the alcohol in my system muddying it up, but I feel bad for her. It’s overwhelming pity; that downgrades hate to dislike, with disclaimers that ward off lifting the veil to allow forgiveness in. Damn her; hate is preferable where Miranda’s concerned.

Parenthood isn’t genetic

present

Miranda is out with her realtor looking at a house. She took the kids with her, which was considerate given they’ll live with her half the time according to the new custody arrangement my lawyer is working on. Miranda’s committed to staying in this neighborhood to make things easier for everyone, which shocked the hell out of me, but I’m thankful. So thankful. My lawyer wants to make sure that happens before we finalize the paperwork. We already have Miranda’s written agreement to modify custody to joint. It’s just the details we’re waiting on now.

It’s Saturday morning, and I’m not quite sure what to do with myself. The apartment is too quiet. I don’t like being here alone without the kids, it’s almost terror inducing because my mind reverts to the months they were gone. I don’t ever want to go through that again.

A knock on the door saves me from myself.

When I open the door, I want to close it immediately.

“Seamus.” There’s an odd combination of formality and friendliness in his voice. The friendliness seems out of place.

I meet it with formality. “Loren.”

“I know this is unexpected.” He looks pale, thinner than he was weeks ago.

I nod. “I assume you’re looking for Miranda. She’s not here. She’ll be back later this afternoon.”

“Actually, I’m here to talk to you.” I can’t read his voice, but the look in his eyes is regret.

“Okay.” I sound confused. I am confused. Very confused. “Come in.”

He sits down on the couch and sets his leather briefcase on the floor next to him. He looks out of place. His eyes are darting around the room taking in everything. He’s judging me, I can feel it. Fuck him and his superior attitude.

“Seamus, I’m going to get right to the point.” I feel like I’m being talked to by administration at work. It’s the tone taken by those in a position of authority when they have to deliver bad news, and they’ve already divided themselves from the emotional aspect of it and are going in as a spokesperson only, not a supporter.

“I’d appreciate that,” I offer. I wish he would just spit it out. He’s making me nervous now.

He clears his throat and sets his briefcase on the coffee table, unlatching the lid while he says, “Please sit down.” He looks at me and his eyes tell me he’s not messing around, that this is serious.

“I’ll stand,” I counter. I want to sit now, but my stubborn streak has just been issued a formal challenge.

He looks down like he’s displeased with my decision. “Very well. I’ll begin. I had a massive heart attack days after Miranda left. Triple bypass surgery to put the pieces back together immediately followed. They tell me I’m extremely lucky to be alive.”

“I’m sorry.” I don’t know why I said it, he didn’t pause his story looking for a reaction; I guess I just felt it needed to be said.

He nods. “Thank you. Coming that close to death led me to a re-evaluate my life and my priorities. I’m selling my business and retiring. I’m selling my home to travel the world to see all of the places I never allowed myself time to visit. Hopefully, I’ll find somewhere that suits me, and I’ll settle down there.”

“Okay. No offense, but I don’t understand why you came all the way to California to tell me this.” I’m not trying to be rude, but this doesn’t make any sense. This is a conversation you have with friends or family, I’m neither.

“I have something that’s yours, and I need to make that right before I leave.” There’s compassion in his eyes.

Now I’m nervous again. “What?” It’s the only thing I can say. My brain won’t come up with anything else.

He looks me in the eye, and I’m in no way prepared to hear what comes out of his mouth. “I’m Kira’s father.”

What? I don’t know if I’m thinking the word, or if I said it out loud, but it’s echoing inside my skull. He was right, I need to sit down. I take a seat on the couch next to him, and my head drops into my hands. This cannot be happening. “Please tell me this is a cruel joke,” I say from behind my hands.

“I’m sorry, Seamus. I knew Miranda would never tell you, but I felt you had the right to know. And as I said before, I need to make this right.”

I huff out a disgusted laugh. “Right?
Right?
How in the hell are you going to make this right? Kira is my daughter. I love that little girl with everything in me.” Tears are blotting my eyes as my thoughts race, and this conversation takes a nosedive into an abyss.

“I know you do. And you’re correct, she is your daughter. I may be responsible for half of her genetic make-up, but you are her father and always have been.” He reaches into his briefcase and pulls out a stack of papers. “I know that your name is already on her birth certificate, but there was a test done that established paternity. I would like to complete this official adoption paperwork, just in case Miranda ever tries to take her away from you. Miranda can be quite conniving, and I couldn’t live with myself knowing I could’ve done something to protect Kira and didn’t. I want to leave knowing she’s yours, once and for all.”

I don’t know whether that was a callous or a considerate thing for him to do. I’m still talking into my hands. “How long have you known? How long has Miranda known?”