The Danger Zone

 

The next afternoon, not allowing myself to wish I was walking down my lawn toward Mickey’s house for reasons other than just being a neighbor coming over for a barbeque, I walked down my lawn toward Mickey’s house.

I’d spent the day doing the minimal clean up left from the house sale and unpacking Auden and Olympia’s rooms. Since they didn’t take the opportunity, I’d also gone through their things. Anything I hadn’t seen them wear in some time, or I thought might not fit anymore, or they didn’t use, I put in piles with notes asking if I could add it to the next sale the league might put on.

In other words, I stayed busy, mostly so I wouldn’t think on things, however, this only partially worked.

It allowed me not to think of my impending kicking back with Mickey and his children.

But it forced me to think about my children and how lost they were to me.

I powered through this, finished with the kids’ rooms, took a shower and got ready, donning some of the Felicia Hathaway clothes I didn’t sell (but only because I needed something to wear).

Now I was standing at Mickey’s door.

I drew in a deep breath, let it out and hit the doorbell.

I could hear it ringing inside and it was a normal bell, not dulcet and uncommon, like mine.

As I listened to it ring, I allowed myself to hope for two seconds that the Donovan family had forgotten about my visit and had taken a spur of the moment trip to Disneyland.

These hopes were dashed when the door was flung open.

“Hey, Miz Hathaway!” Cillian cried, beaming up at me. Then he declared, “We’re in the kitchen,” turned and started walking into the house.

I took that as what it was, my invitation to follow him, so I did, closing the door behind me.

I wanted to take time to study Mickey’s house but Cillian was moving at a good clip down a short hall toward the back of the house so I didn’t get the chance.

I still took in as much as I could get. And with what I took in I knew that either Mickey had put a goodly amount of effort into making his post-divorce house a home for his children or he’d gotten the house in the divorce.

It was dark, not due to lack of windows, there were a lot of them, nor due to the plethora of wood and wood paneling, but instead due to the fact that Mickey had a number of mature trees on his lot and many of them were close to his home.

The outside of the house made me think the inside would scream Home in Coastal Maine.

I was slightly surprised it didn’t.

When I looked left to take in the living room, above the stone fireplace, there was a beautiful seascape with an old-fashioned boat on it. There were also some of those colorful glass things that were suspended in webs of ropes hanging on the walls.

That was it.

The rest was comfortable, cushiony furniture, some in attractive tweed (the armchairs), some in worn leather (the couch). The tables were topped in everything from what appeared to be an old baseball ensconced in a glass block, bronze figurines (two, both art deco, one that looked like an angel without wings, arms out, head back, as if ascending to the heavens, the other an elephant) to multi-paned standing frames filled with photos from a variety of eras, sepia to color.

To the right was a long hall I suspected led to bedrooms and bathrooms.

As I followed Cillian, I saw on the walls of the hall an expertly scattered display of frames that were mostly pictures of Mickey’s kids, from babyhood to recently. These were interspersed with pictures of what, to my fascinated eyes, appeared to be Mickey from a baby through adolescence and even into adulthood.

These included Mickey (possibly) lying in nothing but a diaper on a fur rug in front of a fire, head up, doing a baby giggle at the camera. Also Mickey in a Little League uniform, posing with cap on, wearing a grin that would mature from the cute in that picture to the heart-stopping of today, bat on his shoulder. And another with Mickey, perhaps in his late twenties, leaning back against the front of a fire rig.

There were also framed pieces of art, none of them good because all of them were done by a child’s hand, some of them signed “Aisling” others “Cillian.”

And last, there were empty spaces that didn’t fit the careful arrangement. Empty spaces that laid testimony to this being the Donovan family home considering they were at some point more than likely filled with pictures of Mickey’s wife, perhaps their wedding, them together, the family together, but now they were gone.

I knew what those empty spaces felt like in real life so by the time I made it to the back of the house, my heart was heavy.

Once I moved through the mouth of the hall, I gave myself the quick opportunity to take in the long great room that was open plan.

There was a large kitchen with gleaming, attractive wood cabinets and granite countertops to the right, delineated by a bar from the family room to the left that had a big sectional that faced a wide, flat-screen TV mounted on the wall above another, smaller and less formal, stone fireplace.

This space, too, was not imposing. It was all family, with thick rugs over the wood floors, the sectional an attractive, very dark purple twill with high backs, deep set cushions, throw pillows and afghans tossed around for maximum lounging potential.

Around the couch there were a variety of standing lamps that could offer bright lighting, say, should you wish to lounge and read, or subtle lighting, say, should you want to watch a horror movie and get in the mood.

A long, wide, carefully distressed dark wood, rectangular coffee table with drawers on the sides ran the middle of the sectional. It held a lovely globe filled with burgundy-colored sand in which a fat candle was positioned that had tiers of blue, purple and forest green.

Staring at that candle, I knew, in leaving, the ex-wife forgot it. I knew it because a man would not buy that glass globe, pour sand in it and find the perfect candle to stick in.

Her one stamp. The last of her.

In my limited perusal of the house, except empty spaces where her image and history with her family occupied the wall, that candle was the only physical evidence that I’d seen of her.

Seeing it, I wondered if, when she went, she left it just to remind them she’d been there and now she was gone.

I didn’t know what to make of this, except to think that if she left it on purpose, it was a cruelty, plain and simple. Conrad had left us in our home and when he’d gone, he’d taken every vestige of himself with him. Yes, including the pictures off the walls and out of frames on shelves and tables.

And when he went, this caused me profound grief that only dug the pit of his departure deeper.

Now I saw it as something else entirely.

As a kindness.

Staring at the candle, I also wondered why Mickey kept it.

Perhaps, as a man, he didn’t even see it. It had been lit, but it was far from burned low and he didn’t strike me as a man who lit candles to provide a relaxing atmosphere.

Perhaps he wanted a reminder of his wife, the family they shared, the hopes he’d had, these being things he wasn’t ready to let go.

I would get no answers to these questions and not only because I’d never ask them.

No, it was because Mickey called, “Hey, babe.”

I stopped staring at the candle and turned his way.

Cillian was up on a barstool opposite Mickey, who was wearing another unfairly attractive shirt, this in lightweight cotton the color of mocha, sleeves again rolled up over muscular forearms, doing something beyond the elevated portion of counter where the tall barstools sat.

Both pairs of blue eyes were on me.

“I’m completely unable to come to a home for a meal without bringing something,” I blurted, lifting up my empty hands. “I feel weird. Like I’m going to get a Good Guest Demerit or something.”

Mickey grinned and Cillian asked, “What’s a demerit?”

“A bad mark, son,” Mickey explained to his boy then looked to me. “Come in. Take a seat. Want a beer?”

I didn’t often drink beer; it wasn’t a beverage of preference. I drank wine and if I had a cocktail it could vary, but it usually had vodka in it.

However, I keenly remembered Mickey saying his children’s mother had a wineglass soldered to her hand so I nodded.

“Beer sounds good,” I replied, moving further into the room in the direction of the bar.

I arrived, took my own barstool and noted that Mickey had a plethora of stuff all over the counter and appeared to be creating a smorgasbord of salads ranging from spinach to Asian noodle to macaroni. There were bowls, small packets of slivered almonds, used packs of ramen noodles, bottles of mayonnaise and mustard, cutting boards covered in residue and the waste parts of pickles, carrots, tomatoes, onions.

It struck me how long it’d been since my countertop looked like that and when it struck me, that feeling fell down the hollow well left after my family disintegrated, and it kept falling, that pit a bottomless pit of agony.

“Get Miz Hathaway a beer, boy,” Mickey ordered, thankfully taking me out of my thoughts, and Cillian jumped off his stool and raced to the fridge.

I failed to note the first time I met Cillian that he seemed to have an overabundance of energy.

I did not fail to note this same thing the day before when he stuck to his father’s, or Jake’s, or Junior’s sides like glue, helping with anything that needed help with, dashing around getting packing materials, dragging boxes, but most specifically manly things, like lifting and carrying.

Even if what he was lifting and carrying was too big, which sent him grunting and making hilarious faces at which I would never laugh because he was so serious in doing whatever he was doing, and I didn’t want him to see me and hurt his feelings.

I saw then, although getting a beer was not an onerous task, this was his nature for he didn’t delay and delivered the fastest drink I’d ever received.

“Thanks, honey,” I murmured when he put it on the bar in front of me.

“No probs,” he replied, moving around me then pulling himself back into his barstool, still talking, albeit briefly. And this was to demand of me, “Get this.”

I swiveled my stool his way to look at him.

“What?” I asked on a grin.

“I just figured out today that when I’m a fighter pilot for the Air Force, they don’t have to give me a call sign,” he declared and finished excitedly, “They can call me Kill since Kill is an awesome call sign but it’s also my name!”

He was clearly ecstatic about this.

But I stared at him in utter fear.

“You want to be a fighter pilot?” I asked.

“Totally,” he answered.

“Top Gun,” Mickey stated and I turned concerned eyes to him. “Cill caught it on cable a few years back. Made me buy him the DVD. He’s seen it a million times.”

“Two million,” Cillian contradicted proudly, and I turned my attention back to him. “It flipping rocks!”

I couldn’t agree or disagree. I’d seen it several times myself, including when it came out. Back then it was the best thing going.

However, I wasn’t certain it had aged well.

“The pilots in that movie fly for the Navy,” I informed him.

“Yeah, I know, but who wants to land a jet on a boat?” Cillian asked but didn’t allow me to answer. He shared his opinion immediately, “Not me. Plus, there are no babes on boats.”

“About a year after Cill saw Top Gun,” Mickey started and my eyes went to him, “he became aware there were girls in this world.”

“Isn’t that young?” I asked Mickey.

“I’m advanced,” Cillian said cheekily.

I grinned at him but even if he was being funny, the mother in me came right out.

“Being a fighter pilot is kind of a dangerous job, Cillian,” I shared hesitantly.

“I know!” he cried exuberantly, doing it sharing that danger was a big draw for that particular occupation.

I looked to Mickey, eyes wide.

He gave me one of his quick grins. “Not gonna talk him outta it, darlin’. Before he entered the highway to the danger zone, he wanted to be a firefighter, like his dad, a cop, a lawyer, which I also blame on Tom Cruise seein’ as that stretch, thankfully brief, came after Cill saw A Few Good Men. Then he was back to firefighter, moved on to Navy SEAL, then latched onto fighter pilot. Not one of ’em is a desk job that would make a mother’s heart settle, ’cept bein’ a lawyer, which would make his father’s head explode. But with this last one, it’s been years. I’m thinkin’ this one’s here to stay.”

“And get this!” Cillian butted in. “Dad’s got a friend who’s an instructor at Luke in Phoenix and we’re goin’ there for Christmas and we’re goin’ on the base and Uncle Chopper thinks he can get me in the flight simulator!”

“Do or die,” Mickey muttered and when I looked at him questioningly, he explained, “Luke’s an Air Force base. And Chop is gonna show us around. Cill sees and does, he either knows he’s gotta work at that, and it isn’t easy, or he’ll have to explore other options.”

I turned to Cillian. “How old are you?”

“Eleven,” he told me.

“You do have some time to figure it out,” I remarked.

“Not if I wanna get in the Air Force Academy, which is the only way to go, so I wanna get in the Air Force Academy. And I gotta have it together to do that,” Cillian replied with hard to miss determination.

I was astonished at his maturity that mingled naturally with his childish effusiveness.

Astonished by it and charmed by it.

“I’ll bet you do,” I murmured, falling a little in love with Cillian Donovan.

“Go get your sister, son,” Mickey ordered.

“’Kay,” Cillian agreed and again jumped off his stool and raced away.

I wrapped my fingers around my beer and took a pull before looking to Mickey and asking, “Can I help?”

“As I said, not lost on me you’ve run yourself ragged since you got to Magdalene, so no. Let me and my kids do the work, babe. You just relax.”

Relaxing would be good, but in Mickey’s presence, I figured it was highly unlikely.

But at that moment, what I really wanted was to find a nice way to ask him not to call me “babe.”

I wanted this because it reminded me of Conrad calling me that and it not meaning anything.

I also wanted it because I wanted it to mean something when Mickey said it, but it still didn’t.

I couldn’t figure out a nice way to say that so I just nodded, took another sip of cold beer and let my eyes wander his kitchen.

His ex was gone from there, totally. I knew it through my eye sweep.

There was a standing KitchenAid mixer that was in a neutral cream that would normally say a woman lived there, but I suspected this was on the counter because Mickey’s daughter liked to bake and Mickey clearly liked his daughter.

Other than that, there was a crock with a gravely lacking selection of cooking utensils stuck in it. Beside the rather nice stainless steel stove were salt and pepper shakers that didn’t match the crock (or the butter dish), and the salt shaker was chipped. There was also a truly unattractive, purchased solely because it did the job, wooden bread box. And although there was a good deal of counter space in the u-shaped kitchen, which also included a large pantry and more counter space separated from the rest against the opposite wall, all of it was taken up with appliances, none of them matching, none of them high quality.

I knew from experience that a family of the age of Mickey’s needed more, and if not the best, at least they needed ones they’d purchased to work and for a good long time, rather than shoddy brands that would break frequently, making you wonder why you didn’t invest wisely in quality in the first place.

You cooked for your family. Your kids had sleepovers and birthday parties that you needed to prepare for. You had friends over. You had family over. You had barbeques and special breakfasts that were about nothing. There were holidays to consider.

This was a man’s kitchen. Although the actual kitchen was highly attractive, it was not tidy and any woman knew the accoutrements had to be copious, carefully selected, and perhaps most importantly, fit the aesthetic.

At the end of my perusal, on the counter against the opposite wall, I spied a big chocolate cake on what appeared to be an antique glass cake plate.

“Aisling’s contribution to our barbeque,” he stated and I moved my gaze to him. “Said we couldn’t have someone over for food without offering dessert.” The easy grin came as he tipped his head sideways, toward the cake. “That’s one she does a lot ’cause her dad and brother fuckin’ love it. She’s hopin’ you will too.”

“I’m sure I will,” I replied quietly.

His eyes lit with pride. “Be crazy not to, it’s fuckin’ amazing.”

I loved his unhidden pride in his girl so much I couldn’t help but smile back.

“And to answer the question you’re too good-mannered to ask, I got the house. But Rhiannon got the kitchen,” he declared.

I blinked. “Rhiannon?”

“Ex-wife,” he stated. “It’s my house since I grew up in it. My folks moved to Florida, sold Rhiannon and me this place for a song. No way I could afford to live in this neighborhood, raise my kids in it, if they didn’t. She was decent enough not to make a play for it or fuck things up by pickin’ over shit, takin’ furniture, altering her kids’ home in a way that would freak them out more than they were already freaked their parents were splitting. She did that for me and the kids, I let her pick over everything else she could get and she took everything else she could get.”

This meant she left the candle. I just hoped she did it because she wasn’t overly fond of it.

“MFD has got one employee, our fire chief, and he’s only paid part-time. Town can’t afford more,” Mickey told me.

I nodded, uncertain at the flow of our conversation, so I decided not to reply.

“The rest of us, we volunteer,” he shared, grabbing one of his many bowls and turning toward the fridge, still talking. “Would do that for a job if I could. I can’t and I grew up in Magdalene, love it here, great place for a kid to be, good people, got all the seasons, safe, beautiful, don’t want to leave. I wanted to settle here, find a woman here, raise my kids here, so I had to find a way to do what I love doin’ and still put food in my kids’ mouths.”

He put the bowl in the fridge and turned back, walking my way, continuing to speak.

“I work for a local company, does roofing and construction. Job sucks, my boss is an asshole. Wanna strike out on my own but with two kids fast approaching college, can’t take that risk. Gotta eat his bullshit and get a paycheck. But they work seven days a week and the only way my boss isn’t an asshole is that he doesn’t want his house to burn down without local volunteer firefighters to stop it. So he lets me adjust my schedule so I can take some shifts at the department during weekdays, as well as doin’ nights and some weekends.”

“I’m sorry you don’t like your boss but it’s good you get to do what you like to do,” I told him, even though I didn’t actually think him being able to be a firefighter was good.

In this climate, I could imagine fires weren’t as prevalent as in other, drier climates. But fires happened everywhere and I wasn’t really big on Mickey taking his life in his hands to go out and fight them.

However, this had nothing to do with me and would be an unwelcome (and rude) opinion to share, so I didn’t share it.

He put his hands on the counter, his attention still on me. “Life is life. You’re smart, you take what you can get.”

All of a sudden, that feeling of being crushed came back, thinking Mickey, a nice guy, a good father, a handsome man, had this philosophy.

He wanted to stay in his hometown and that was his prerogative.

He wanted to be a firefighter so he made that work.

That was commendable.

But I hated the idea that he felt with the rest he had to take what he could get.

I wanted him to be fulfilled. Happy. If not having it all (because who did?), at least having as much as he could get. Loving his family, his home, his job…his life.

Not taking what he could get.

“Hey, Miz Hathaway.”

I turned at Aisling’s greeting and smiled when I caught her beautiful blue eyes.

“Hey, blossom. Thanks again for all your help yesterday.”

Mickey had not been wrong. She’d loved helping. She’d worked hard, this mostly being, as the stuff quickly disappeared, running around rearranging so the other items for sale would be attractively displayed and not looked picked over or like the dregs since the early birds got the good stuff. She also sold beverages, the goodies, and when each drink dispenser was purchased, she’d helped me empty them out and clean them up so they could go out the door.

“No probs,” she repeated her brother’s words of earlier, moving into the kitchen and looking up to her father. “Want me to do the spinach?”

“Closer to, beautiful,” he said softly, gazing at her the same way. “Make sure it’s fresh. Got a lot of grillin’ to do.”

“’Kay, Dad,” she mumbled, shifting around him, eyes to the counter, eyes that assessed the situation immediately as she saw what Mickey had done, what needed to be done, and thus she left what was still needed while clearing away what no longer was.

Yes, she was a good girl who liked to take care of her family and I liked that, thus I started to fall a little in love with quiet, sweet Aisling Donovan too.

“Son, you wanna start the grill, get it ready for your dad?” Mickey offered.

“Totally!” Cill accepted loudly.

Mickey gave his grin to his boy. “Fire it up.”

Cillian raced away.

Mickey went to the fridge and came out with his own beer.

When he turned, he caught my eyes. “Let’s move this outside.”

“Sounds good,” I agreed.

He reached out and nabbed a packet of tortilla chips that were sitting on the counter and said to Aisling, “Grab the guac from the fridge before you head out, yeah, darlin’?”

“Yeah, Dad,” she replied.

We went out and I saw that when Rhiannon left the furniture, she also left the patio furniture. Further, I noted this was an outdoor family.

I knew this because there was a colossal shining grill against the side railing of the deck—a deck that spanned the living room and kitchen areas of the long house. Further, there was a four-seater, wrought iron table with umbrella and chairs that I knew would be comfortable because they had fluffy taupe cushions, high backs and they rocked. There were also two matching lounge chairs with matching cushions, angled toward the view of Mickey’s backyard, which was mostly trees. And last, there was a coordinating loveseat at the opposite end of the deck from the grill that had an ottoman in front of it and tables at each side.

All this, and in the densely wooded backyard that had a narrow wedge of grass close to the deck, I saw a tire swing in a tree. There were Frisbees lying in the grass (three, to be precise). And to one side, what appeared to be a narrow baseball pitcher plate set up, beyond it a tall, wide net to catch pitched balls.

I followed Mickey out but he went to the grill to survey Cillian’s activities.

I decided on the table, where we could all sit, eat chips and guacamole, and chat.

Mickey and Cillian joined me, Mickey opening the chips after he sat, tossing them on the table.

Aisling came out with the guac, which was homemade, had the perfect hint of cilantro, a nice tang of garlic and minimum tomatoes, making it sublime (Mickey’s creation, which made me look forward to dinner). She also saw the chips, rolled her eyes at her father and went back in, coming out with a bowl in which she dumped the chips (budding hostess, and a good one, for certain).

And we all sat, munching, sipping, Cillian doing most of the talking with Mickey and I interjecting.

Not long after, Mickey got up and went in to get the meat.

He started grilling.

At their father’s good-natured demand, without complaint, the kids got up and grabbed outdoor table stuff, including nice plastic plates, and set the table.

When it was time, Aisling went in to make the spinach salad.

In the end, I ate more than I had in weeks (and my stomach protested, but I didn’t listen because it was all so delicious) and surprisingly in Mickey’s company, did exactly what he wanted me to do.

I kicked back, drank beer, ate good food, sat with a nice family on the deck during a comfortable summer day in Maine, and relaxed.

* * * * *

“Babe.”

I was in the danger zone.

“Hey.” A hand was on my hip.

Highway straight to the danger zone.

That hand gently shook me. “Amy.”

My eyes fluttered open and I saw dark purple twill.

I knew exactly where I was.

I was in a home with a family that liked me.

A home where we sat in the sun on the deck and ate three different salads (all excellent), superbly grilled brats and chicken breasts slathered in barbeque sauce. This being followed by a heavenly chocolate cake that made my meringue-frosting-topped cupcakes seem like sawdust topped with pillow foam.

A home where I told a fourteen-year-old girl I felt that way about her cake, and she handed the world to me when her blue eyes started shining.

A home where we chatted and laughed and ended our meal playing Frisbee.

A home where I could run around the backyard with kids who enjoyed my company, demonstrating my Frisbee prowess because I was an awesome Frisbee player, seeing as my brother and I would go to the beach as often as possible (it was what you did, we grew up in La Jolla, we had a beach, we used it) and we’d play Frisbee. And being good at Frisbee was apparently a skill you didn’t lose.

A home where, during Frisbee, an eleven-year-old boy told me I was “da bomb” because I was an awesome Frisbee player.

A home where, after Frisbee, we camped out on a big cozy sectional to watch Tom Cruise and Val Kilmer play volleyball (amongst other things) and with beer, a full belly and wonderful company, relaxed and at ease, I’d fallen asleep curled into a corner of that big, cozy, purple couch.

Right then, still half-asleep, I turned my head and looked into Mickey Donovan’s amazing blue eyes.

This didn’t make me shake the dream.

No, the dream took hold of me and I stayed in the danger zone because I liked it.

And I liked it because I was in a home with a handsome man who protected me, fed me, laughed with me, was open, honest, loved his kids, didn’t hide his admiration of my Frisbee abilities, and who looked after me.

“Kids are in bed,” this handsome man in his comfortable home murmured to me words a handsome father, a handsome husband, a handsome lover would say to his woman. “You needed to crash, so I let you sleep. Now we both need to hit our beds, Amy.”

We did. We needed to hit our beds.

But half-asleep, staring at the most beautiful man I’d ever seen, having the only really good day I’d had in three years, spending time with him, being a part of his life, a part of his family, I decided first that I needed to hit him.

So I did, blinking at the dream that still had hold of me, unwilling and maybe unable to let it go, I leaned up and in, doing it deep. At the same time, I lifted a hand to curl around the side of his strong neck, feeling the muscle there and also feeling the thrill of knowing that hardness was probably everywhere.

And without delay, I pressed my lips to his, wanting nothing more, nothing else, nothing in my whole life, caring about nothing but living that dream.

Mickey jerked away.

I jerked fully awake.

“Amy,” he whispered.

Oh God, had I just kissed Mickey?

I stared at him, immobile, no, frozen, completely mortified, taking in the look in his eyes.

Surprise.

Remorse.

Aversion.

Oh God.

I’d just kissed him.

I flew off the couch, aiming sideways to miss him where he was leaning over me, mumbling humiliatingly, “God, sorry. So, so sorry. I was half-asleep.”

“Amy,” he called but I was on the move.

“Gotta go,” I kept mumbling, now walking and doing it swiftly. “I’m sorry I fell asleep. A lot has been happening, I guess I let it…” I trailed off, hit the mouth of the hall, turned to him and saw he’d straightened but hadn’t moved. I aimed my eyes at his chest. “Anyway, thanks for a great day. It was just what I needed. You gave me that, I wore out my welcome. Another demerit and I’m so, so sorry.”

Then I turned and I wanted to walk casually down his hall like nothing had happened.

But my feet had a mind of their own.

They ran, taking me down his hall, out his door, across his lawn, the street and to my house, one desperate step after the other, until I was behind my closed door.

I locked it and made another dash through my empty, dark house, straight to my bedroom then to my bath.

I closed that door and locked it too, as if Mickey would come for me, break down my door, demand an explanation for me touching him without invitation, putting my mouth on his when he didn’t want that.

Surprise.

Remorse.

Aversion.

Oh God, I’d kissed Mickey!

I put my back to the bathroom door and slid down it until my behind was on the floor. I bent forward, resting forehead to my knees, my heart slamming in my chest, my breaths coming fast and uneven, my skin burning.

The dulcet tones of my doorbell sounded.

I didn’t move, didn’t even lift my head.

I didn’t know how late it was but it was summer and dark so I knew it was late.

This meant that could be nobody but Mickey. Mickey being a nice guy and trying to make me feel better after I’d embarrassed myself and him, putting us both in an untenable situation that had no escape.

I was forty-seven years old. I should be old enough, brave enough, to get up and go to the door. Talk to my neighbor. Open myself to him (slightly) the way he seemed perfectly okay with opening himself to me, and sharing that I’d lost my husband, my family, and I’d been alone for a long time. And that day I got lost in him and his family, I liked it, and I was half-asleep. I didn’t think.

I didn’t think.

But sitting on my bathroom floor, it didn’t matter that I should be old and brave enough to do it.

I didn’t move.

The doorbell sounded again and I heard my whimper whisper through the knotty wood paneled room of my rustic, elegant, fabulous bathroom.

And I didn’t move.

I stayed in that position, the mortification burning through me, as minutes passed, listening hard and not shifting an inch.

The doorbell didn’t ring again.

After what felt like hours, lifetimes, I crawled on hands and knees to the towel rack. I grabbed a pink towel that looked great in my master bath in La Jolla but did not fit at all in that rustic, elegant bathroom in Maine.

And right there, I curled on my side on the floor, pulled the towel over me, up to my neck, where I tucked it in and closed my eyes.

I knew in that moment I’d hit bottom.

I knew in that moment I could sink no lower.

But I feared with everything that was me, that being me, I’d find new ways to fuck everything up even worse.

I had a talent with that.

It was the only talent I had.

And I didn’t want it.

I just had no idea how to get rid of it.

It was the only part of me I knew was real.

So I lay on the floor in my bathroom, covered in a towel, and thought (maybe hysterically) that perhaps I didn’t need to find me.

And thus I fell asleep on the floor of my bathroom fearing that was the only me that there could be.

* * * * *

The next evening, I was sitting on my couch in the sunken living room, feet to the seat, arms around my calves, chin to my knees, eyes to the darkening sky over the sea that had been gray all day, and stormy (reflecting my mood), thinking, priority: since I’d sold mine (all four of them), I needed to get a new TV.

Immediately.

I had not had dinner (or lunch, or breakfast for that matter). And I didn’t have a glass of wine beside me (though I wanted one, I just had an empty stomach and Mickey’s ex made me worry I wasn’t consuming much anymore, but I was going through wine like crazy).

So I was sitting there alone, as always, in a way that felt like it would be forever, wondering where the day went.

The only thing I’d done was make plans to go out with Josie and Alyssa to begin Cliff Blue Project: Phase Two on Wednesday, Alyssa’s day off from her salon.

That’s all I’d done.

Except wallow in my misery.

The doorbell rang.

I stiffened, feeling every sinew tighten inside me, and closed my eyes.

Shit.

Mickey.

“You’re a big girl, Amelia, you’ve gotta grow the fuck up,” my mouth told me.

I was right.

I had to grow up, get up, and go to the door.

I thought moving to Maine was the first step to the new me.

It wasn’t.

Walking to the door to face Mickey was.

Shit.

As hard as it was, I uncurled, got off the couch, headed to the door and I did this swiftly. Not because I wanted to get to the door. Not because I was smart enough to go fast in order to get something unpleasant, harrowing and utterly mortifying over and done with as quickly as possible.

Because I didn’t want to leave Mickey waiting.

I allowed myself slight relief that I’d at least had a shower and changed clothes that day before I unlocked and opened the door.

I lifted my eyes and put every effort into not wincing when I caught his.

Then I said, “Hey.”

“Hey, Amy,” he replied gently.

“I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “I’m sorry you had to come over here and I wasn’t big enough to go to you and apologize. I’m even sorrier I did what I did. I was half-asleep but that’s no excuse. You shouldn’t have anyone touching you who you don’t want touching you. I don’t know what came over me. But I do know, and want you to know, I’m really so very sorry.”

“It isn’t that, darlin’,” he said quietly. “You’re very…”

He trailed off but kept his eyes pinned to mine and I knew in that instant he did it so they wouldn’t wander. They wouldn’t become assessing.

But his next word and the hesitation said everything.

And it destroyed me.

“Attractive.”

I fought back another wince.

“It’s just that you don’t shit where you live,” he went on. “And, babe, you live right across the street and we both got kids.”

That was a lie. A kind one. But it was a total lie.

He didn’t want me, plain and simple.

I was just his…“attractive” neighbor.

I gave him that because he needed to give it to me and I needed to let him.

“You’re right,” I agreed.

“You’re a good woman, Amelia.”

God, that was completely lame.

But worse, I wasn’t even that.

“I…I’m…” I shook my head. “I can’t say how sorry I am. You’re a good neighbor. You’re a good guy. You’ve been so very kind to me. And you’ve got great kids. Can we,” I shrugged, hoping it was nonchalantly, “forget this even happened?”

That’s when the grin came but it killed that it wasn’t easy.

“Absolutely.”

I swallowed before I nodded and said, “Thanks, Mickey.” I drew in a breath and let it out finishing, “And again, I’m really sorry.”

“Nothin’ to apologize for. It didn’t happen.”

A good man. A kind man.

A man with great kids, all of whom I’d now go out of my way to see extremely rarely.

It was wave from the car or haul my behind into the house if I had the bad fortune to be out when they were out time.

“Right,” I said, injecting a firm thread in my voice. “I’d ask you in for a glass of wine but I don’t have glasses and I’m kinda in the middle of something.”

His grin got easier. “I’d say I appreciate the offer but I don’t drink wine and I also got shit to do.”

He was lying.

Then again, so was I.

It was over.

This should have caused me relief but instead, it dug deep then curled out long tentacles, the tips spreading acid through every part of me.

“Okay.” I started to close the door. “See you around, Mickey.”

“Hope so.”

That was a lie too.

I pushed my lips up into a smile.

He held his grin as he lifted a hand and turned away.

I didn’t wait politely to close and lock the door, I did it immediately.

I turned back to the room. The recessed overhead lights were on, dimmed, but I’d normally never turn on overhead lights. I’d use lamps.

Except I didn’t have any.

My feet wanted to take me to my bedroom, the bathroom there, the mirror there.

I didn’t let them.

I walked to the kitchen and I did this thinking, fuck it.

So when I got to the kitchen, I opened a bottle of wine and poured a healthy portion into a plastic cup.

I took it out to my deck. Since moving in, I’d been out there, not much. When I got to the railing and stopped, I felt the chill coming off the sea and I liked it.

I needed deck furniture.

I needed a to-do list.

I needed a to-do list with a variety of headings, this likely ending up the length of Santa’s gift list.

But first, I needed to make a decision.

Stay this low and allow myself to sink lower.

Or get my head out of my ass and pull myself together.

I’d come out to Maine to do the latter, and within a few weeks, ended up kissing my handsome, good guy neighbor, in one fell swoop killing a promising relationship of friendship and camaraderie and turning it into an awkward relationship of avoidance and unease.

I needed to talk this out and to do it, I wanted to call Robin. I wanted to tell her all that had happened and listen to her saying the things she always said to me. How sweet I was. How smart I was. How beautiful I was. How I deserved good things in my life. How I deserved to be treated properly. How I deserved to be cherished and protected and respected.

But I wasn’t taking Robin’s calls, only exchanging quick texts and emails, which would now be only texts since I’d sold my computer.

And I’d cut myself off from Robin.

I couldn’t call Josie or Alyssa because I could tell they were close with Mickey and they’d think I was crazy, stupid, weak and lame for doing what I did.

And in the awkward relationship stakes, they’d side with Mickey. He was their friend. I was just a new acquaintance who was grasping onto friendship with all I had because I was so terribly needy.

And I knew they would, not only because they’d known me two weeks and him for ages, but because my friends who hadn’t defected because I’d lost my mind after Conrad left me had defected when Conrad left me.

No.

I had to figure out what I wanted.

I had to figure out who I was.

I had to create a home.

I had to win back my children.

I had to build a life.

I had to get some self-respect.

I had to stop acting like an idiot, weak and selfish and stupid.

I had to start looking out for me.

I had to stop being so needy. I no longer had a husband to fulfill me. I had lost the children who, simply breathing, gave me all I could need. I had to find something for me that would fill those voids.

And I couldn’t sink any lower. I couldn’t live another day feeling like I had that day. I couldn’t live another week, another month, an eternity, feeling like I had since Conrad told me across the bed we shared, the bed we made our children in, that he was leaving me for another woman.

I’d left my life behind because it was not a good life.

And I’d come to Maine to change that life.

So I had only one choice.

No matter what it took, no matter how much time, no matter that it made me bleed, no matter what it cost me, no matter that it would take everything I had and force me to find more, I had to do what I’d come to Maine to do.

I had to make a home.

I had to heal my family.

I had to find me.

I had to let go of the old.

I had to pull myself together and start anew.