at the same time I wished fervently he wouldn’t keep giving them to me. “You need me to pour you into my truck to drive you across the street at the end of the night, won’t be any skin off my nose.”
As good as his comment about my house smelling like heaven felt, that invitation felt the same amount of bad.
A bad I wasn’t allowed to feel.
A bad that I felt because no man who was interested in a woman in a certain way would bring his kids over to her house on the spur of the moment then invite her over for a Sunday cookout to “kick back” and “get loose.”
A man who was interested in a woman would carefully time and meticulously plan such meetings with progeny, and they would happen only after he knew he wanted the woman he was inviting to be invited again.
And again.
Until she stayed, maybe forever.
Or, at least, that was what I would do with my kids.
And that was what Conrad did with them. Unfortunately, when he started these endeavors, he’d still been married to me.
“Jesus, Amelia, you asleep on your feet?” Mickey asked and again I jerked to attention and focused on him.
“Sorry,” I said. “So sorry. I’ve got my mind on a million things.”
Before Mickey could reply, “I don’t know what to pick!” was shouted from the kitchen.
We both turned that way to see Cillian standing amongst the sprinkled cupcakes and bags of cookies looking like he’d just been let into Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory but hadn’t been given the go ahead to make a glutton of himself.
“Take whatever you want, Cillian,” I called.
Cillian’s eyes grew so huge at this offer I nearly burst out laughing.
“Miz…uh…hey!” Aisling called back to me. “You want me to finish frosting these?” She pointed at the unfrosted cupcakes.
“She’s good at that shit,” Mickey muttered, his voice sounding further away and I turned then tucked my chin to see him crouched by his box. He tipped his head back to catch my eyes. “Let her do it.”
“I…” I looked to Aisling and suggested, “How about we do it together?”
She beamed.
With nothing for it, I moved that way.
Cillian shoved a cupcake in his mouth, peeling back the wrapper expertly with his lips as he did it.
I’d never seen anyone do that so I noted on a smile as I made my way to the kitchen, “You got a special skill with that, kiddo.”
“Toad-ag-lee,” he said with his mouth full and kept going, “Prag-dis.”
My smile got bigger.
“Keister over here, boy, help your dad unload this stuff and tag it,” Mickey ordered.
Cillian dashed by me and toward his father.
At that moment, the oven binged.
“You do those, honey,” I said to Aisling, moving into the kitchen. “I’ll grab the last batch.”
Aisling nodded and nabbed the spoon from the bowl.
As I pulled the tray out of the oven, Mickey called, “Babe? Tags?”
An unusual-when-it-came-to-Mickey unpleasant sensation slithered down my spine.
Conrad called me “babe.” Conrad called me every endearment he could think of.
I’d later learned none of them were special since I’d heard him call Martine some of the same things.
And I knew the casual way Mickey said them was the same way, but worse. Any woman was “babe” to him. Or his other, “darlin’.”
It wasn’t just me.
It wasn’t special.
I’d never been special.
I just was .
With all the rest, I pushed that aside, put the tin on the cooling rack and looked his way, answering, “Up here.”
“Go get ’em, son,” he said to Cillian.
Cillian darted back my way.
I got the tags and markers out of their drawer and gave them to Mickey’s boy. He raced back to his dad. Thus began a lot of activity, which included Mickey and Cillian pulling stuff out of their box, tagging it and calling to me to ask where to put it, as well as Aisling and me frosting and sprinkling cupcakes while we tidied the kitchen.
As tired as I was, as much as I was fighting my attraction to Mickey, I couldn’t help but
As good as his comment about my house smelling like heaven felt, that invitation felt the same amount of bad.
A bad I wasn’t allowed to feel.
A bad that I felt because no man who was interested in a woman in a certain way would bring his kids over to her house on the spur of the moment then invite her over for a Sunday cookout to “kick back” and “get loose.”
A man who was interested in a woman would carefully time and meticulously plan such meetings with progeny, and they would happen only after he knew he wanted the woman he was inviting to be invited again.
And again.
Until she stayed, maybe forever.
Or, at least, that was what I would do with my kids.
And that was what Conrad did with them. Unfortunately, when he started these endeavors, he’d still been married to me.
“Jesus, Amelia, you asleep on your feet?” Mickey asked and again I jerked to attention and focused on him.
“Sorry,” I said. “So sorry. I’ve got my mind on a million things.”
Before Mickey could reply, “I don’t know what to pick!” was shouted from the kitchen.
We both turned that way to see Cillian standing amongst the sprinkled cupcakes and bags of cookies looking like he’d just been let into Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory but hadn’t been given the go ahead to make a glutton of himself.
“Take whatever you want, Cillian,” I called.
Cillian’s eyes grew so huge at this offer I nearly burst out laughing.
“Miz…uh…hey!” Aisling called back to me. “You want me to finish frosting these?” She pointed at the unfrosted cupcakes.
“She’s good at that shit,” Mickey muttered, his voice sounding further away and I turned then tucked my chin to see him crouched by his box. He tipped his head back to catch my eyes. “Let her do it.”
“I…” I looked to Aisling and suggested, “How about we do it together?”
She beamed.
With nothing for it, I moved that way.
Cillian shoved a cupcake in his mouth, peeling back the wrapper expertly with his lips as he did it.
I’d never seen anyone do that so I noted on a smile as I made my way to the kitchen, “You got a special skill with that, kiddo.”
“Toad-ag-lee,” he said with his mouth full and kept going, “Prag-dis.”
My smile got bigger.
“Keister over here, boy, help your dad unload this stuff and tag it,” Mickey ordered.
Cillian dashed by me and toward his father.
At that moment, the oven binged.
“You do those, honey,” I said to Aisling, moving into the kitchen. “I’ll grab the last batch.”
Aisling nodded and nabbed the spoon from the bowl.
As I pulled the tray out of the oven, Mickey called, “Babe? Tags?”
An unusual-when-it-came-to-Mickey unpleasant sensation slithered down my spine.
Conrad called me “babe.” Conrad called me every endearment he could think of.
I’d later learned none of them were special since I’d heard him call Martine some of the same things.
And I knew the casual way Mickey said them was the same way, but worse. Any woman was “babe” to him. Or his other, “darlin’.”
It wasn’t just me.
It wasn’t special.
I’d never been special.
I just was .
With all the rest, I pushed that aside, put the tin on the cooling rack and looked his way, answering, “Up here.”
“Go get ’em, son,” he said to Cillian.
Cillian darted back my way.
I got the tags and markers out of their drawer and gave them to Mickey’s boy. He raced back to his dad. Thus began a lot of activity, which included Mickey and Cillian pulling stuff out of their box, tagging it and calling to me to ask where to put it, as well as Aisling and me frosting and sprinkling cupcakes while we tidied the kitchen.
As tired as I was, as much as I was fighting my attraction to Mickey, I couldn’t help but
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