Page 85 of Midlife Crisis

When we get home, Ronin surprises me with stronger feelings about Hank. The boys are in the kitchen, and I stop when I hear Ronin say he hates Hank.

“You need to tell her,” Elston says, his voice concerned, his tone strained. I don’t want to intrude if they’re sharing a brotherly moment. It’s rare for Elston and Ronin to get along.

“Elston,” Ronin warns. “This will really hurt her.” Oh, girl talk. Maybe I’ve misunderstood the Hank hating comment. I nearly giggle. If they can’t be friends, I still want them to respect one another and be confident in their brotherhood, brothership, or whatever to speak to each other about things like girls.

“Better to tell her than let him keep pretending.” Elston sounds exasperated, and I linger, knowing there’s trouble in eavesdropping, so I tell myself, I’m just curious.

“You should have seen him. Draped all over her. Her skirt hiked up. I could see her cooter.”

I cover my mouth, holding in the snort. Cripes, who teaches my boys these things?

“Don’t call it a cooter. That’s just…just not…” I picture Elston shaking his blond head.

“It was disgusting, and I can’t believe he’d choose someone like her over Mom.”

My heart stops. Wait. What?

“What a fucking asshole, and after his whole let’s talk like a man speech. And telling me how he cares about her. Just ew,” Elston rattles. What? Just wait a minute! What is he talking about? What are they saying?

“Hank doesn’t deserve Mom.” Ronin’s voice cracks. My sensitive boy sounds on the verge of tears. “He seemed so cool, but I know his past. He might have played those drums like a master, but he womanized like one as well. He drank, too.” Much to my satisfaction, Ronin isn’t a fan of drinking. Disappointment rings in my middle son’s tone as I flip through emotions. My heart races in two patterns. One bursting with pride at my children’s devotion and one breaking at what they aren’t explicitly saying.

“Think he fucked her after you caught him?”

Oh, my God. Two hands cover my open mouth, holding back the gag of nausea.

“Who knows? Good riddance, drummer boy,” Elston snaps.

36

What she didn’t know

[Hank]

I am a goddamn idiot, I decide as I doodle on the calendar at the hotline help desk. Thoughts of Midge consume me. Her body underneath mine, moaning, moving, taking me in. Her heart, open and raw as she apologizes, as she says she loves me. Her emotions overwhelm me. My emotions overwhelm me. Have I not had my eyes open? She wasn’t fucking me; she was seducing me. In true dumbass form, I misinterpreted her intentions. She wanted to apologize for hurting my feelings and thought getting close would soothe the sting, and she was fucking right, but I fucking blew it. The instant we finished, and she blurted, I love you, I knew, I just knew I had it all wrong in my head. Why hadn’t I believed her? Why didn’t I accept it? Because fucking Kit messed with my heart and my head, but no more. From this day forward, I will not let Kit interfere. I’m telling Midge everything tonight, clearing the air and then making her promises I intend to keep forever.

I’m supposed to meet Midge after Liam’s game because I work the day shift at the center. This is the day I prefer, when we actually meet people face to face. These are the moments I feel my best because I’m truly helping someone. The teens passing through here are a mess, and I can only hope to reach them before it’s too late. I instantly think of Midge. I don’t want it to be too late for me either. I’m slow on the uptake, but I’ll be loyal on the downswing.

I stand to hold open the door for a few of our young regulars when a woman with greasy, long hair slips in. Instantly, I sense she’s older despite her small frame. Without meaning to touch her, I take her arm to stop her just inside the hall. Her head snaps up, and her glazed eyes try to focus.

“Hanky? I’ve been looking for you.” She swipes at her nose with the back of her hand, sniffling deeply before lowering her fist. She sways on her feet, and I reach for her shoulders.

“Steph, honey. What are you doing?” I should be angry she found me again. In fact, I’m downright pissed off, but I’m also a bit shaken. Everything about her looks familiar to my past, and I don’t want a trip down memory lane. Memory is a fickle bitch, though, and the images flip on speed dial through my head. Drugs. Alcohol. Women. The stench coming off Stephie isn’t good.

Her hands reach for my wrists, but she misses. Her head rolls to the side. She’s so fucking high.

“Got some place private we could go? I could give you something.” A cracked fingernail attempts to slide down my chest, but I suck in my breath, willing her not to touch me. I want nothing to do with her or her proposition, but I can’t turn my back. This is the crisis center. We’re here to help people like her.

“Let me get you some coffee. We can talk,” I offer. I guide her to a seat in a small sitting room, one filled by a couch and two chairs. Not wanting to be alone with her, I avoid the confining space of an empty office. I’m pushing her gently backward by her shoulders, keeping an arm’s length distance between us. To my surprise, she lets me lead her. Her knees hit the back of the sofa, and her surprise brings up her hands. She grips my t-shirt with two tiny fists.

High Stephie is a strong Stephie, and as I press her downward, she tugs on my shirt, forcing me down with her. I fumble, faltering over her. My hand catches the back of the couch before I tumble completely. My knee comes between both of hers, pinning me to the cushions. She giggles as she hits the soft, shaggy fabric.

“Steph, whatcha doing?” I growl, and then a throat clears behind me. I spin and find a teenager looking at me, wide-eyed and questioning. My position over Stephie looks precarious. The angle of my body. My knee between her thighs. The shortness of her skirt. It’s compromising, but fuck, it’s anything but.

“Ronin?” I choke.

“I wanted to talk to you, but I can see you’re busy.” What the fuck is Midge’s kid doing down here? This isn’t a good part of the city, and I can’t even begin to wonder what’s on his mind.

“Scram, little dumpling,” Stephie slurs. “Hanky and I have business.”