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“Yeah, wasn’t even twenty-five there.” He lifted the lid on the Tupperware and immediately, the heavenly scent of Ronnie’s fajitas had his mouth watering. After assembling one on a tortilla, he shoved a huge bite in his mouth.
“And how old are you now?” she asked, raising an eyebrow above the frame of her glasses.”
“Thirty-eight,” he said, mouth full. Damn, it tasted good.
Mickie didn’t seem revolted by the fact he’d spoken around his bite of food. In fact, she smirked. “Wow. Old man.”
He snorted. “And what are you, twenty-five?”
With a laugh, she shook her head. “Don’t you know it’s not polite to ask a lady her age?”
“Yep,” he said, smiling. “But I’ve seen you covered in flour, so I think we’re past the lady stage.”
“I suppose you have a point. I’m twenty-nine. I’ll be thirty in four months.”
“Well, say goodbye to feeling good. I swear I hit thirty, and my body started to feel like I’m ninety.” He shoveled another bite into his mouth.
Mickie gave him a shy smile. “Actually, these days I’m feeling better than I have in years.” She shrugged and stared down at her hands. “Guess that’s what happens when you finally start taking care of yourself, huh?” The laugh she let out was thick with discomfort, as though she hadn’t meant to be so frank with her admission.
He could have taken the opportunity to make a joke and re-lighten the mood, but for some insane reason, the need to validate her struggles hit him hard. Maybe because he’d made light of it the other day.
Whatever her reasoning for changing her life, it was significant. “Yes. It is. And I’m sure it wasn’t easy.”
She let out a noise of agreement, then a heavy silence settled in the room. “Well…” She finally cleared her throat. “As I said, I have some errands to run, so I should probably head out before the store closes.” She stood, so he started to do the same until she waved it off. “Please, sit. Eat. I’m parked right out front.”
“You sure you don’t want me to walk you out?”
“Absolutely.”
He sensed it was important for her to leave on her own to demonstrate her independence, so he sat back down. “Thanks for bringing this,” he said, lifting a stuffed tortilla.
“Of course. Can’t have you wasting away, now, can we?” Her smile was back, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. Whatever her reason for making drastic life changes, they were more than skin deep. Had she been married? Destroyed a relationship because of her substance abuse? Had her family disowned her? Had she hurt someone? Injured them? So many possibilities, each more painful than the last. But with each glimpse he got of Mickie’s psyche, one thing became clearer and clearer.
She wanted this clean, better life for herself. And she was trying hard to learn how to live in it.
Keith respected the hell out of her for that, but he also lived in the real world and knew these things rarely lasted.
“No, we can’t,” he said.
His natural inclination after a lifetime of negative experiences was to distrust addicts.
And he felt that with Mickie too, even if part of him wanted to believe she wouldn’t slip backward. The odds weren’t in her favor. It was better she walk out right now before their friendship had the opportunity to deepen. His dick might want her, but that was all.
The woman had disaster written all over her, whether it was from an impending relapse or once she grew tired of hanging out with his blue-collar, barely middle-class family. He’d learned that painful lesson the hard way once before with Della and it didn’t need repeating.
Either way, he and his siblings would end up burned, and they’d had enough experiences with fire to last the rest of their lives.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MICKIE BIT HER lower lip and shook her head. Why on earth had she brought up her sobriety? They’d been having a nice time and there she went mentioning how this was the first time in her life she was taking care of herself. That had to be just what the man wanted. A reminder of the fact she was a recovering addict.
As she stepped into the lobby of his shop, she took a breath.
At some point, she needed to learn how to talk about her past without having an internal freak out. While she blamed her avoidance of overly personal subjects on trying to remain anonymous and fly under the radar, that was an excuse. One she could fall back on when ashamed of her mistakes or scared of being judged.
She’d been called it all before, both in whispered words behind her back, to her face, and blasted all over social media.
Slut.
Junkie.
Waste of space.
Fake.
Homewrecker.
Had the insults been justified? Maybe. Probably. Some of them. But the hurtful comments had been easy enough to shrug off when she’d been using. Uncomfortable emotions were easier to process with a fuzzy brain and impaired inhibitions. It was when she was lucid that life became real and challenging.
