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My jaw clenches so hard I can feel it grinding.
“All those Sunday brunches and family events with Dee and her new partner. A man you’ll know she goes home with at night filling in the space that used to be yours. A man she’ll fall in love with. Marriage. Kids. You’ll be Uncle Mick.”
“Fuck you.”
“No, fuck you, Mick.” He nails me hard in the eyes. “Because that’s what moving on looks like. So, if that’s not what you want, you better figure out if this precious secret of yours is worth holding on to…and you better figure it out fast.”
ChapterNineteen
Dee
Day Five Without Mick bringsa dull ache throughout my body. Like a heartsick flu. I lie in bed—another restless night spent here—listening to the solemn tattoo of morning rain hitting the roof.
I’d been wrong about O’Malley. Victor had assured me of that. But we both know Mick is lying. He didn’t have former teammates over, and he didn’t tear his knuckles on a punching bag. So, what happened? Ugh. My mind’s been in constant go-mode, and I’m still no closer to figuring it out.
If not for Lexie and Jord, I might have spiraled. Yesterday, they kept me distracted with an afternoon pedicure, and an evening of take-out sushi, Netflix, and lots of wine.
While on my own, though, I struggle not to binge. Afraid of being yanked back into that vicious cycle of stuffing each comfort-drenched bite into my mouth, followed by guilt, self-loathing, and empty promises never to do it again. I lived that way until two years ago. Until my answer to a lengthy binge and weight gain was to subsist on water, coffee, and diet pills for weeks. Until it landed me in the hospital. My rock-bottom that finally kicked me out of denial and forced me to see that I needed help.
But last week, I canceled my monthly appointment with Dr. Roland because I was on an awesome high. I should have known better. Should have anticipated the potential for a fall. After all, I’m an addict, a compulsiveovereater. Food is my drug and negative emotion is my trigger. It sounds so weak. It sounds like an excuse to pig out. But only someone who’s been there can truly understand.
Before I plunge deeper into my morose, I crawl out of bed to get ready for brunch at Mama T’s. It’s doubtful that Mick will show. That has me torn between hoping he doesn’t and wishing he does. To see him and not be with him would be sheer torture, but I also don’t want him cutting himself off from the family we share. Especially when that kind of isolation could lure him back to drinking.
I strip out of my pajamas and turn on the water as hot as I can stand it. Beneath the spray, with the persistent heat on my pebbled flesh, thoughts of Mick engulf me. I pick up his body wash and pour a liberal amount into the palm of my hand. The woodsy aroma permeates the small space.
I spread the gel over me, rubbing his scent down my neck, across my chest to the curves of my breasts. Responding to the ache of my tightened nipples, I cup my boobs and squeeze. Feel his touch on me.
I stroke the tips and my breaths turn to pants. I keep plucking with one hand, and slide the other down my torso, imagining they’re his. Big, slightly rough, arousing every inch of skin. My legs part and I feel his fingers slide between them.Ohhh. I close my eyes and see Mick. See us making love in the shower, my back pressed against the wet wall, his pleasured groans rasping into my mouth, his thick, hard cock, expertly gliding in and out of me, his deep, sexy voice telling me how good I feel, that my tight pussy is his, that I’m going to make him come so hard. Gasping, my sudsy fingertips massage my clit in short, rapid circles, my hips grinding into his imagined touch. Faster. “Yes. Oh, God.Mick,” I cry out his name and come on a quick, shuddering orgasm.
The rain has stopped. Andbecause the temperature is still relatively mild, I dress in fitted black jeans and a lightweight pullover that doesn’t quite cover my hips. I debate the bracelet Mick had given me that dangles from my wrist, and decide to leave it on. With my hair still wet, I scrunch the curls with product, brush on bronzer to boost my pale olive skin, and lightly dab white eye shadow into the corners of my eyes to camouflage the tiredness. A trick Lexie taught me.
I haven’t told Mama T or Maria about the…no, not breakup, that sounds so final. I settle for separation, though that is only marginally better. Neither has Mick, obviously. My family would have come running if they knew. Victor and Isabelle check in on me every day. But out of respect that it’s our situation to reveal, or maybe staying hopeful too, they haven’t shared our story. But I’ll have to say something today when I arrive for brunch alone.
Before I leave, I tidy the kitchen and take the empty wine bottles and sushi containers out to the garage. It looks odd without Mick’s Porsche taking up the space. My entire house feels that way. Technically, with the papers signed, it’s our house. That only makes me more sad.
Walking across the concrete floor, I throw the bottles in with the recycling and lift the lid off the large green bin to toss the plastic containers inside. That’s when I notice the edge of a manila envelope. I always recycle paper. I’m anal about it. I remove the envelope.
It’s addressed toM. Peters. I feel my brow furrow. There’s only his name handwritten on the front. No address or sender information, which means it hadn’t been received by mail or courier. And that Mick likely tossed it sometime between the last garbage pick-up on Monday morning and when he left Tuesday night.
I check inside. Nothing. In hot pursuit, I remove the two garbage bags already in the bin, and untie the first one. Yesterday, snooping through Mick’s laptop, today the trash…
In my haste to check the bags, I almost miss a lone crumpled piece of paper at the bottom of the bin. I stop what I’m doing to dive my hand inside. The paper had been crushed so hard that it resembles a crinkled ball. I work to flatten out the wrinkles and see that it’s a note, also handwritten with a thin, black, felt-tip pen. Short, terse, and to the point.
My chest tightens and my knees feel weak. All this time I thought Mick must have received a disturbing call, text, or email. It had to have been this—an unsigned note, delivered here. Someone who would know where to find him. Someone familiar. Someone whose handwriting Mick would recognize.
Time to talk.
Could it be? The nightmare. Mick distancing himself from me. The heightened security. The bottle of Jameson.Ohmigod. My breathing goes shallow. Whiskey was his father’s drink of choice. Mick had told me that long ago. It’s Malcolm who was at Mick’s on Friday night. It was his blood on Mick’s shirt.
He’s protecting me from his father.
Two hours later, I reachWhitley’s Farm. Papa T used to bring us here at Thanksgiving for their hayrides, corn maze, and the best pumpkin pie ever. In the winters, Victor and Mick would toboggan and tube down the steep hills. I was always too scared and self-conscious to try.
According to Mama T, the Whitleys retired years ago and put the property up for sale. Now Malcolm lives here in a house he had built and Mick paid for.
I pull up to the black iron gates. I haven’t seen Malcolm Peters in fifteen years. I used to think I saw glimpses of him when I first ran away to Chicago. It was odd that my mind would have conjured him up because I hated the man. He had a snake-oil salesman type of charm. But beneath the gleam of his fake pearly white smile was a violent alcoholic and a brutal cruelty. Good sense warns me to be careful. Assuming he’s even home.
As I lower my window to press the intercom, I hear a car pull up behind me. Through the side mirror, I see an unfamiliar gray sedan. The door on the driver’s side opens and out steps Stiles. His emotionless mask is in place as he approaches.
