When Mike got back, I was going to ask him if he knew how to commit the perfect murder.
Then I hit the button on the screen to take the call and put it to my ear.
“Seriously?” I used as my greeting.
“Dusty, baby,” he said softly.
He knew I loved my brother. He knew we were close. Since he’d lived with me, he had firsthand knowledge that Darrin and I talked on the phone once or twice a week. He knew I doted on my nephews. He knew I, unlike my sister, loved Rhonda. He knew I was grieving and he thought he could use it to get back in there.
“Beau, I’m kinda busy,” I informed him.
“Are you doing okay?” he asked me.
“No. Darrin died four days ago and I’m home in The ‘Burg with my sister breathing my airspace however distantly. It’s still closer than when she’s in DC working to get ra**sts free and I’m in Texas trying to forget my parents birthed three children. So no, I’m not okay.”
“You stayin’ long? You want me to fly up?”
Why was he so dense?
“Beau, not to be a bitch or anything but what have I done in the last four months that would give you the impression I want you to fly up and be here with me?”
“Dusty, times like these are tough,” he reminded me.
“Uh, yeah, Beau. I’m getting that.”
“And you need to be around people who care about you.”
“No, I need to be around people I want to be around, ergo, not you. Again, not to be a bitch or anything,” I added, well, so I wouldn’t be a bitch or anything even while I was totally being a bitch.
“Baby, I’m tryin’ to look out for you,” he whispered coaxingly and I hated that because it reminded me that used to work on me.
It didn’t anymore.
I didn’t remind him, as I had so many times I lost track, that he should have knocked himself out to look out for me before I dumped his ass. I didn’t remind him that he forgot in a lot of ways to knock himself out for me. I didn’t remind him that I didn’t actually need him to knock himself out but at least put a little effort into us. And I didn’t remind him that I’d knocked myself out trying to make us work and he’d not made an effort until I dumped his ass. Then, when I did, he’d acted surprised like the last fourteen months of our relationship that didn’t crash and burn but died a slow, agonizing death didn’t happen and we’d been riding a high of bounty. So I didn’t remind him how much his being totally clueless pissed me off.
Instead, I reminded him of something that now, because he wanted me back, he’d forget in half a second but he took for granted for the two and a half years we were together.
“I can look out for myself.”
He was silent.
I was wondering how long Mike had been gone and thinking I needed to take his order to heart. I didn’t want to mess this up and although Mike didn’t lapse into a fifteen minute soliloquy about the shit that had gone down in his life, what he said didn’t sound good. I didn’t want to jack him around. I needed to search my feelings and I couldn’t do that when I was getting pissed at my ex-boyfriend who not only couldn’t catch a clue but also had selective hearing and he had this so he wouldn’t have to catch a clue.
“Beau, I gotta go,” I told him.
He was again silent for a moment then in a soft voice he injected with too much sweet, he replied, “Right, baby, you need me, you know where to find me.”
Don’t hold your breath, moron, I thought but, not to be a bitch, I didn’t say.
“Good-bye, Beau,” I said firmly.
“Later, Dusty,” he replied and I rolled my eyes.
Totally couldn’t catch a clue and I wasn’t laying breadcrumbs either. I’d been laying it out, straight up, for four months.
I beeped off my phone, chucked it on the nightstand, got in the rumpled bed, stared at the ceiling and tried to search my feelings.
This was difficult since I didn’t do this. Ever. I felt something, I went with it.
Like being pissed, in pain and in a room with a Mike Haines, my adolescent crush, a man who was far more beautiful at forty-three than he’d been at seventeen and eighteen and when I’d been a total bitch to him the last time I talked to him and he was twenty-one. Finding myself in his arms, I wanted to kiss him. I wanted it badly. So I kissed him.
I felt it, I went with it.
This did not always work for me. I didn’t keep track but I figured I was around fifty-fifty. Sometimes, things went south. Sometimes, I hit a home run. I kept doing it because it was me. I also kept doing it because hitting a home run made it worth surviving the times things went south.
What I knew, staring at the ceiling, was that I wanted Mike to be a home run.
I didn’t want this because he was my adolescent crush. I didn’t want this because over the years I thought of him often and did it fondly. I didn’t want this because Mike was a phenomenal lover. I didn’t want this because it sucked huge my brother had died suddenly at the age of forty-four, he was my best friend and I had no stinking clue how to live my life without him. I didn’t want this because my brother who was my best friend wanted it for me.
I just wanted it.
I heard the lock click on the door, my head turned on the pillow and I watched Mike walk in.
No. That wasn’t right.
I caught a glimpse of Mike carrying a pizza box held aloft in one hand, his fingers wrapped around the handle of a six pack of bottled beer in the other hand. He was wearing a pair of jeans that looked freaking great on him. He was also wearing a brown sweater flecked with cream and gray bits with a tall collar that stood up around his muscular neck and had a couple of undone buttons at the throat that looked freaking great on him. He was further wearing a brown leather jacket that looked freaking great on him. And last, his hair had been mussed, probably changing, he hadn’t sorted it and that looked unbelievably freaking great on him. So I sat up in bed and twisted his way to make sure I didn’t miss anything.
He walked to the bed, his eyes on me and didn’t say a word as he dumped the pizza box on it. Then he kept silent as he moved to the nightstand and put the beer there. Then he reached into his jacket and pulled out a bottle opener and dropped it with a clatter next to the beer.
I was thinking he was smart to remember to bring a bottle opener because the hotel wasn’t The Ritz but I was guessing they probably would frown on us using the edges of their furniture to force off beer caps as he shrugged off his leather jacket and threw it at the end of the bed.