Mike, Mike & Me (16 page)

“Well, I was just telling you what you said, Mommy.”

I clench my teeth. “Mommy knows what she said, Josh. Mommy couldn’t help it. Mommy got hurt.”

Another set of footsteps patter into the kitchen immediately. I look up to see that my firstborn has joined his little brother in the doorway, still clad in his baseball print SkivvyDoodles with a fierce case of bedhead. His big dark eyes, so like his daddy’s, are worried.

“What happened to you, Mommy? Are you okay?”

I turn off the water and wrap my blistering hand in a dish towel. “I’m fine, sweetie. I just got burned.”

“Were you playing with matches?”

I smile and kiss the spiky patch of hair on top of Mikey’s head, and then the identical one on Josh’s. “No, I wasn’t playing with matches.”

“Good. Because that’s naughty.”

“And dangerous, too,” Josh adds solemnly.

“You’re right, boys. It is naughty
and
dangerous.”

So, I think ruefully, scraping the charred toast into the garbage can,
is playing with fire.

sixteen

The past

A
s luck would have it, before Mike could accept the job in Silicon Valley, the software company in Manhattan called him for a third interview. They flew him back to New York the first week in August and put him up at a hotel in the East Fifties, near their office.

It wasn’t a luxury hotel like the Plaza or the Waldorf, just one of those Manhattan East Suite places. Still, I was impressed. Like I said, in my industry, entry-level applicants are lucky if they’re allowed to keep a pen after an interview. They certainly aren’t put up in hotel suites complete with kitchenettes
and
coffeemakers.

Naturally, I was staying with Mike while he was here. His idea, not mine. Not that I protested. But I didn’t dare suggest it myself, lest he inform me he wasn’t ready for a commitment like that.

Ironically, Mike called and told me about the interview the morning after my non-date with Other Mike at La Margarita. He sounded so upbeat about the software place and so excited to see me that I instantly realized I’d made a big mistake the night before. I wouldn’t be seeing Other Mike again. No way was I going to jeopardize my longtime relationship for a few laughs and a great pair of dimples.

I told myself he probably wouldn’t even call me again, anyway. But when he did—twice—I screened his calls. My Mike was back in town, maybe for good, and that was all that mattered.

“You know what we should do tomorrow?” I asked him as we lounged in bed watching
The Tonight Show
the night he arrived.

“No, what should we do?” He nuzzled my neck. We were both naked, limbs lazily entwined under the covers. Naturally, we had made a beeline for the hotel from the airport.

“I should call in sick to work, and we should stay here all day, in bed,” I said, raking my fingers through his short, dark hair.

“Can’t. I have my interview in the morning, remember?”

“Oh, yeah.” I stifled a yawn.

“Sleepy?” he asked with a smile.

“A little.”

“I wish I were. It’s barely nine o’clock my time.”

His time.

My time.

That our body clocks were no longer in sync really bothered me. We used to fall asleep together and wake together, but not anymore. Now, whenever he was here visiting, I heard him prowling around long after I was drifting in and out of consciousness. Then, when at last I was feeling refreshed and wide awake by the light of day, it was impossible to rouse him for breakfast before noon.

“You know,” I said, stifling another yawn, “I can still call in sick tomorrow morning and wait here for you. And when you finish your interview, you can come right back here and we can celebrate.”

He laughed. “Celebrate what?”

“That you got the job. You’re going to, you know.”

“How do you know?”

“I’m psychic.” I pressed my lips to his bare chest, then laid my head against it.

He tightened his arms around me. “Oh, yeah? Well, go ahead and tell me what else is going to happen, then. What does my future hold?”

I grabbed his hand and pretended to examine his palm. “Hmm, let’s see. You’re going to live happily ever after.”

“Where?”

“In New York,” I said decidedly, tempted to add, with me.

I bit back that last part, though, knowing I didn’t dare. He might be back in town and considering taking a job here, but that didn’t mean he’d changed his mind about our moving in together.

“I don’t know, Beau,” he said, and his voice was no longer teasing. “The research job out West still sounds pretty good. And I might not get an offer tomorrow.”

“You will,” I said with a confidence that didn’t quite resonate. “They don’t fly you back for another interview and put you up in a hotel if they’re not serious about you.”

“Well, what if I screw up the interview tomorrow?”

I pulled back to look up into his uncertain gaze. “You won’t,” I said, running a fingertip down his cheek. “You’re great, Mike, and they’ll want you…”

Just as much as I do.

He kissed me, on the lips this time, tenderly. “I hope they do. But if they don’t—”

“They will.”

“But if they don’t,” he repeated, “we’ll have to talk, Beau.”

I frowned. “About your moving up to San Francisco. I know.”

He nodded. “It wouldn’t have to be forever. And it wouldn’t mean our relationship has to change. We’ve been separated for as long as we’ve known each other. We’ve always managed to make it work.”

“This is different.”

“How?”

“It’s much farther away. And before, we always knew there was an end in sight. We always knew we’d be together for the whole summer, every summer.”

“True.”

“We were supposed to be together
this
summer,” I reminded him.

“I know. But this thing with Bradley has been an incredible experience, Beau. I know you don’t understand a whole lot about technology, but this project we’re working on has the power to change the world. And the research job in Silicon Valley is the same type of thing.”

“You said it might also be a big waste of time.”

“Right,” he admitted. “There’s no way of knowing. But listen…you have to trust me. You know I’m crazy about you.”

My heart skipped a beat, the way it always did when he looked at me that way and said something like that.

“I’m crazy about you, too,” I said softly.

“I’m not going to let go of everything we have together just because I’m living across the country. You’ll come out to visit. And maybe you’ll love it so much you’ll want to move out there, too.”

“What if I don’t?”

“Maybe I’ll want to come back East.”

“What if you don’t?”

“We’ll work it out. You’re overthinking everything, and you’re getting way ahead, anyway. Maybe the job in New York will come through.”

“It’ll come through,” I said again, firmly, almost daring to believe that I could make it happen by sheer will.

“And if it doesn’t come through, we’ll work things out.”

I sighed. “I can’t stand the thought of living apart again, Mike.”

“I know. Believe me, Beau, it doesn’t sound great to me, either. I don’t like being away from you. I keep thinking about all the things we could be doing together…and I get worried that you’re going to find somebody else.”

My heart stopped.

“Why would you worry about that?” I asked slowly, wondering if he could possibly know what I had done.

Not that what I had done was so wrong. I had drinks and dinner with another guy. So what? It wasn’t even a date. We didn’t even kiss.

But you wanted to,
I reminded myself.
You wanted him to kiss you. If he had tried, you would have let him.

Good thing he hadn’t tried.

My definition of cheating was kissing somebody else. If there was no kissing, there was no cheating.

And anyway, I reminded myself, Mike was just speaking hypothetically. Still…

“You know I would never cheat on you!” I told him vehemently. Maybe too vehemently, because he scowled.

Before he could question me, I went on, “Even when we were supposed to be allowed to see other people, I never did.”

Okay, it was a white lie.

The first few years of our relationship, when we left summer camp and went back to our separate lives, we always told each other that we were free to date. We thought it was the mature thing to do. We just promised we wouldn’t talk about it unless one of us met somebody we liked better.

I assumed he never did, and I never did, either.

But I did date. I went to movies and dances with other guys. I saw some of them more than once, and I kissed more than a few. But Mike was always there, in the back of my mind. He had my heart from the moment we met, and I was pretty certain I had his.

I mean, when something works as well as our relationship always had, you didn’t tamper with it. Why would you? My trying to recapture with somebody else what Mike and I already had together would make about as much sense as some wannabe superstar remaking a great old song like, say, “American Pie.” Or an aspiring Hitchcock remaking an awesome movie like
Psycho.

When the original was a classic, nobody else was ever going to come along and make it better. Period.

“Beau,” Mike said now, his breath warm against my bare shoulder, “we’re going to make this work. Trust me. No matter what happens.”

I wanted to believe that. I wanted to trust him. I wanted us to go on being
us
.

“But…” I took a deep breath. “You don’t even want to live with me, Mike. You said you’re not ready for that.”

I could feel the tension tightening his body as I spoke. I wished I could take back the words, but they were out there.

“Please don’t push me on that, Beau.”

“I’m not pushing you. I’m just stating a fact.”

He said nothing.

“Mike, I’m not saying we should move in together right away—”

“You’re not? Because it sounds like that’s exactly what you’re saying.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Sure you are. And I just don’t get it. What’s the rush, Beau?”

“There’s no rush. But I guess I just don’t get it, either. Why are you dragging your feet?”

“I’m not dragging my feet. I’m just not in any hurry to make more than one huge decision right now that could impact the rest of my life. One thing at a time. I have to figure out my career before I can even think about anything else.”

“But the decision about your career isn’t entirely separate from the decision about us.”

“Sure it is.”

“No, it isn’t. Not when where you live is going to impact our relationship.”

“It doesn’t have to.”

“Yes, it does. If you’re living thousands of miles away, our relationship is impacted.”

“You won’t be happy if I’m living anywhere other than under the same roof with you.”

“That’s not true, Mike.” I pulled myself away abruptly and sat up to face him. “You’re not listening. I just want to know whether there’s a possibility of it down the road, or if we’re both just wasting time.”

“I’m just wasting your time? You think this relationship is wasting your time?”

“No! I didn’t say that. I—”

“You—”

“Wait, Mike. Just listen. We’ve been together for—”

“I know how long we’ve been together, Beau.”

“Please don’t interrupt me. All I’m saying is that after all these years, it’s time to sink or swim, Mike.”

Gazing up at me from his white hotel pillow, he just blinked and said, “Wow.”

Yeah.
Wow.

I think I just gave him an ultimatum.

An inadvertent ultimatum, at that.

Oops.

“I’m tired,” Mike said, and rolled over, turning his back on me.

But I knew he wasn’t really tired. It was only nine o’clock his time.

His time.

My time.

Obviously, like I said, when it came to the time thing, we were definitely not in sync.

seventeen

The present

T
ypical weeknight dinner hour at our house: Somebody left the television blasting a Nickelodeon cartoon downstairs; the older boys are at the half-set table fighting over who gets which vinyl-coated place mat; I’m balancing a fussy Tyler on one hip while stirring the fake orange cheese powder into the overcooked Scooby-Doo–shaped macaroni in a pot on the stove.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m a decent cook when I actually
cook.
But I’m not about to go to the trouble and expense necessary to concoct my famous veal saltimbocca or chicken chausseur for three finicky kids who prefer simple carbs and synthetic cheese from a sixty-nine-cent box.

On the rare occasions Mike is actually home for dinner on a weeknight, I will occasionally surprise him with a home-cooked meal from scratch. And occasionally, I will give him simple carbs and synthetic cheese from a sixty-nine-cent box. He knows better than to complain. I have often reminded him that he’s as capable as I am of opening a cookbook and throwing together a fabulous meal—something he has yet to do.

In the midst of the chaos, the front door opens and closes, an incident so unprecedented that everybody but Sponge-Bob SquarePants falls silent for a moment.

Then Josh exclaims, “Daddy’s home!”

My eyes immediately go to the stove clock. It’s not even six-thirty yet.

“Daddy’s not home, Josh.”

Yet I hear footsteps and the jangling of keys in the front hall. Either Daddy is indeed home, or a stranger just broke in to our house. A stranger who has his own set of keys.

To tell you the truth, both scenarios seem equally outlandish. True, Mike said he’d be home early tonight, but I wasn’t born yesterday. If I believed his promises, I’d also expect Mikey’s framed school picture from last September to be hung in its appointed position above the mantel any second now.

Still, the boys have abandoned their seats at the kitchen table and are making a beeline for the next room, where I can hear Mike laughing and greeting them.