All That She Desires: The Stranger (7 page)
Read All That She Desires: The Stranger Online
Authors: Melissa Morgan
"I didn't come out of nowhere. I came out of
somewhere, and I'm a fucking human being with feelings. And I just fucked some
dude who lied about being married. I'm not obsessed with marriage or anything.
I don't really care about it. As far as I can tell, people pull marriages on
and off like bad fashion, so I'm not all hung up on that, but I do care about
being lied to by unavailable men. It makes me not want to trust men, and I have
enough issues as it is."
"Well, I'm sorry about that. And I'm sorry all
this happened. I've been living like I'm single for the last several months. As
far as I'm concerned, my marriage is over and she is my ex-wife. But as you can
see, we've still just some untangling to do. I didn't expect her to drive two
hours to get here first thing in the morning without calling first to let me
know she was coming."
"Does she know we hooked up?"
"She knows, but she won't admit it. She'll ask
me about it months from now."
Fiona snorted. "It sounds like you've been in
this situation before."
He shrugged. "I just know her. And I need to
get out of this thing. It just doesn't work. She's slowly making me hate
myself."
"I can sympathize."
Mike sighed. On the counter was a pen and a small
pad of grocery list paper. He wrote something on the pad. "Look, I
understand how you feel. But I want you to know that I think you're really
awesome, and if you can survive what you're going through right now, and I
survive mine, maybe we can catch up some time. Exchange survival stories."
Fiona wiped away a tear. "I can't promise I'll
want that."
He nodded. "I talked to Steve about painting
the place. He doesn't mind if I wait until you're all done here, so I won't
come around bothering you anymore. If you want to talk to me, just come and
knock. Or email me. That's my email address."
She fluttered a little goodbye wave as he backed out
the front door. She sat, trying to keep herself from crying, although she
wasn't sure why. Was she really sad about this? She couldn't even decide if he
was a cool guy or not. He was either a guy who cheated on his wife, or a guy
who was whipped by the woman who was divorcing him. It was cooler when he was
just the down on his luck painter who wasn't going to let anything stand in the
way of his dreams.
Fiona got up and peeled the note paper off the pad.
She looked at Mike's email address and considered it, then used her cigarette
lighter to set the little paper on fire. She held it and turned it while the
flames consumed his details, and then she dropped the rest into the sink, where
it burned to gray ash. "I think," she said out loud, "I am
emotionally exhausted."
The cottage was a mess. She packed up her stuff,
pulled the deck chairs back inside, and cleaned up the living room. She washed
the dishes and put them away; cleaned out the food she'd hadn't eaten, and
packed up all the garbage. Then she cleaned her stuff out of the bathroom,
unplugged the fridge and propped the door open, and got ready to go.
Everything was back the way it was before she
arrived. Well, the cottage was the same, anyway. She felt completely different.
She'd decided to abandon the only life she'd known, fell in love a little bit,
and had her heart a little bit broken. She stood in front of the cottage and
lit a cigarette.
A smile played across her lips when she realized
that if what happened here had happened back in the city, it wouldn't have
bothered her nearly as much. If he had been some goon who tried to hook up with
the pop star, it would have been an easy bet that he was actually married. So
why had she lowered her guard out here? Maybe she wasn't as tough and jaded as
she thought.
But it was nice to feel some actual emotions about
another human, even if it ended with some disappointment. Maybe she should move
out of the city. Open herself up a little.
She finished loading the car, although she decided
to leave the rest of the vodka. She tucked the bottles into the cupboard under
the sink and left a thank you note on the kitchen table with instructions to
check the cupboard for a surprise.
Fiona got into the Lexus and started it up. It was
time to go back to the city and tear down her entire life. Maybe, she thought,
after everything is cleaned up and she's found herself a nice little place, she
should get a guitar. Yeah, it's time to learn guitar, she figured. And maybe
she should learn to paint, too. For fun.
She backed the car out of the driveway, and then
paused. She had a weird feeling in her gut, like she couldn't walk away like
this. She tried to think of what kind of song a moment like this would become:
an auto-tuned piece of shiny pop shit, singing about walking away from the
cheating man, or a quiet, emotionally raw ballad, wondering about the feelings
left behind.
Putting the car into reverse, Fiona rolled the car
back up the road to Mike's cottage. Both cars were still parked in front. Fiona
stopped the Lexus and got out, then banged on Mike's front door.
Mary Ellen answered. She looked uncertain of herself
when she saw Fiona.
"Hi," Fiona said. "I'd like to talk
to Mike."
Mike appeared in the doorway. Ignoring Mary Ellen,
Fiona stepped inside and wrapped her arms around his neck, catching him in a
tight hug.
"Thank you," she whispered in his ear.
"I didn't keep your info, but if someday you're free, really free, come
and find me." She kissed him on the cheek and released him. Mary Ellen was
staring at them with an open mouth, unable to speak. Fiona barely spared her a
glance as she walked out, closing the door behind her.
She could hear their voices through the thin door as
she got back into her rental car. They had a rough day ahead of them. Fiona
smiled and started the drive back to the city. She had work to do.
*****
Melissa Morgan’s other
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No part of this publication may be copied,
reproduced in any format, by any means, electronic or otherwise, without prior
consent from the copyright owner and publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, names,
places and events are the product of the author's imagination or used
fictitiously.
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