Mending Michael (10 page)

HOLLY

The house that time forgot.

That's how I'd describe it.

This house is creepy, and being here, with Mick gone, gives me the chills. The cable box is probably the only thing made in this decade. How can a mother and her child live here without having anything new? Well, aside from Kenna's toys. They at least look new.

After flicking the channels for several minutes, I get up off the blue and pink floral love seat and lift the top of the piano bench. A handful of old pieces of sheet music are in disarray inside the bench. I carefully pile them in my hand and sit on the bench, sorting through them to find a full song.

The first full set I pull together happens to be my favorite piece—“Canon in D” by Pachebel. I spread the sheets against the piano stand, even though I can play this song by heart, and let my fingers commandeer the keys. When I'm finished with Canon, I go through the rest of the sheets and find a few Journey songs. Though I'm not too familiar with Journey, I find the tune to "Open Arms" pleasant and continue playing it until I get it right. It's a sweet sounding song and even though the lyrics are too syrupy for my taste, I enjoy playing it on the piano. When I've had enough of reading notes, I stick the music back inside the bench and play the songs I've taught myself—"Bohemian Rhapsody" by Queen, "Bella's Lullaby" from the Twilight movie, and my favorite, Ms. Hepburn's song, "Moon River."

It's while I'm playing "Moon River" that Mick walks in from the kitchen. I stop playing immediately.

"Moon River," he points out, walking toward me.

I stand, done playing and ready to eat. "You know it?"

"
Breakfast at Tiffany's
. Audrey Hepburn."

If it is at all possible, I feel my heart smile. My favorite movie, and he's heard of it. "Have you ever...watched it?" I ask, hoping.

"I have. When I was young. With my mother...you remind me of her." Did I just see him blush?

"Of your mother?"

He shakes his head, his mouth is turned up at the corners, but his expression remains serious. Intense. "Of Audrey Hepburn."

It
is
possible for my heart to smile, because I can feel it spread across my entire chest. I love Audrey Hepburn. She is my idol, and I try so hard to emulate her...her inner beauty, her refinement.  But alas, my snarcastic—yes, I made that up—personality camouflages my efforts. But it pleases me to know Mick sees it. If it's my inner beauty he's talking about anyway.

"Thanks," I say, probably blushing, definitely embarrassing myself.

"Come on." Mick waves two fingers backwards. "Let's eat while the pizza's hot."

In the kitchen, I grab a few paper towels off the rack, instead of searching for plates, but Mick beats me to it and pulls out a couple paper plates.

"I got two six-packs of soda. Take your pick," Mick tells me, while he puts a slice of pizza each on our plates.

I snap a can of lemon soda off the six pack and open it. "Thanks," I say, holding up the can.

"Thank
you
. For everything."

Mick looks embarrassed, so I underplay my willingness to help him. "Yeah, well, I'm doing it for that little girl of yours, so don't flatter yourself." My words come out harsher than I'd intended, but I shrug it off. Better to keep him on his toes than not.

"Well, thank you anyway."

The rest of our pizza is eaten in awkward silence, neither one of us comfortable enough around each other to just shoot the breeze, as my mother would say.

Once we've cleaned up the kitchen, Mick finally speaks. "I don't know where to go from here."

Now since we had been eating in silence, my mind had wandered on such topics as
What would kissing Mick taste like
? or
What does Mick look for in a girl
?
or
I wonder what those long fingers would feel like circling my skin, and my breasts...
and well, I digress. So when he says he doesn't know where to go from here, my mind immediately thinks he is talking about us and a potential relationship. But once I get my flaky head out of the clouds, I realize he's talking about what to do when we're done with the house.

So I try to keep from turning too bright red and say, "Well, you need to get someone in to fill in that eyesore out back. I'm sure no social service woman is going to find that safe by any means."

I notice Mick cringe, but he nods.

"Then, I guess, you need to figure out some sort of schedule. You know, for Kenna. Something solid, like daycare, and I think you need to be here for her at night. Just my opinion," I say, holding my hands up in that all too cliched fashion.

"Right. Like that's gonna be easy for a nighttime bartender."

"I'm just thinking, being home in the evenings is probably important to those people. I mean, daycares are only open during the day, right?"

Mick walks away, but not before I catch him muttering profanities under his breath.

I follow him to Charity's room. "Is there a basement I should clean or something?" Figuring it best to change the subject, considering his reaction.

He continues clearing off the rest of her bed covers and doesn't answer me.

So I stand there, not sure what to do.  When a few minutes go by, I decide to search for the door to the basement myself. The closed door at the end of the long hallway looks like it could lead to the basement, but when I go to check, it's locked.

As soon as I return to Charity's room, not one of my feet has even entered the doorway, Mick growls, "The basement isn't a finished one. It's just the laundry room, but feel free to check it if you think it'll make
those people
happy."

Okay. He's back to being Mick. Cautiously, I ask about the locked door and if it was the door to the basement.

His back straightens and his fists clench before he turns around. "That's not the basement door," he snarls.

"Oh." I back up, an action I hadn't been aware I was doing until I'd hit the wall across the way.

Dropping his shoulders, but not unclenching his fists, he opens and closes his mouth, then, "Are they going to ask about that room?"

Still backed up against the wall, I lift a shoulder. "I mean I would think so and all. For... all they know, a... dead body could be in..." As soon as the words slip from my mouth, I'm fully aware they shouldn't have been said.

There's a new level of intensity in his eyes.
Could
there be a dead body in there?

"Um. I'm sorry. I didn't mean..." I falter.
What does one say when they think there really could be a dead body in a locked room down the hall?

"I have some phone calls to make," he states.

"Oh...kay."

"Right. So... I'll see you... tomorrow or something."

"Oh." Did he forget he drove me here?

"Thanks," he says, and walks to the front door and opens it.

"Um. I... uh, I just... need to... my purse." He has me so flustered right now that my words are getting caught in my throat. But I grab my purse off the back of the kitchen chair and slip it across my chest. Walking out his front door, I turn one last time, just to be sure he's not joking, but he's already slammed the door.

Okay. I guess he wasn't joking.

The urge to bang on his door and demand he drive me home wriggles at me, but my gut tells me to leave it alone.

Thank goodness for the GPS on my phone, otherwise I'd never get out of these winding suburban roads. I type in the address for Donny's and start the 6.2 mile walk back to my car.

MICK

Suppressed secrets have a way of taking root, planting themselves firmly and intricately within the foundation of who we are, then sprouting at the most unseasonable time.

Maybe she should have minded her own business, then I wouldn't have kicked her out.

The doorbell rings, and I think I am not in the mood to explain. Not now. But I answer it anyway. It's not Holly. It's Lara.

"What?"

"Mick." She grabs me by the arm and hugs me, gripping really hard. "Oh my God. Luke told me. I am so sorry."

Pushing her away, I let her in and shut the door.

"How ya gonna get her back?"

"I don't know," I say, not in the mood to talk to her either.

But she ignores my obvious irritation and hugs me anyway.

And again, I push her away. "Not now, Lara."

"They can't keep her, can they?" she asks, undeterred.

"I don't know," I growl out at her.

"Damn," she utters to herself, then sits down on my couch. As if I invited her to stay. "Was that girl the social worker?"

"What girl?"

"The reddish-haired one. There was a girl walking down your walk before I came in."

"Holly," I say out loud to myself. That's when it occurs to me. I drove her here. She has no ride home. "Lara," I blurt, "you gotta go. I gotta..." I trail off, grabbing my keys and pushing Lara out the door.

"Wait. Who's Holly?"

"Not now, Lara."

"Are you seeing her?" she asks angrily, as if I have no right to see anyone after she fucking cheated on me.

"Later, Lara." I ignore her outrageous question and hop on my bike, securing the second helmet behind me.

"But Mick..."

I rev the engine for effect and take off to find Holly.

What an asshole I am to make her walk back to Haledon.

Since I anticipate her walking towards High Mountain Road, I head in that direction.

"Get on," I order, with a rasp, when I catch up to her, after seeing her firm little ass wiggling ever so slightly in her denim jeans.

She grabs the helmet I hand her and says, "Lucky for you I wore my new sneakers today, 'cause if I'd worn my usual shoes, the heel would be jammed up your ass right now."

"Just get the fuck on."

After she climbs on behind me and her arms encompass my waist, her breath rolls down my neck like a warm breeze when she whispers, "I’m sorry if I said something that got you upset back there."

I nod, but don't respond. It wouldn't be right to accept her apology. She did nothing wrong.

It takes more concentration driving now, with Holly holding onto me, than it had earlier today. How can this girl affect me like a wool sweater on a hot day one minute, and in the next, her touch comforts me like she's been my safe haven forever? I don't get it. I almost want to prolong this ride and take her someplace far away, but my luck, we'll get there, run out of gas, and I'll be stuck with that wool sweater again. With no way out.

So I drop her at her car and shut down my engine. She swings her leg around, but I grab her arm, gently this time, to stop her from walking away. "You didn't say anything to get me upset." My words are spoken softly, because my stomach is in knots. "It was me, not you."

The early evening sun casts a golden gleam on Holly's dark brown eyes, and then her smile turns into a smirk. "It's not you, it's me, huh? You say that a lot?" But she smiles again, and I know she's teasing. "Give me your phone."

"What? Why?"

"Just give it to me."

She has a way of making me obey, so I do.

"I don't know what you want with it."

Her thumbs move expeditiously across my touch screen before it's back in my hands. I raise my eyebrows in question.

"It's gonna be another difficult night. I thought you might need to call me."

All at once, my heart is in my throat. I pull her by the wrist again, maybe not so gently, so that she's butted up against my chest, and then still holding on to her wrist, I wrap her arm and mine behind her and pull her even closer. Before I lose the nerve, I set my lips on hers in a firm kiss. Not one of those open-mouthed kisses, but the kind that will relay just how grateful I am that she decided to be there for me, even though we can barely tolerate each other.

I didn't want to remove my lips from her velvet ones, but unless I open my mouth and pry hers open with my tongue, my gratitude kiss would just turn into an awkward kiss.

So I pull away.

"Thank you," I manage to say again, half groaning from a newfound hunger for Holly Buchanan.

HOLLY

"He kissed me, Rose."

I hate the quixotic tone of my voice.

"Mick? The guy who can't stand you?"

"The very same." I sigh, sitting down at my desk and opening up my computer.

"Did you kiss him back?"

"Well, it wasn't like that exactly. It was closed mouth."

"Eww. How old are you? Eight?" she asks behind me.

I chuckle. "No, I mean...he was saying thank you. It was kind of like a thank you kiss, but...we let it linger a little."

"Do you like him?" Rose sits in the chair next to me.

I sigh in contemplation, smiling to myself. "When I don't
hate
him." Leaning back, I close my eyes to recall the moment he pulled me toward him.

Rose shakes her head at my silliness and gets up. "So what was he thanking you for?" she asks, now putting folded clothes into a small suitcase on her bed.

"Where you going?"

"A dance competition in the city. Didn't I tell you?"

"Maybe. On a Saturday night?"

"No. Tomorrow. But I have to check in at seven a.m., so my mom got us a room. She's picking me up in an hour."

"Oh. Good luck."

"Thanks."

She sits at the edge of her bed and sighs. "So you didn't answer me. What was he thanking you for?"

"Helping him clean his sister's house," I say with a smirk.

"No, really. What was..."

"Really. I helped him clean up his sister's house."

"You? Miss 'I-don't-like-to-sweat,-it-makes-my-hair-frizzy' cleaned somebody's house?"

"Yup," I say, slightly distracted, because I'm worried about Mick again.

"Why?" Rose asks seriously.

"It's a long story."

"I have to meet my mother at the coffee shop. Why don't you tell me down there? We'll have almost an hour."

"Okay. Why not?"

***

"We close at seven," the annoyed barista complains. "So you need to take your conversation outside."

Rose apologizes to the whiny brat and promises to be out in an instant. I, however, tell her to chill the fuck down, we got a whole five minutes left before it's seven o'clock.

The barista stomps away, while Rose rolls her eyes and shakes her head at me.

"What?" I ask her.

"You're like two different people." She half laughs, half scolds. "When you're in a mood, watch out."

"What? We got five more minutes."

"She wants to clean up, let's go."

We take our near empty lattes and leave the girl to her cleaning.

"Well, it's really nice of you to be helping him out," Rose says, picking up her suitcase, because her mother just pulled up. "That poor little girl," she says of Kenna, since now Rose knows as much of Mick's story as I do.

"Yeah. Well, good luck tomorrow. Kick some dancing ass." I give her a tight hug goodbye, because, well, I love Rose, and I’m not so sure I show her that love enough.

"See you tomorrow night," she says, hugging me back and rubbing my back.

We separate, I wave her off, and I head back to the dorm. As tired as I am, I will
not
go to sleep at seven o'clock on a Saturday night.

"Griff," I say when he answers my call.

"Holl."

"You hanging tonight?"

"We are. My house. Come on down."

"'Kay. Be there in a few."

I'm just done drying my hair after my shower when my phone dings. It's a text from a number I don't recognize.

Are you busy tonight? I don't want to be alone. Trying not to drink.

Right away, I know who it is. I’d given him my number, but I never took his.

Me:
Mick?

Mick:
Yeah. It's me.

Me:
Where can I meet you?

Mick:
I can pick you up. Where do you live?

Me:
Hunter Hill. Resident Building #3. Do you know where that is?

Mick:
I'll find it. Be there in ten?

Me:
K. I'll be outside.

I can't believe Mick actually called. Admittedly, part of me hoped he would, but I thought asking for my help already today probably exceeded his pride-swallowing limit. But he did call, and he's on his way.

Since I thought I was going to Griffin's to chill, I had just thrown on a tank and an over-sized cardigan with my leggings, and flip-flops. I'm guessing the flips are a no-no on the bike, but would I be setting some kind of precedent by changing into something nicer?

In a concerted effort to stay indifferent toward Mick, I decide that yes, it'd be unwise to change my outfit, so I keep on my loungewear, even though it goes against every fiber of my being, and slip on my floral Doc Martens to protect my feet on his motorcycle.

Now all I have to do is put out the raging fire in my stomach.