So Much More (18 page)

And over the next hour, I learn something important.
 

Love is an act
.
 

What we just did. The way our bodies and minds partnered to please each other—to put the other first—was making love. I’m in awe as I lie here beneath her, her body still trembling from aftershocks, my body slack from my release only a moment ago.

The kissing.

The careful attention shown.

The connection.

The words spoken.

The pace.

The quiet assurances.

The rhythm.

The climax.

Every last detail was an act of love.

I’ve never been given this gift.

I’ve never given this gift, not like this.

Which makes me treasure it even more because even though we’re not in love, the transfer of love was so damn real.

I smile at her when she looks at me. “You took my hate and turned it into love.”

She smiles back. “Gladly. You took mine, too, Seamus.” It’s her soft place to land voice.

I take a deep breath to calm my racing heart and initiate an embrace.

We wrap each other up in a tangle of limbs.
 

The hug lasts hours.

It endures deep sleep and emerges intact on the other side.

“Morning, neighbor.” I know she’s smiling before I open my eyes.

“Morning, neighbor.” I’m smiling, too, until my hangover announces its intention to ruin my day. My stomach is queasy, and my head is ferociously reminding me that it doesn’t like wine.

After I use her bathroom and dress, I sit down on the corner of Faith’s bed. She’s wearing the horrendous BBQ t-shirt again. I stare at the letters when I speak. I stare so hard that after a few seconds they’re not letters any longer. “Miranda took my kids. They’re gone.” My voice is hollow, like my heart.

When she doesn’t say anything, I pry my gaze from the blur of color on her shirt and meet her eyes. They’ve turned to liquid, sliding down her cheeks. She shakes her head. “How?”

“Lies. She’s an evil bitch.”

“What kind of lies? You’re a great dad, Seamus.” Her voice is calm, but the tears are still flowing.

“Apparently, I’m a drug user who’s dating a prosti—” I cut myself off because I can’t say it. I don’t want to drag her into my nightmare.

She takes a deep breath and lets it out before she finishes for me. “Prostitute. She thinks because I’m a stripper, I’m a prostitute.”

I nod. “It’s worse. She’s has signed statements from men who claim they’ve paid for sex. With you.”

The tears are no longer silent. A hiccup sets off a deluge. “I’ve never, Seamus. You have to believe me. It takes everything in me to dance in front of strangers.
Everything in me
. It’s degrading and makes me feel like an object, rather than a human being. I could never have sex with a stranger.” She squats down in front of me and puts her hands on my knees. She’s looking at me through mascara smeared eyes. “Last night was only the second time I’ve had sex, but it was the only time it mattered. What I gave you last night was special. You have no idea how special. I wouldn’t do that with some random guy.”

I hold her face in my hands. “I know, Faith.” I do know. What happened between us last night was special. “I’m sure she paid people to write the statements. Or, hell, for all I know she wrote them. Like I said, she’s evil.” Faith’s so fragile, so pure; I still can’t erase the image of her topless on a stage from my mind. It doesn’t reconcile with the person I know. “Why do you do it? Strip, I mean. I know you said it’s part of your research, but there has to be more.”

“I need the money.” She sounds a little ashamed and a lot determined.

“Get a roommate,” I challenge.

She looks around the room. “Where are they going to sleep? Not too many roommates like to share a bed, Seamus. This space isn’t exactly conducive to more than one bed.”

I nod. “Move somewhere else and get a roommate?”

She shakes her head. “My lease is almost up, but for now, I need to be here.” She’s adamant.

“Why?”

“Research,” she says simply.

I shake my head at her evasiveness. “Research is not the answer to everything.”

She closes her eyes as if she’s frustrated. “It’s my everything. I’m trying to find my birth mother. I thought maybe I could save some money and pay someone to help me search. I need to figure out who I am.”

I scrub my hands over my face and mutter in agreement, “I need to forget who I am,” before I look at her and say, “And you need to keep searching for your mom. That’s important.”

“You know who you are, Seamus. Don’t forget. You need to fight for him. You need to fight for your kids. Get them back. They belong with you.”

I nod. And then I huff. “It sounds so easy, doesn’t it? Get them back.” I huff again and run my hands through my hair. “Short of driving to Seattle and kidnapping them, it feels impossible.” I look at her glare and correct myself, “It’s not
impossible
. I know that, but it’s daunting, you know? Like searching for your birth mother. Miranda has me by the balls. And she has money. I don’t. That makes the fight that much harder.”

She nods.

“I want them back
now
. I want to walk upstairs and see them sitting on the couch. Waiting another week to see them is too damn long, let alone Thanksgiving.” Tears are threatening now. “Jesus Christ, my life is so fucked up.”

She smiles sadly. “I’m sorry your children’s mother is the Antichrist,” I nod in agreement, “but you’ll figure the rest out.”

I nod.

“In the meantime, it sounds like my company is doing nothing to help your situation.” It’s an apology that comes before the apology…that comes before the delivery of bad news.

I narrow my eyes.

She smiles sweetly, but her eyes are already welling up. “I’m sorry, Seamus. We can’t be together, we both know it. You’ll never get your kids back if we are.” She looks up at the ceiling blinking rapidly, but it doesn’t dam the tears. They break free and roll down her cheeks. She’s still not looking at me. “You have no idea how much it hurts to say that. It fucking kills me.” She drops her chin and lines her eyes up with mine, and I feel the words in her stare. “I’ve moved around a lot in my life. I’ve met a lot of people. I like your heart, Seamus.” She cups my cheek, kisses me softly on the corner of my mouth, and whispers, “My heart
really
likes your heart.”

She’s right.

I don’t want her to be right.

But she is.

Goddammit
.

I stand up with her help. And we have a long conversation with our eyes. I tell her everything my mouth can’t say because words are futile and don’t have a future beyond her front door.
 

And then I ask her for another hug.

The embrace is everything we just said with our eyes. Every promise we couldn’t make. I don’t want to let her go. Her t-shirt is balled up in my fists in a desperate attempt to wring every last bit of Faith out of this moment and take it with me when I walk out that door. Her tears have soaked the front of my shirt by the time we part. And when I walk out neither one of us says anything, because there’s nothing left to say.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph

present

My desk phone rings as soon as I unlock my office door.

“This is Mr. McIntyre,” I answer.

“Seamus,” Janet clears her throat, “can you please come to the office to see me immediately. I’m sorry.” The way she says it makes me uncomfortable. I like Janet, but I’m beginning to hate it when she calls.

I walk slowly as if the bad news will diminish or disappear by the time I get there if I take my time.

It doesn’t.

Janet waves me into an empty office to the right of her desk and closes the door behind us. I don’t know what she’s about to say, but I’m already thankful for the privacy she’s provided. She hands me a form. “They want you to take a drug test this morning, Seamus. You’ll need to leave right now to make the appointment.” She’s biting her bottom lip like she’s sorry she has to deliver the news, and she hopes I’m clean, all in one worrying gesture.

“Who’s they?”

She looks around like we aren’t alone and then she lowers her voice, “I’m not supposed to say anything, but administration called Friday afternoon to inform me of the screening appointment.” She stops and nervously licks her lips. “And earlier in the day, a manila envelope was delivered to Principal Brentwood from your ex-wife’s attorney’s office. It wasn’t sealed, only clasped,” she closes her eyes when she admits her wrongdoing, “and I opened it and read the documents inside. There was a letter stating your suspected drug use and a photo—”

I stop her. “Jesus.”

“Mary and Joseph,” she says under her breath. It’s a statement of solidarity. She knows I’ve been through hell with Miranda. “Seamus, this is serious. Any suspicion of drug use results in immediate testing, you know that. And if found positive, there’s a zero tolerance policy, you would be terminated.” She’s asking, without asking, if I can pass the test.

I hold her gaze and plead with her, “I don’t do drugs, Janet. You have to believe me. It’s not what it looks like.”

She nods her head in relief. “I believe you, Seamus. Now, take the test and prove it to them.”

I took the test.

I was clean.

Fuck you, Miranda.

No one measures up to a saint

past
 

True to my word I filed for divorce, and had Seamus served with papers Monday while he was at work.

He didn’t see it coming.
 

He’s waiting up for me when I get home late. The kids are already in bed, as usual. I should’ve gone to a hotel, but the house is big enough for all of us to live in and continue to avoid each other.

He’s sitting, facing the front door, in an armchair he’s dragged in from the living room, when I walk in. He’s clutching a bottle of beer in his hand. There are five identical, empty bottles lined up at his feet. “Who is he?”

I’m irritated that he’s not letting me set my purse down or take my jacket off, before he starts attacking me. I don’t answer him right away.

He waits patiently and takes a long pull from the bottle.

“Who is who?” I ask innocently.

“The man you’re leaving me for?” His voice is quiet, which worries me more than if he were yelling. And the white-knuckle grip he has on the bottle in his hand tells me anger is at the surface, barely contained.

“I just can’t do this anymore, Seamus.” I don’t know why I feel like I need to keep this vague. I’ve been waiting years for this day, working toward my destiny, and now that it’s finally here it’s harder than I thought it would be.

I have to trade in my get out of hell free card.

Fuck.

“Does he have more money than me? Is that it?”

Loads
, I think.

“Is he better looking?”

No. Good looking, but no one’s better looking than you.

“Drives a fancy car?”

Someone drives him around in a fancy car
.

“Buys you expensive gifts?”

Not in years.

He’s firing questions at me, his voice rising. I’m not answering any of them out loud. And then it turns personal, his voice biting and accusatory. “Does he love and care for your children?”

He doesn’t want children. Not even his own.

“Does he look after you when you’re sick?”

He’d ask the housekeeper to do it.

“Does he bring you food when you pull an all-nighter at work?”

He wouldn’t think of it.

“Does he get up before the sun comes up on your birthday and make you pecan pancakes with extra butter and syrup because they’re your favorite?”

He doesn’t cook. Or know that I love pecan pancakes.

“Does he know that you like your back rubbed when you can’t sleep because it relaxes you and makes you tired?”

He’s not one to comfort.

The truth in his questions, and my undisclosed answers, has me wanting to run for the door to escape this confrontation. I wanted to tell him I was leaving. And for him to quietly accept it. He’s not supposed to fight me on this. He’s not supposed to make me think. I can taste something hurtful and mean on the tip of my tongue.