It’s close. He almost does it.
Instead, he takes a step back.
She whirls on her heels and heads for the kitchen.
He sighs.
Somewhere, the cell phone is ringing again.
He looks out the window.
There are no starlings.
He’ll pack a bag. Leave tonight. She can have the apartment. She can have all his possessions. All the money. The stocks. Everything. He’ll take a few changes of clothes, his personal credit card, and he’ll go. Maybe then he’ll be able to sleep. He’ll have nothing, but that’s okay. He doesn’t need anything. He’s started off on his own once before. He can do it again.
He’s lost in this little fantasy, this little world where he’s on the road, the window rolled down, breeze blowing through his beard and hair, and he’s happy. He’s free.
He’s lost in it, so it takes him a moment to focus on what’s happening behind him.
But he sees it in the reflection in the floor-to-ceiling window in front of him.
She’s come back into the room, rushing toward him.
And she’s carrying a goddamn knife.
He thinks, Oh fuck.
He starts to turn and—
XII
IT’S A perfectly sunny Monday afternoon, and Mike’s in a good mood. Sure, there was the little altercation at the diner this morning, and yes, Sean got a nosebleed from it, but the fight was broken apart before it could escalate, George stopped by the store to let Mike know that Daniel paid him in full, and the only damage done was to a couple of photo frames that Walter has already replaced. Sean called Mike just before noon to let him know his nose didn’t even hurt, and probably wouldn’t bruise. Mike frowned only a little bit at the thought of Sean getting hurt at all, but Sean laughed through the phone line, saying, “It’s okay, big guy. I’m not made of glass.”
Mike knows this, but it doesn’t mean he won’t worry. He told Sean as much, and Sean sounded fond when he said, “I know, Mike. And I know you have my back. That makes all the difference in the world.”
And maybe they just stayed quiet then, listening to each other breathe, basking in having something that belonged to no one else. If they did, it wasn’t anyone’s business but their own. Mike couldn’t even find it in himself to be embarrassed by how sentimental he was being.
So it’s a good day. Business is brisk, he’s got a fella who can’t wait to see him, and that weird headache he had earlier is gone. He remembers the heated way Sean looked at him, the words just for him about taking charge, about catching his drift, and boy, does Mike catch it. It makes him a little hot under the collar to think about, skin overwarm and flushed.
“You okay, Mike?” Mrs. Richardson asks rather primly. “You’re looking mighty red.”
Damn Irish giving everything away. It’s the bane of his existence. He dislikes lying and liars in general, but he’s not about to tell the book club that he’s having some rather uncouth thoughts about a certain waiter and what his bare skin might look like spread out on Mike’s bed. He’s amongst a group of ladies, so of course that wouldn’t be proper.
Granted, they’re not talking about Lord of the Flies like they’re supposed to. Even though Mike got the book a few weeks before its official release, they haven’t even mentioned it once. No, all that the women have been doing since they walked in at exactly half past one is grill him on Saturday’s date, acting like they don’t know every single detail already. They’re cooing at him, talking about how they heard how brave he was earlier today, breaking up a fight where fists were flying and blood was spilling all over the floor. Why, by the sound of it, Mike broke up a brawl of twenty men all in the name of love.
So it’s not helping that Mike’s thinking rather impure thoughts. The ladies of the book club seem to rather like inflating his ego, even if he didn’t actually do a damn thing aside from what any honest person would have.
Yes, he’s an honest person and did the right thing, but he doesn’t feel guilty in the slightest when he looks Mrs. Richardson in the eye and lies. “Yes, ma’am. Just warm day is all.”
She hums at him before turning back to the tittering of the book club.
“Ladies,” she says, and of course they cease at once. Hers is a voice of authority, not to be trifled with. “I think that’s enough for right now. We wouldn’t want Mike to get a big head, now, would we?”
He barely restrains an eye roll. She doesn’t miss that, of course, and clucks her tongue at him.
“I’m sure Mike here will ask for our assistance should he require it,” she says. “Which, undoubtedly, he will. But moving on. This week’s book is by a first-time author, William Golding. I must
admit it might not have been a first choice of mine, but that’s neither here nor there.”