Angie, a live-in-the-now singer-songwriter on the cusp of fame, sweeps Mike, a proper Mama's boy and a structural engineer by day, off his feet the moment they shake hands.
They can't deny the chemistry between them, so they start with a boom. What'...
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▪️Saturday, January 23rd, 2018▪️
▪️Phoenix, AZ▪️
Take it or leave it, he said. And listening is pointless. Because I'm leaving the magic. I wrap the sheet tighter around me, forget about posing, and lift my eyes to his.
I see patience.
His chest rises and lowers with slow breaths. I see the damn tenderness again. The hollowness inside me grows, and I have no meds to help me this time. One of us is going to crack, and today I'd rather it be me, if Mike gets to live his perfect life and achieve his dreams in Chicago, far away from my broken body and mind.
"Angela Fisher." He pinches the bridge of his aquiline nose and puffs out a long breath. "Before I ask anything of you"-another slow breath-"I'm gonna explain my baggage. Why I am where I am. And why I am who I am." Mike runs his hand across the stubble on his cheek and drops his hand on his lap as if his face burns him. "You've seen parts of me no one else knows about, but I wanna come clean. There are things I'm not proud of. Things that are valid reasons for you to order me out of this room."
His words fall into my emptiness, and I don't hear them hit the bottom. The eerie silence drags. My pulse moves from my throat into my stomach. Did he accidentally kill a man? I know there are incidents in MMA when fighters get severely injured doing a match. Or is he going to tell me his dad is a mafia boss? Maybe I should've asked him more about that side of the story. "Is it your dad?"
"My father didn't directly cause it, although I do blame him for his absence. If I grew up with a father, if he were in Chicago, if he were a person I could've called. . . but that might be my resentment talking. Truthfully, there is no one to blame but me. I was younger and dumber, but that is not an excuse." Mike runs his thumb against the tips of his fingers. I know their texture. My skin remembers the grooves of them. My lips part, but I clench my teeth and don't speak.
So not his dad. Does it matter though? None of this matters, because I'm the problem, not him. And my problem is unsolvable. The hollowness spreads and numbs the parts of my body it reaches. That's why taking an extra pill now and then is worth it. I welcome the numbness, as cutting the string between Mike and me will be so much less searing if I pretend I'm under full anesthesia. No past. No future. No pain.
My mind will never be okay with a future. My body will never forget the impact of the other car slamming into ours. The pain is a reminder that comes and goes, and on a good day, week, month, I might believe it's a thing of the past, but it's always back. I regroup and restart and retake whatever ground the ache and swelling take from me, but it's not a journey someone should go on with me. Especially not Mike. Mike, whose eyebrows are drawn together. His usual baritone slides into bass. He sounds scratchy, off, but I listen.
"When I got to college, no one knew me as a nerdy Math Olympics Mike with braces and obsession with Bruce Lee. Over the summer I grew taller, I worked out every day, helping Master Chang. No braces and a stylish haircut Mom supplied me with before orientation...I was Mike 2.0. And when the guys invited me to join their frat and the girls were looking at me in a completely different way, I saw what a carefree life could be like." He squeezes his palms together, and his forearms and biceps bulge with pressure. "They didn't worry about the same stuff as I, the scholarship kid, did. But their parents or trust funds were paying for them to have the college experience. I could not catch up with their money, yet I didn't want to go back to being the odd one out." He throws a sharp glance my way. His eyes are hooded and hard. My hollowness reflects in them. Or is it his hollowness I see? I blink, and he stares back at his battling palms.
