better than me.
I sit on the other end of the couch leaving maximum space between us.
“You’re not using your cane,” she says it like she’s surprised.
I nod. “I’m having a good day. When I’m having a good day, sometimes I don’t always use it when I’m home. It makes me feel free. The numbness is gone for now, and the pain only amps up when I overdo it.” And then I shut up because I’m oversharing. She doesn’t care, oversharing only gives her ammunition that she’ll stockpile until she needs it.
She extends the bottle toward me. “Have some, Seamus.”
“No.” Denying her feels so damn good, even something small and inconsequential.
She retracts it and takes a long swig, unoffended. “More for me.”
Bitterness floods in when I realize I’m sitting here forced to engage her. That’s when I rise and walk to the kitchen where I take a shot of tequila, followed by another, and I return after I pluck two beers from the fridge—both for me.
“Remember when we first started dating, how you used to write me love letters?” She’s talking to me, but she’s not looking at me. Her eyes stare out across the room, glazed with the image of her memories.
I’m not going to talk about that. My mind says it before my mouth does, “I’m not going to talk about that.”
She drops her head back against the couch cushion and rolls it until she’s looking at me. The alcohol is starting to soften her purpose, and when I look closer, I see age encroaching on her features. Lines on her forehead and at the corners of her eyes that I’d never seen before. “Why not?”
I down several big gulps of beer before I answer, “There’s no point. We need to talk about my kids.”
She shifts in her spot and sits sideways bending her knees and pulling her feet up next to her. “I was leading to our kids. It all began with a love letter.” She’s not being snotty like I would expect, she’s talking reasonably, truthfully, which scares me a little.
“And it all ended with a hate letter, divorce papers.” I take another drink and then tip the neck of my bottle in her direction. “Oh, and you fucking someone else because he wasn’t broken. Let’s not forget that.”
She swallows back some more red. It seems we’re trading drinks and words. “I was wrong. I’ve made a lot of mistakes.” She’s still scaring me with her levelheadedness.
“You sure as hell have.” I can feel the muscles in my neck tighten when I say it. I want to hurl the word abortion at her. My insides are shaking with rage. I’ll save it for a time after we negotiate custody.
She blinks a few times, probably trying to ward off shock, but doesn’t respond.
I turn my head and look at her, really look at her, and I’m disgusted. How can a woman be so ugly on the inside? I don’t know what else to say because everything running through my mind are curse words and insults and condemnation, none of which will change anything. I shake my head, and my lips move without my command. “What the fuck, Miranda?”
The tears start rolling; it’s a silent, unnerving, trail of emotion. She never cries. Miranda’s always been stoic and unfeeling. “I’m sorry.”
I blast her with my anger. It’s a biting whisper, “Sorry doesn’t change anything.” I hate arguing quietly, not that I’m a yeller, but it would give me an outlet for this fury. Subduing this exchange downgrades its intensity and feels like it skews things in her favor.
She shakes her head. “Don’t you think I fucking know that, Seamus?”
I’m stunned. I don’t believe her, and I have to laugh. “No. No, I don’t think you do.”
“I’m taking depression medication,” she says to illustrate her point.
I shrug. “You fucking devastated me, Miranda. Annihilated me. You don’t get my sympathy.” I pause. “And you sure as hell don’t deserve my empathy.” I pause again and then continue with the verbal blitzkrieg, because I can’t hold this in any longer, “Fuck you and every single one of your piss poor choices.”
She’s still crying and was taking the assault on the chin until that last insult. She sniffs and wipes her running nose with the back of her hand. “You wouldn’t say that if you knew.”
I can’t listen to her for one more second. I stand. “You need to get out. Go home. Wherever that is.”
“I can’t drive,” she counters.
I know that. “Call a