“You survived the moms?” Mick said low, keeping his head facing forward.
“Barely.”
“Can I look at you?” he asked, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.
“Yes.”
Turning toward me, his dark gaze caught me, crinkles in the corners of his eyes that made me want to dive in and feel what he’d felt, live the good times he’d lived.
“That’s much better,” he said. “Have a seat. If anyone asks, we just met while sitting here.”
“Right. I’m an independent woman who can have a drink—”
“So, what will you have?”
“I had a sparkling water at the meeting, so another wine. Two’s my limit.”
Palms up on the bar, he said, “I’m not judging.”
I felt myself smile.
“Chardonnay for the lady,” he told the bartender.
I noticed Mick’s Scotch was refilled, but he was nursing it.
Once my wine was placed in front of me, Mick raised his glass. “Cheers.”
“Back at you,” I said.
“Parents’ meeting, huh? Fascinating stuff, I’ll bet,” he said, side-eyeing me.
“Titillating, for sure.” I rolled my eyes. “Private school, so it’s necessary for my daughter. We’re planning the holiday gala.”
“Ah, now I understand. A far cry from my little corner school in Brooklyn, but when I was young, I remember all the kids walking around Central Park in uniforms. I’d be there for the zoo, and they were rushing to hockey or something fancy.”
“It’s a bit off base—okay, far off from the real world—but she’s happy and challenged. I want Priss to learn from my mistakes. Be an independent person and have a career, family, all of it. Not broken like me.”
I focused on my glass, not having a clue as to why I was opening up like this. In a bar with basically a stranger, a man who wasn’t my husband, someone who was quickly becoming a close friend.
Mick nodded, his brow furrowed and eyes squinted as he thought over what I’d said. “You know, I’ve only known you a short while, but I repair broken things, and I don’t think you’re broken.”
“Maybe at one point I wasn’t, but since then ... whenever that was, I’ve started to crack.”
“Forgive me for saying, but you need to walk away from the defeatist attitude. I see you as a game changer, Margo.” He looked deep into my eyes when he said my name, as if he were making sure I truly heard what he’d said.
Sipping my wine, I searched for added courage in the perfectly blown glass. “You know those bookmarks and coffee mugs with inspirational slogans likeDREAM BIG? Maybe you don’t get to Target often, but you get the picture. Aisles of tchotchkes with this slogan on them. Anyway, I was passing through Target one day, getting toilet paper, and I passed a section of all this stuff. Stickers, tumblers, stationery, you name it ... all marked withDREAM BIG, and I thought, why not me? Why can’t I dream myself out of this existence?”
Mick nodded but didn’t interrupt.
“Then I got home and put away the TP and placed a spare deodorant in the closet for my husband, tossed a box of tampons in my drawer, and placed a little notepad that saidDREAM BIGon my husband’s desk.”
Mick opened his mouth to say something, but I held up a hand to stop him.
“For some stupid reason, I thought sharing the sentiment with him would make him understand how I was feeling. That I had dreams and aspirations too, and together we could both have a good life. A big life. How silly of me to think a notepad would help him move forward with me, but it didn’t. All it got me was a bruised ass and a broken heart.”
Although my last confession was barely a whisper, I still glanced around to make sure no one heard other than Mick. Maybe I was a little hopeful he didn’t hear.
He took a long gulp of his Scotch and swallowed. Running a hand through his hair, he turned to face me, a raging fire in his eyes. For a second, I thought the intense emotion was directed at me.
