Closer to forty than thirty, I had to give up any vestige of body loathing left from my earlier years. I did my best at taking good care of myself. Mick thought so, but Tommy, not so much.
I peed, wiped, and pulled up my leggings, dropping the entire train of thought. Staring in the mirror while I washed my hands, I berated myself. I had zero business thinking about Mick. I had a day to myself, and I should be grateful.
With my butt finally feeling better, I decided to do yoga. I set up my mat under the window so I could enjoy the afternoon sun streaming inside, and found a class on my iPad. Closing my eyes, I allowed the music and the instructor’s soothing voice to calm my nerves.
Pearl Jam’s “Breathe” played in the background as we did a series of sun salutations. With every movement, my mind felt lighter and my body stronger. I bent over in downward dog and took a long inhale, followed by an even longer exhale.
That morning, when I’d dropped off Priscilla at school, I’d promised her a girls’ night out tonight. She asked to go to Newbury Street and look at clothes. As I twisted myself into crow, I smiled at the floor, thinking about spending some time with her.
It could have been my imagination, but she seemed relieved Tommy was leaving as he called out, “’Bye, Priscilla,” the entire extent of his good-bye to his daughter.
I would have been upset by his lack of emotion, but not Priscilla. Maybe that’s why I was still stuck in the gerbil wheel of trying to fix Tommy instead of bettering myself.
Mick
I’d held off as long as I could. There was only so much distracting I could do, and then my overactive brain took over. My need to fix problems was a blessing and a curse.
As I trekked up Newbury Street to meet an old friend at his hotel for a drink, I thought about texting Margo.
The need I felt to check in with her was persistent. Why? I didn’t fucking know. I was a perfectly settled bachelor. Sex came my way when I wanted; financially, I was set for three lifetimes; and I didn’t have any strings, which was how I wanted it.
Yet here I was daydreaming about a married woman.
Pulling open the door to Nike, I shelved thoughts of Margo and reminded myself what I needed. A new pair of running shoes for travel. I could have sent Jeffrey, my assistant, to get them, but he had gone home for the day, and I was leaving in the morning.
Heading toward the running shoes, I paused for a second, thinking my mind was playing a trick on me. I could have sworn I saw Margo standing the middle of the women’s clothing section, holding about a dozen pairs of shorts.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I decided a vacation was in order. Clearly, I was working too hard.
“Priss, these are all too short. I don’t think the school would allow you to wear them, even if I did,” she said to her daughter.
“But, Mom ... please?”
They went back and forth, bickering like I assumed mothers and teenage daughters did, while I took in Margo. She was wearing black leggings, ankle boots, a long gray sweater falling off her shoulder, her hair tied back at the nape of her neck, and glasses I’d never seen her wear before, but were definitely sexy.
“I don’t think your dad will be happy,” Margo said with a frown.
“Seriously? He spends about three minutes per week with me, Mom,” Priscilla said before her gaze landed on me, standing there and staring at her.
It took me half a second to realize Priscilla had no idea who I was, and this situation was about to head into stranger-danger mode.
She cocked her head at me and gave me the side-eye while whispering, “Mom ...”
Clearing my throat, I decided to go for it. “Hi, Margaret,” I said, using her formal name. This wasn’t a time for familiarities.
“Mick?” Margo took me in. “What are you doing here?”
“Buying shoes.”
I decided not to say much more. This was a wrinkle I hadn’t expected, and I didn’t want to divulge more than Margo wanted me to.
“Priscilla, this is Mr. Grantham. I interviewed him recently for an article,” she said, using my fabricated excuse from when we met at the Paula.
I held out my hand to Priscilla. “Nice to meet you, but just Mick is fine.” Then out of the fucking blue, I said, “Mr. Grantham was my dad, and he wasn’t a good guy, so I prefer Mick.”
Margo’s eyes widened and Priscilla’s narrowed, trying to decide if I was reading her thoughts.
“I’m going to New York tomorrow,” I said, turning toward Margo. “Can’t go and not run the High Line, and my shoes are on their last breath.”
