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  Cue the commencement of shuddering.

  If I get pregnant, he’ll marry me. And even when I can’t pretend to be the Miranda he wants me to be, and the real me shines through eventually, he’ll never leave us. A baby is my guarantee.

  The world I’m creating for me

  past

  “I love you.” His words are haunting in the dark. Spoken as his lips make repeated contact with my shoulder, my neck; painting promises and devotion. I’m greedy and love hearing it. It’s affirmation he’s mine. All mine. Compliant to me in matters of the heart. Willing, emotional servitude is like a drug, heady and boosting. I don’t love the idea of mutual love, but I damn sure love the idea of being loved. It’s powerful, because those who love are easily coerced.

  Seamus is lying behind me. We’re naked, coiled in the midst of intimacy. He excels at it. I tolerate it. I do what I need to do physically to keep the emotional free flow on his end perpetual.

  Kissing, touching, penetration, he’s skilled at translating what he feels into action.

  I’m skilled at faking it. “That’s it, Seamus. Like that,” I sigh as he enters me. The sigh was a token for him. I should enjoy this, I think, as he eases in and out. He’s a massive, potent man, who always handles me with care and affection. His arms are wrapped around me, one hand masterfully stimulating from the front while the other pays close attention to the rest of my torso. His lips worship every inch of skin within reach.

  This will go on for a while. We’ll exchange words. We’ll probably change positions. Orgasms will be achieved, mine included.

  But here’s the thing.

  I don’t enjoy sex.

  Never have.

  It feels submissive.

  The physicality of it seems unnecessary, when my vibrator can achieve the exact same goal and in a fraction of the time. I’m too selfish to dole out pleasure to others. Which given the man I’m with would be nothing short of sacrilege in most women’s minds. Seamus is endowed beyond belief, passionate, attentive, romantic, and gorgeous. I’m fully aware that I’m wasting his resources with my lack of appreciation. I’ve seen the way women prowl him with their eyes, fantasies of role-playing the goddamn Kama Sutra written all over their horny, needy expressions.

  My lust is for power. And that’s where sex comes in. Fucking is merely a means to an end for me. A power play. I’ve always taken this approach: my vagina is a weapon in my arsenal, and any stiff cock can be defeated by it. Weakened. Vanquished. It’s a tool to conquer.

  And speaking of conquering. I win! Though my uterus objects vehemently to that statement.

  I’m pregnant!

  And I have a ring on my left hand!

  And though I’d love to gloat and celebrate my victory in raucous fashion, I’m biding my time, quietly letting Seamus bask in the world I’m creating for me.

  Yes, me.

  There’s no we.

  He can have the kid.

  I just need the façade.

  Third time’s a charm

  present

  Divorce.

  A severing of sacred ties.

  The end of a dream.

  The death of a family.

  This word defines me.

  The first time she asked me for a divorce was at the end of our first date. She was joking and followed it up with our first kiss.

  The second time she asked me for a divorce was when she was in labor with our second child, a labor that due to its rapid emergence disallowed the administration of pain dulling drugs. She also told me she hated me, cursed my penis’s existence, and said my sperm were the devil’s work. I think it was the pain talking.

  The third time she asked me for a divorce she meant it.

  Third time’s a charm.

  This divorce is all I think about. I dwell on it. It rules my thoughts, especially on a day like today. The kids and I are moving into our apartment, minus Miranda.

  Because.

  Divorce.

  How can a word so benign become uglier every time I turn it over in my head? It’s just a word, seven little letters. Letters that should be harmless. But those seven letters have ganged up on me and every time I think about them, it feels like an attack. An attack on my heart. An attack on my children. An attack on my pride. An attack that’s muddied my soul.

  Thank God for my kids. They’re my life. They’re my purpose. They’re my everything.

  “Daddy, hurry up. I gotta pee.” It’s the pained, ‘I’m not lying’ whine of a little girl in dire need of a bathroom. My five-year-old, Kira, is standing at the top of the flight of stairs with her legs crossed, holding her brother’s hand. She looks so much like her mother: curly caramel colored hair, almond shaped eyes the color of the sky on a stormy day, and lips that form the shape of a heart when they’re resting one atop the other.

  “I’m coming, darlin’.” The walk up the stairs is slow. My legs don’t work like they should, especially when I’m carrying a heavy box.

  “Throw me the keys, Dad. I’ll get her inside.” Kai to the rescue. Again. He’s always been incredibly mature, but his mother leaving has aged him. A boy of eleven shouldn’t be expected to fill the parental void. He does though. And never complains about it. Maybe he saw our marriage falling apart before we did. Certainly before I did.

  We were never perfect, but I didn’t suspect the affair.

  I was in shock when the papers were served.

  I was in denial during the entire court proceeding.

  And I still half expected her to be there when I came home. Weeks after she moved to Seattle to be with him.

  Him.

  My downfall. The man who not only stole my wife, but who stole my kids’ mom.

  Did that sound bitter?

  Yes?

  Good, because I am. I serve up my bitter with a heaping side of bitter.

  I set the box down on the fourth or fifth step and dig in my pocket for the apartment key and toss it up to him. Apartment three, our new home. The throw is too hard, and it hits the door behind him with a tink and falls to the ground next to his feet. As he picks it up, I hear him whisper to his sister, “Come on, Kira, race you inside.”

  She giggles and her feet start bouncing off the pavement as if she’s warming up for a sprint. I can’t help but smile at these two.

  As I pick up the box again, I look at the front windows of the apartments just below ours—apartment one and apartment two. The curtains are drawn on both. For a moment, I wonder who’s inside. Families? Maybe there are kids for my kids to play with living there? The thought disappears as my toe catches the front edge of the stair three from the top. It’s not a violent, painful fall because the box I’m carrying breaks it for the most part. I’m embarrassed more than anything. The fact that my legs don’t always cooperate is embarrassing.

  I glance behind me, down the stairs to the sidewalk and parking spaces below. No witnesses. The realization brings with it relief I didn’t know I needed. My heartbeat begins to slow, and I let out the breath I was holding; a strained breath that attempts to grasp at straws, better known as dignity. Maybe I should’ve looked for a first-floor apartment, but my stubborn side wouldn’t allow me to consider it.

  As I stand, righting the box with both hands, Kai comes out. “You need some help with that box, Dad? Or should I just grab the other one from the car?”

  “I’ve got this one. Why don’t you grab the other one, buddy? And see if you can coax Rory out of the car,” I ask Kai, brushing off my current exasperation.

  Rory is my nine-year-old. He’s not happy about our move. Or with his mom and he’s not shy about letting her know. He scornfully addresses her as Miranda.

  Kai lopes down the stairs, taking them two at a time. He’s tall for his age at five feet five inches, and athletic. He’s pretty much a mirror image of me when I was eleven. A carbon, genetic copy with dark hair and eyes, golden brown skin, wide-set shoulders, and long, gangly limbs.

  When I walk into the apartment, Kira is
perched on the arm of the couch. Her stuffed cat, Pickles, is in one hand, and the TV remote is in the other. She’s flipping through channels at breakneck speed.

  “Can I help you with anything, Kira?”

  She responds without taking her eyes off of the screen of flashing images, “No, Daddy. I’ve got it all under control.”

  I smile and shake my head realizing she’s heard me say that one too many times if she’s worked it into her vernacular. When I say it, it’s mental coaching to prompt self-assurance; when she says it, it’s confidence. I love her confidence.

  “Knock knock,” a singsong voice calls from the landing outside the open door.

  I set the box I’m carrying on the couch next to Kira and turn to see our landlady, Mrs. Lipokowski, standing on the worn, faded welcome mat. All of the letters are worn away except the W and E that bookend the word. The mat, like everything else in the furnished apartment, is old and worn. I’m not complaining, there’s character and an almost identifiable charming essence encapsulated in this time capsule my family will call home for the next year.

  Mrs. Lipokowski and her husband have owned this small brick building since it was built in 1972. It houses a deli that they run, two tiny apartments on the first floor and two larger apartments on the second floor, one of which the Lipokowski’s live in. It’s three blocks from the beach, and two blocks from John F. Kennedy High School, where I’m a counselor. The location is ideal.

  “Hey, Mrs. L. It’s good to see you. Come on in.”

  She walks in and immediately takes my hand in both of hers. It’s a motherly, friendly gesture. She does it every time I see her, which is most every day since I survive on her deli sandwiches during the week for lunch. “I see you’re getting settled in, Seamus. Anything you need?”

  I glance around absently, not really looking for anything in particular. “No, I think we’re good. Thank you.”

  She pats the top of my hand with hers which draws my attention back and my eyes land on her Janis Joplin tie-dye t-shirt. She wears tie-dye every day in some fashion or another: shirts, pants, skirts, shorts, scarves. You name it, she owns it in tie-dye. She’s a hardcore hippie. I don’t think she’s changed her wardrobe, or her lifestyle, since the sixties. Some would call her dated, I call her authentic. She is who she is and she owns it. And I love that about her. Authenticity is rare. Either people don’t know who they are, or they’re afraid to share themselves with the world—I myself fall into both of those categories: I don’t know, and I’m afraid. I wasn’t this way before. And I’m not happy about it. Life has beat me down. I fought for a long time, but after the divorce I woke up one day and couldn’t remember the man I used to be, only that time and circumstances have changed me. I need to find me again.

  “Stop by our apartment tonight and I’ll brew you a cup of my herbal tea. It helps calm the nerves.” She winks and smiles warmly, and I wonder for a moment what type of herbs are in her tea.

  “Okay,” I answer.

  “Just pop in the deli if you have any questions about the move-in or your apartment.” She looks at my daughter and says, “And you come down later and I’ll give you some pickles, Kira.”

  Kira’s ears perk up at the mention of her name and pickles in the same sentence. Pickles are her favorite thing, followed closely by television and cats. “Five slices?” she asks excitedly.

  Mrs. L nods. “Five pickle slices for the five-year-old.”

  Kira stands on the couch and throws her hands up in the air over her head in an act of jubilant celebration, the remote and Pickles the cat still clutched in her hands. “Yay!”

  “Well hello, boys.” Mrs. L’s greeting pulls me back to the front door where Kai walks in carrying a box with Rory trailing closely behind.

  “Hello, Mrs. Lipokowski,” Kai says politely.

  “Hiya, Mrs. Lipokowski,” Rory says in a flawless British accent. He discovered Harry Potter movies and Dr. Who a month ago. His obsession with all things British was instantaneous. The accent was adopted immediately, and he hasn’t deviated from it for weeks. It’s gone from a quasi-Australian/British confused hybrid to sounding like a Sherlock Holmes doppelganger in an impressively short amount of time. I find myself forgetting my little boy is indeed not Benedict Cumberbatch when I listen to him.

  Mrs. L smiles at me approvingly. “You’ve done well with this lot, Seamus. Strong personalities each and every one.” She doesn’t have children, but the way she looks at them makes me feel like that was a choice made by the fickle hand of fate, not by her and her husband.

  “Thank you.” I smile inwardly at the compliment. I can’t get much right lately, but my kids are my pride and joy, and I love and encourage their individuality. That’s something their mom and I have differing views on. She’s cookie-cutter. I’m not.

  “Bye, everyone. See you at lunchtime. Sandwiches are on me today, Seamus.”

  Normally I would fight her, turning down the kind gesture because my pride wouldn’t let me accept the charity. But I don’t have any food in the house with the exception of a half empty can of sour cream and onion Pringles and a warm bottle of Sunny D, and I need to save the sandwich money for our trip to the grocery store later this afternoon. Money doesn’t go as far as it once did. Instead, I swallow my pride; it goes down uncomfortably and rebelliously like a golf ball-sized lump of bull-headedness, as I say, “Thank you. We’ll see you around noon.” And just as she steps out onto the W…E mat my thoughts drift back to the image of apartments one and two, their drawn curtains, and I’m speaking before I formulate the questions fully in my mind. I usually think everything through before it escapes my mouth. I choose my words with care because years of counseling teenagers has taught me it’s best not to always say the first thing that comes to mind. “Who lives in the apartments downstairs? Families? Kids? Married? Single?” My cheeks warm at the last word I uttered, and I immediately lock down the flow, because that probably sounded desperate and needy. I’m not desperate and needy. Truth be told, I don’t know if I’ll ever date again. The divorce crushed me. My heart may never know trust, the type of trust required to allow love in a second time in my lifetime. Remember what I said before about bitterness? Bitter is practically my middle name. In fact, I may just start going by Bitter instead of Seamus, kind of like Prince or Beyonce. A single, purposeful name. I’ll just be Bitter.

  Her smile is markedly presumptuous; she read single as a match-making plea, instead of an innocent question based solely on my children’s social life, not mine. “Two single women. Faith in two is a free spirited, young lady. She’s energetic and such a kind soul. And Hope in one is a…a…” she’s struggling for the right word, “bit reclusive. Older than you and she doesn’t come out much. She’s quiet as a church mouse, though, you’ll never know she’s there.”

  I’m still stuck on their names, Faith and Hope, which are no longer names. Instead, they’re concepts that have been foreign to me in past months. Concepts that tucked their tails between their legs and beat feet when bitterness swept in like a hurricane leveling everything in its path.

  When I don’t acknowledge her assessment, Mrs. L waves politely and heads down the stairs. “Bye, Seamus,” she calls back.

  “Bye,” I answer dumbly, roused from my unintentional rudeness.

  There are exactly two beats of silence before Kai shuts the front door and announces, “Let’s unpack.”

  I nod in agreement with the mini responsible adult standing before me. “Let’s unpack.”

  That evening after dinner, I leave Kai in charge for two minutes and walk next door to Mrs. L’s for the tea she offered earlier. She opens the door a crack and peeks out before she sees me and swings the door open. The scent drifting out is unmistakable.

  “Hey, Mrs. L, I was wondering if I could take you up on that cup of tea? Maybe just put it in a mug and I’ll brew it at home. I don’t want to leave the kids.” I’m standing outside on her doormat so I can still see my front door and window.

 
“Certainly,” she says. “Hold this and I’ll grab you a cup.”

  Before I know it, she’s handed me the joint in her hand and is walking away toward the kitchen. “Shit,” I mutter, trying to figure out where to hide the contraband. I step inside, so I’m not in plain sight of a passerby. Mr. Lipokowski is stretched out on their couch watching the local news. He looks very relaxed; I guess this is how they unwind. To each their own, I think to myself.

  She returns less than a minute later and trades me the joint for a cup of tea.

  “Thanks, Mrs. L.”

  “Anytime, Seamus. Have a good one.” She flashes me a peace sign before she shuts the door.

  The housewarming mango

  present

  “Bloody hell, who’s eaten all the Lucky Charms?”

  “Language, Rory,” I remind him. In my head, I’m repeating, Don’t laugh. Don’t laugh.

  He’s shaking an empty box of cereal into a bowl, and all that’s drifting out are the powdery remnants of grain and sugar dust that’s left behind to illustrate his point while he looks at me in utter disbelief.

  “Sorry, buddy. I think your sister killed what was left this morning while she watched TV.” Cereal is on the short list of foods Kira will eat, along with mac and cheese, pickles, bananas, hot dogs, and bologna sandwiches.

  He mumbles something under his breath, something I’m glad I didn’t hear, and walks to the trashcan and dramatically deposits it. Then he turns to me and says, “It’s rubbish.”

  I don’t know if he’s referring literally to the box being trash or to the situation in general, but I humor him and nod.

  He nods in return, apparently pleased with my act of solidarity, and walks with new resolve to the loaf of bread, from which he takes two slices and goes about making toast for breakfast.