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  I know when Faith used the word attractive she wasn’t being condescending. But maybe it’s the fact that she’s an attractive woman, who used the word attractive in her note, that set off the avalanche of epiphanies leading me down the road of imagined lonely, celibate, lifelong bachelor. I know she meant nothing by it. It’s just that sometimes a single word spurs thought. And thought can take the positive route when it comes to the fork in the road, or it can take the negative.

  Lately, my thoughts always take a hard left and go negative.

  Sometimes I’m irrational, I know I am, but even irrational thought feels very, very real when you’re in the middle of shit.

  And smack dab in the middle of shit is exactly where I am.

  Shit.

  Uneventful and normal, I want to be that guy

  present

  The kids and I took a walk to the beach after dinner. Faith was standing on her milk crate giving away hugs again. Fear for her was still dominant when I noticed her. Regret was a close second.

  Kira got her hug.

  The rest of us didn’t.

  Faith and I haven’t talked since the cane incident last week. I have trouble looking at her because I know how she sees me. I’m the guy who falls on the stairs and injures himself.

  I don’t want to be my MS.

  I don’t want to be my symptoms.

  I don’t want to be my limitations.

  I don’t want to be my pain.

  I don’t want to be my embarrassment.

  I just want to be the guy who walks up the stairs, and no one thinks anything about it because it’s uneventful and normal.

  That’s who I want to be.

  Fuck the façade

  past

  I always wanted the title of vice president before I turned thirty. Titles are important, they signify ascent. And with ascension comes power.

  It’s so close now I can taste it. My killer instinct is back. I struggled to keep my shit together the year after Rory was born, but I’m back with a vengeance and determined not to let anyone or anything derail my dream.

  The vice president of Marshall Industries is scheduled to retire in three months, and interviews and scouting have begun for his replacement. He’s an old codger whose time came and went a decade ago. For the past few years, I’ve done everything I could to make him look good while still taking credit for the accomplishments simultaneously. That’s quite a task when you’re performing as the conductor and the symphony, and you need the audience to be attentive and take notice of both. The audience noticed.

  The president, Loren Buckingham, is a powerful man. He oversees Marshall Industries from his office hundreds of miles away in Seattle. No one ever interacts with him in person, unless they’re summoned to him.

  I was summoned last month.

  He’s twenty years my senior. Handsome in that dignified way that only excessive money buys and fosters. The glint in his eyes screamed I could buy and sell you, and that's dead sexy to me. Shaking his hand turned me on more than anything I’ve ever experienced in my life. The authority and command in his touch was a lethal transfer of voltage, erotic as hell.

  The interview went well.

  Dinner afterward went even better.

  I returned home confident I’d made it to the next round.

  The next round is here.

  Seamus wished me luck this afternoon when I left for the airport.

  I won’t need it. I’ve got this. This is what I excel at. Closing deals.

  Mr. Buckingham’s personal driver picks me up at the airport in a blacked out SUV. When we miss the exit for his office downtown, I inquire.

  “Mr. Buckingham’s asked that I deliver you to his residence,” he answers professionally.

  I can’t help the satisfied smirk that tips up the right corner of my mouth. I powder my face, freshen up my lipstick, and release the top four buttons of my silk blouse. I had breast augmentation surgery a few months ago because age and the pregnancies had taken a toll on the girls. They look phenomenal now, and I’m not beneath showing some cleavage to leverage advantage. Mr. Buckingham and I had some chemistry during our last meeting; I felt it. And you can be damn sure I’m going to use that to my benefit tonight. Let the vixen siege began.

  His residence is what can only be called an estate nestled cozily behind an elegant iron fence and automated gate. The moment I lay eyes on his opulent home I’m sent into a daydream tailspin; visions of living here with him and reigning over his empire by his side involuntarily dominate my every thought. My mind and body are vibrating with need. A need that’s completely driven by power and money. A need I will do anything to satisfy.

  Fuck the façade I’ve been living, I want this instead. This is my destiny.

  The driver pulls into the circle drive and ushers me to the front door, after which he hops back into the vehicle and disappears around the back of the house with my overnight and garment bags.

  I’m greeted stiffly at the door by an elderly, regal-looking woman. She side eyes me, and I’m left wishing I had two additional buttons secured on my blouse.

  That is until Mr. Buckingham joins us in the expansive foyer, and I notice as his eyes slowly run the line from my five-inch stilettos up my tanned legs to the hem of my unquestionably short, but tasteful, designer skirt before skipping to, and pausing appreciatively on, my cleavage, where he pairs a quick eyebrow raise with a sexy smirk. His eyebrows resume their natural position, but the smirk remains in place when his eyes find mine, and he addresses, “Mrs. McIntyre, so nice to see you again.”

  The elderly woman huffs her disapproval and walks away without a word.

  Mr. Buckingham leans in too closely to be deemed socially acceptable and whispers, “My mother, please excuse her. She forgets sometimes.”

  I smile flirtatiously at his words and ask, “Forgets?”

  “That though I’ll always be her son, I am a grown man.”

  I nod. Still smiling.

  “Who can appreciate an exquisite woman when he sees one,” he continues with a wink. His stare is weighted with an intensity that has me trapped. Unable to move. This is a test. I can feel it. He’s waiting for my reaction.

  He’s waiting for me to melt into a puddle at his feet, which is, I’m assuming what most living, breathing women would do. Accepting the compliment with such an overenthusiastic reception that they look a submissive fool by the end of the short, but telling, exchange. Two can play at this game, I think as I lift an eyebrow in challenge.

  His smile is undeniably flirty, and he chortles in response. “I knew I liked you from the very beginning, Miranda. We’re going to work well together.”

  My heart does somersaults. The position is as good as mine, and I haven’t been here five minutes.

  The rest of the afternoon is comprised of business related discussion. Poring over reports. Asking my opinion on several hypothetical, disastrous scenarios and how I would handle them if I were in charge. Asking what changes I would make if I had the full control necessary to do so. Discussing where I see myself in five years, ten years, twenty years. I answer every question confidently. I’m outstanding at my job and have a clear-cut vision of the direction this company needs to head to flourish over the next decade. I don’t just want to grow the company, I want it to be the best in its field. I want to annihilate the competition.

  He smiles approvingly while I speak. And it’s not a smile to pacify and keep me talking, he loves what I’m saying. He can feel the passion in my words. They mirror his.

  He asks me to stay and join him for dinner.

  I do.

  Then he asks me to stay and join him for a glass of wine.

  One glass turns into two.

  Then three.

  Three leads to a not-so-innocent exchange on the settee in the living room: playful quips, flirtatious touches, and loaded glances coupled with telling conversation.

  When talk becomes laced with brazen innuendo, he offers a fourth glass. I declin
e and boldly ask, “Are you trying to rid me of my inhibitions?”

  I know the telltale signs of sexual desire in a man. I’m practiced in luring them out. The hungry eyes, nostril flare, deep breathing, muscle rigidity, not to mention his cock impressively filling out his dress slacks. He wants me so badly he’d take me right here on the settee in his living room. He licks his lips. “Maybe.”

  I flick one more button open on my blouse and whisper, “I don’t have many, but I left them at the door when I came in today.”

  He doesn’t ask me to stay and join him in bed.

  But I do.

  He tells me I’m his new VP the first time I make him come.

  He calls out my name in pure ecstasy every time after.

  I leave the next morning with my contracts signed in triplicate and Loren wrapped around my little finger.

  Mission fucking accomplished.

  She usually saves the sigh

  present

  “I want full custody.”

  The words charge through the phone and to my ear like a physical blow that takes me to my knees. They steal my breath and make my vision blur. They make my thoughts halt and suddenly my head feels like it’s filled with boiling, white-hot shock. That’s quickly replaced with fury and a fierce need to protect what’s mine, whatever the cost. “Over my dead body.”

  She sighs. Loudly. She usually saves the sigh. It’s the exclamation point to emphasize extreme irritation. I’m surprised she’s used it so quickly, which makes me believe she somehow thought this would be easy. That I wouldn’t fight her.

  Like hell I won’t.

  “Seamus, be realistic. You can’t provide the life they need.”

  I’m still seething and at a loss for words because all that’s raging through my head is a continuous, manic loop of “Fuck you.” I can’t come back with that because that’s what she wants, so I settle for, “What?” until I can gather my thoughts and refute this.

  She sighs again. But this sigh is different, there’s an evil smirk behind it like she’s been anxiously waiting to spew hate and degradation. “They’re all sharing a bedroom. Kira was dressed like a vagrant clown last weekend. Rory is talking like an insane person. Kai is withdrawn and angry. You have them enrolled in public school—”

  I cut her off because I can’t listen to this. She’s clearly only worried about her own image, not the kids’ well-being. I still don’t know what to say because fuck you still isn’t an option, so instead I repeat a bewildered, “What?”

  She continues as if I haven’t spoken, “And physically you’re not fit to parent. And we both know that will only get worse.”

  That’s where I lose it. “Fuck you. I’m perfectly capable of raising my children.”

  “Our children,” she corrects. “And no, you’re not.”

  “My children,” I correct through gritted teeth.

  “Are you threatening me?” Her tone tells me the classic, evil smirk is still in place. She’s not insulted; she’s enjoying this.

  “No, I’m stating a fact.”

  “You’ll hear from my attorney.” It’s final. The line goes dead.

  Of course, she got the last word. And of course, it was, You’ll hear from my attorney. It almost wouldn’t feel right ending a conversation without hearing it. Some people say goodbye. Miranda says, You’ll hear from my attorney.

  The passage of time changes people, many different influences come into play. They combine to perpetuate and escalate the enrichment, or erosion, of our ideals and personal code of ethics. Dominion and power have elevated Miranda, in her mind, to untouchable status. A place where decency is exempt and treating others like shit is her norm. It’s ruined her. And I have a feeling it’s going to ruin us all before she’s done.

  You might need your own sign

  present

  Miranda is in town again.

  She has my kids until Sunday morning, exactly twenty-four hours from now. I didn’t want to let her take them because the nauseous feeling that started in my stomach seemed to bleed through my veins until it filled me, making me burn with the very real possibility that she may make some kind of screwed up play and take them back to Seattle with her. So, to quiet my fears, I followed her to the Hilton a few miles away. I considered parking my car on the other side of the lot and staying there to monitor her, but then figured that was probably a bit extreme and decided to leave and wait it out.

  I drove straight to the beach and sat in the same spot on the sand until the sun went down. The water has always had a soothing effect on me. I don’t know if it’s the sound of waves crashing, or the sight of waves crashing that does it, but it’s the reason I’ll always live near the water. That and it makes me feel closer to my mom.

  By the time I drive home, I feel like I’ve taken a sedative. I’m relaxed for the first time in ages.

  I hear the buzzy exhaust of Faith’s scooter pull up outside her apartment just as I hit the W…E mat. Stupid unwelcome mat. My hand is in my pocket searching for my keys. I don’t know why but my heartbeat is beginning to gallop. Like it’s in a race. Or trying to escape.

  “Are you avoiding me, Seamus?” Faith yells, as she kills the engine on her scooter. I know she’s yelling because I hear it loud and clear and she’s a story below me.

  The gallop holds steady at her words, but I don’t answer. Where are my damn keys?

  “Well?” That’s closer, she’s moving.

  I hear footfalls on the stairs.

  I stop searching my pockets, and my heart rate begins to slow as if someone’s pulling the reins hard against the gallop. I stand and wait, but I don’t turn around.

  There’s a hand on the center of my back. The touch is apprehensive and apologetic, so is her whisper. “I’m sorry if my gift offended you.”

  Normally, I would be quick to accept an apology. I’m the type of person who will accept an apology despite the genuineness of either the apology or of my acceptance of it. I’d say, It’s okay, to get past the moment, even if it was far from okay. But, I’m still feeling some of the peace from the beach even though my racing heart interrupted it. It’s enough peace to deliver honesty, not cruel, unfiltered honesty, but unguarded, truthful honesty. “I don’t want to use it.”

  Her hand is still on my back. It’s still apprehensive and apologetic. “But you need it. I’ve watched you struggle for a month now,” she whispers.

  “I don’t want it,” I repeat. I’m not angry; it’s an admission. My back is still turned to her, making it easier to deliver the words.

  “Why?” It’s one of the softest things I think I’ve ever heard. Not soft as it relates to volume, but soft as it relates to comfort.

  It prompts me to share one of my biggest fears. “There are stages to the progression of this disease. I feel like if I already give in and use the cane that the inevitability of a wheelchair isn’t far behind. I do not want to be in a wheelchair. That scares the hell out of me.” I’ve barely let that thought cross my mind; I can’t believe I just verbalized it to another person.

  “Don’t let fear rule you.” She’s not whispering anymore, but there’s no edge to her voice. It’s still soft. Still comforting. A soft place to land if I fall.

  “I don’t.” It sounds like a question.

  A question that she responds to. “You do. It takes one to know one.”

  I huff out a laugh, if this weren’t such a serious conversation, it would have been more convincing. “You’re not scared of anything. I may not know you well, but I know enough. You’re researching life for fuck’s sake. You’re engaged in it. You give new neighbors mangos when they move in, and you help the lady next door when her pipe breaks, and you give strangers hugs on the beach. You’re not scared.”

  Her hand moves up and down my back slowly; it’s soothing like the waves. “That doesn’t mean I’m not scared.” Her voice is raw. This is her being real, baring a piece— a very private piece— of herself to me.

  “Why do you give free
hugs at the beach?” I ask. I have a feeling her voice won’t change.

  “It started out as part of my research.” She takes a deep breath. “Because everyone deserves love. A hug is a display of love that begins on the physical end of the spectrum but bleeds into the emotional end of the spectrum if you let it, if you give into it. It’s the most innocent, pure form of physical human connection there is. It only takes two willing people, who don’t even have to know each other, to participate. Two willing people who want that exchange. It’s so easy, but there are people who never get them. People who never get them,” she repeats softly, it’s a confession.

  The confession breaks my heart and prompts my next question. “You said it started out as part of your research, which leads me to believe that your hug research ended or it morphed into something else. So, why do you still do it?”

  “Because, it reminds me I’m not alone.” There’s sadness and fear in her voice, something I cannot, and will not, ignore.

  I turn and don’t hesitate to fold her into my arms. “You’re not alone,” I whisper. She doesn’t hesitate in wrapping her arms around me. I picture her in my mind holding Kira on the beach. I know what this embrace looks like, because I’ve seen this display, and it feels every bit as loving as it looked. It’s strong, all-encompassing, and accepting on the outside and sweet and gentle on the inside. I feel her muscles flex because they take this seriously. I feel each inhalation and exhalation transfer peace and calm from her body to mine. Physically, I’m much bigger than she is, but she surrounds me with her being. With her energy. I hug my kids several times a day, but it’s been years since I hugged an adult. Miranda was never much of a hugger.