More Than Friends (Kingsley #4) Page 2

  "Something bad?"

  Michael could hear a hint of insecurity in her voice, and he jumped to clarify his meaning. "No, it's funny," he said. "I think Harmony will love it, and Xander will probably bust a gut, laughing at it. It's cute. We're, uh, doing something more serious too, though, right?"

  "Of course we are," Renee scoffed. "Look at your phone again, since you have so little faith in me."

  Chastised, Michael held the phone away from his ear again, leaning against the shop counter while he waited for the text notification to come through. The edge of his boot nudged the side of the garbage can under the counter, drawing his attention to the rum bottle he had tossed in earlier. What made him cringe, though, was yesterday's bottle, staring accusingly up at him. Ben, his office manager, had been off yesterday.

  "Hey, Renee?" He spoke into the phone, touching it lightly to his ear to hear her response.

  "Yeah?"

  "Hang on just a second. I'll be right back, okay?"

  "Sure, no problem," she answered. "Everything okay?"

  "Yeah, just hang on." Setting the phone out of the way, Michael turned to pull an empty garbage bag from the drawer behind the counter. He pulled it open, stuffing the seamed bottom into his pocket while he pulled the full bag from the trash can and knotted it closed. He could faintly hear Renee, humming quietly while she waited for him to come back to the call; Michael raised an eyebrow, pausing to glance curiously at the phone before he finished adding the new garbage bag to the now-empty can. He wasn't sure he'd ever heard someone humming a Kansas song before, but he was sure he was hearing the melody of "Carry on Wayward Son." Tossing one more curious look toward the phone, Michael grabbed the garbage, gathered his keys, and then lifted the phone to his ear again. "Still there?"

  "Yep. You sure everything is fine?"

  "Yeah, I'm just closing the shop for the night," Michael answered, cringing as the two empty bottles in the garbage bag clinked loudly together. "I, um ... I needed both hands to take the garbage out."

  "Oh," she said quietly. Michael had seen her face the last time she had been to his house; he had watched her lips form a silent pucker, had watched her arch one slim, delicate eyebrow in surprise. She had hesitated before throwing her empty soda can on top of the collection of empty bottles in his kitchen trash can, probably debating with herself about whether or not to ask Michael about the bottles. In the end, she hadn't asked, and Michael had been avoiding their bi-weekly movie nights ever since. He'd be willing to bet his left arm that right that moment, she was remembering that night, too. They were close friends; she had spent enough time in his house to know him well, and to have noticed that something was off.

  Hell, apparently everyone who knew him had noticed, if the worried undercurrents in his father and brother's voicemails were any indication.

  "Yeah, it was a long day today for me," he said, trying to cover the awkward moment. He cleared his throat as he edged through the door and into the chill air outside, glancing over to make sure the alarm system was set before he allowed the door to swing closed. "How was your day? Anything fun happen in your classes?"

  Renee sighed softly, but allowed him to change the topic of their conversation. "It was a good day," she said. "Long, but good. I did have a new student though – a guy!"

  Chapter Three

  "Seriously?" Michael asked. "A dude in yoga class?" Stepping around the side of his building, he dropped the garbage into the dumpster before turning back toward the parking lot. His truck was alone at the edge of the lot, the same small pick-up he had been driving since he was in high school. He couldn't help grinning to himself as he walked toward it, though the memories it brought back were bittersweet.

  He had felt every possible emotion in that truck – nervousness on the way to pick up his prom date, exhilaration when he'd pulled into the driveway of her house afterward, and she had dropped a hand on his thigh as she told him that her parents were out of town for the weekend. Fear driving home that night, sure that somehow her parents would notice the absence of the condom he had stolen from their bedroom in order to deflower their only daughter. Pride, as he drove to school the following Monday, no longer a virgin high school boy but now an experienced man of the world. Wonder, as he drove toward the church on his wedding day. Grief, driving home from the courthouse the day his divorce was finalized.

  "– and I seriously thought he was going to fall right over on Cass," Renee was saying.

  "Sounds like he really needs your class," Michael laughed, unlocking his truck and climbing in.

  "I think he wants more than yoga, though. He asked me out after class. Just dinner, you know?"

  Michael jerked, dropping his cell phone into his lap. Scrambling to pick it back up, he pressed it to his ear, his throat tight, belly clenching suddenly against the possibility of Renee getting involved with someone. What the hell was that about? "You told him no, though. Right?"

  "Actually, Michael, I told him yes. I mean, he seems nice. And I'm ... God Michael, I'm thirty-two. Thirty-three in August. No kids, no family. I don't know about you, but I'm not getting any younger over here."

  "Me either," Michael answered quietly.

  "Oh my goodness. Oh my God, Michael, I am so sorry! I'm an asshole, I can't believe – I didn't mean ... Michael, I'm sorry. Please, don't take it like that."

  "Take it like what?" He sighed, sliding the key into the ignition and starting the truck. His chest tightened, his heart wrenching. Whether she had meant the words for him or not – and he believed she hadn't – they still rang true. At thirty-three years old – thirty-four in December – Michael was about the same age as Renee, and he had no family to speak of either. But in his case, it was worse than just never having married, waiting for the right one; he had married. He had thought he'd found the right one, had given his heart, his promise for the future – and his marriage had crashed and burned. Worse, he didn't even know what had gone wrong; Nicolette had only cited "irreconcilable differences" on her paperwork when she had filed for divorce, and she had never been willing to mediate. Even stranger, she had made a point, as her testimony drew to a close, to look him in the eye. She had drawn a deep breath, her chest lifting as she inhaled; then, she had ended her testimony by stating that Michael was a good man and a good husband – she simply couldn't be his wife anymore.

  Michael had stood in the courtroom during the final proceedings, silent, his eyes cast down to the table in front of him. He had agreed to the divorce, given Nicolette what she had asked for without fighting. She had looked at him one last time after it was over, tears in her eyes, her lower lip trembling. Michael had wanted desperately to reach out to her, to pull her close and promise her he'd do whatever it took to make her want to try again. But she had dropped her eyes; she had turned away. That was the last sight Michael had had of the woman he had promised to love, honor, and care for until forever.

  "I really didn't mean you, Michael." Renee sighed softly. "I mean, really – at least you've had the courage to try. I haven't even done that. That's why I told him I'd go to dinner with him. You know? Because my Mr. Right isn't beating the door down looking for me. I'm going to have to look for him."

  "Hmph. Alright, then." Michael sighed, bracing his cell phone between his cheek and shoulder as he shifted his truck into reverse and backed out of his parking space. "Still," he went on. “You do have a point. I mean, maybe I need to get out there again myself, you know?"

  "We can have double date movie nights," Renee laughed. "Instead of just us. You invite a girlfriend over, and I'll bring Harvey."

  "Harvey?" he croaked. The more they talked, the more his stomach heaved. He hoped he wasn't getting sick. Had he eaten dinner? No, he’d forgotten again.

  "Yep, Harvey." Renee's voice had taken on a decidedly suspicious tone now. "Why?"

  Michael shrugged, smirking. Harvey. What the hell kind of name was Harvey, anyway? The guy was probably some kind of scrawny, organic-granola-eating tool. No surprise he ended up
in a yoga class, then. And there was no way this Harvey thing would go anywhere, either. Renee herself had told him a dozen times that even though she prided herself on being a strong and independent woman, she wanted to someday settle down and grow old with what she described as "a real man." The way Michael saw it, Harvey just wasn't a real manly name. Biting back a grin he couldn't have explained even if she had been there to see it, he said, "So, what's his last name?”

  Renee waited a minute before answering, and Michael found himself smiling, scanning the fast food signs along the street as he drove toward his house. Finally, she answered, her voice so low that Michael might not have heard if he hadn't been waiting with baited breath. Her hesitation alone had told him that Harvey's last name was likely to be just as ridiculous as his first. "Fitzgerald," she muttered. But she went on quickly, a warning in her voice. "And yes, I'm serious. And yes, I think that's his real name. And no, you are not allowed to make fun."

  Maybe not out loud, then. But he was definitely going to be making some serious mental fun. Harvey Fitzgerald. What a damned sad name.

  "Michael? You still there?"

  He bit his tongue before answering, hoping the pain would keep the laughter out of his voice. "I'm still here. Just looking for somewhere to get some dinner before I go home. You know, thinking about those movie nights with Harvey."

  Renee sighed, but the breath ended on a stifled laugh. "Are you finished?"

  "Not really." Michael laughed, enjoying the sound of amusement in her voice, even as she tried to sound stern. "Come on, Renee, I'm serious. Should we get a comedy? Romantic comedy? Or does Harvey prefer manly stuff?"

  At this point, Renee lost her stern pretense and broke into giggles. "Maybe he likes action," she said.

  “How would he know if he does or not?" Michael shot back, laughing harder. He felt a little guilty making fun of a man he didn’t know, who wasn’t even there to defend himself, but it felt good to joke and laugh. It felt good to let go, to just be relaxed and playful. And the laughing made it easier for him to quietly ignore the unexpected feelings of jealousy over Renee dating someone. “He can’t possibly be an action man. He probably hasn’t had any to speak of. I mean, come on. Fitzgerald? How will you name your kids without laughing? For that matter, how will you make it through the wedding? Do you, Renee Keaton, take Mr. Harvey Fitzgerald as your awfully wedded –”

  “Alright, alright,” Renee broke in. “I get it. His name is … not the best. But he’s a nice guy, so I’m just gonna see where it goes, you know? Get my toes in the water.”

  “The water’s cold,” Michael retorted, pulling into the drive-through line in the parking lot of his favorite burger joint. “Take your toes back out before you get hypothermia. Fitzgerald. How the hell are you gonna bring yourself to scream ‘Oh, Harvey!’ when you’re in bed?”

  “Jesus, Michael, you kill me,” Renee giggled. “I’m not going to bed with him, I’m just going to dinner. I gotta go, though, okay? Chelsea’s just getting home so she’ll likely come in her usual way.”

  “Right, like a cyclone,” Michael grinned. “Alright. I’ll talk to you later. Maybe you can tell me you’ve got another date with a real hottie named Maurice Filibuster.”

  “I might. Alright, call me tomorrow, silly.” There was a click, and she was gone.

  Chapter Four

  Michael's laughter faded with her voice, but the lighter mood stayed with him as he ordered his dinner, paid the cashier at the window, and drove home with the salty scent of french fries permeating the air in his truck. His melancholy mood was still there though, and it made a swift return to the forefront of his mind as he pulled into the driveway of his house.

  The house itself was nothing fancy; it was the personal meaning of the house that screamed "failure!" to him. Michael was a planner; the house had been purchased as a part of his plan for the future, as an investment in a dream he had once believed was possible.

  He had had it all planned out since he was a young boy, watching his father dote on his mother during her last troubled pregnancy. He would be a perfect husband, just like his father – a strong man, a gentle leader, a reliable provider. His wife would be perfect, too – beautiful, supportive, wise. Together, they would raise a large, happy family in a beautifully restored version of the battered old farmhouse that had been falling apart on the edge of town for as long as Michael could remember.

  Now partially restored, the old farmhouse belonged to him, but Michael felt no rush of joy in its possession anymore. He had no wife to greet him at the end of a long day, no children to run up and down the wide halls, and the old house was just an empty reminder of what could have been.

  He wished he was a more casual man, one who could more easily let go of the serious intent behind the taking of his marriage vows. He wished he could just shake it off – but he felt that marriage should be forever. He felt that somewhere out in the world, he still had a wife. His mind had long since accepted the fact of his divorce from Nicolette, but his heart? No. And he was terrified that his heart would always call her what she had once promised through trembling lips to be forever – his wife.

  The way he saw it, that made him more than just a failure as a husband. If he truly couldn't let it go ... if he really spent his life stuck in the past, mourning a marriage that no longer existed ... then he was, perhaps, a failure as a man.

  Sighing, Michael reached for the paper bag still resting, unopened, on the seat beside him. He stared up at his house as he unfolded the top of the bag, glowing white in the moonlight that bathed the front yard and lit the inside of the truck. He had done this once before – as an excited newlywed, listening quietly as his young wife had chattered on about how much fun their children would someday have, running through that big yard.

  He pulled his burger from the bag and folded back the wrapper, closing his eyes against his memory of her words.

  "We'll have all the kids close together," she had said, smiling over at him. "Like you and your siblings. I hope we have at least one boy first too, you know? To have a big brother in the family? And he'll watch out for his little sisters when they go to school, and scare their boyfriends when they start to date."

  "No," Michael had retorted, trying to sound grouchy. "There will be a firm no-boyfriends rule in place. No boyfriends. Hm-mm."

  Nicolette had laughed at him then, leaning over to rest her head on his shoulder. "You know that will never work, right?"

  "I know," he had sighed. They had sat for a while in silence, both lost in their own imaginings. Finally, Michael had shaken his head, swallowing the last bite of his meal. "Let's just agree to have all boys," he had said, lifting his arm and draping it over her shoulders.

  She had turned to him, smiling, and pressed a gentle kiss to the side of his throat. "Want to go in and start now?"

  "Damn." Dropping the rest of the unfinished burger back into the bag beside him, Michael shifted the truck into reverse and backed out of the driveway. There was no way he was going into that house alone. Tonight, he was going to need someone to help him fend off the ghosts of what might have been.

  He was going to need to find a companion.

  Fifteen minutes later, he was parked in front of his favorite local bar, his keys clicking softly in his pocket as he slammed the door of the truck and walked toward the bar. It was exactly what you'd expect a hookup bar to be – huge, crowded, and vibrating with the volume of the music playing inside. He paid his cover charge, elbowed his way through the dance floor to the bar, and dropped onto a stool in front of a gorgeous but very busy bartender. Her name was Sherry; she was single, uninhibited, and usually more than willing to spend her night hours in his bed.

  "Hiya, Mikey," she murmured, using her own shortened version of his name. She leaned both elbows on the bar and propped her chin in her hands. "What can I do ya for?" she asked with a wink and a smile, straight white teeth gleaming between glossy lips.

  "Start me off with two shots," Michael said quietly,
answering her smile with one of his own.

  Sherry raised her eyebrows, watching him, and then tipped her head in acknowledgment. He ordered beer when he was there to drink; he ordered pornographic shots when he was there for company. "I get off in an hour. Which ones this time?"

  He laughed, sitting back a little to think as she moved away to serve beers to two other customers. "I think I'll start with nipples," Michael said, winking at her when she came back. "Give me one slippery and one buttery."

  "Well, won't the buttery one be slippery, too?"

  "If I have my way, they won't remember which is which by the time I'm finished."

  "Mmhmm. And after that?" Her cheeks had gone pink, but she was smiling as she lowered her face.

  Michael waited until she looked up again, pushing the pair of shots across the bar. Lifting one glass without looking away from her eyes, he tipped the liquor into his mouth and swallowed. "I don't know. Maybe a roll in the hay."