Page 25 of Gluttony

“Hey, baby, thought you’d be a no show.” I jump at the sound of Mickey’s voice suddenly at my ear.

“I told you I’d be here.” As I turn to face him, I can’t help giving a furtive glance around to make sure I don’t see anyone from work. There isn’t a doubt in my mind that if any one of the secretaries were to spot me with Mickey, they would report back faster than I can say,rumor mill. Not because I’m doing anything wrong, but so they have a subject to bring up at the coffee and pastries break before the work day even begins. I’m not too keen on being the center of the conversation.

“Never know, you could’ve changed your mind. Come on, let me show you everything I did for you.” There’s a brief moment where I hesitate because Mickey’s words don’t sit well with me. Maybe it’s because I’m still tired and missing my second and third cups of coffee, but I don’t hear a real apology coming from him. In fact, I wonder if he’ll even bring it up.

“Mickey.” At my resistance, he turns and looks around, as though the reason I’m not following him is somehow written on the faces of the strangers around the fountain.

“Bo, come on. We’re going to be late.” Still not an apology.

“We need to talk about what happened Wednesday night.” I speak low, not wanting to cause a scene, but I can’t do this day with him without at least the promise of a conversation.

Mickey sighs like I’m ruining his fucking day, and maybe I am, but this is important.

“Can we just have a nice day? After that, we can talk your little heart out about anything you want.” Again, I hesitate. None of the words that just came out of his mouth guarantee an honest hash out of his assault.

And that’s what it was.

“Okay, fine. Show me your plans but promise me, right now, you’ll sit down and talk with me.” I’m still not moving even though he’s tugging on my hand.

“I promise.” We stand there looking at each other as I read his eyes, steady and clear. Then again, he’s always been a good liar.

But it’s fine. Second chances and all.

The day starts off with a mid-morning delight at the Boathouse. It feels fancier in the winter, like we’re privileged to be here.

The whole time, Mickey talks about the job, then poker nights with his friends, before settling on his advice on how to get the H2O founders to fall in love with me, which isn’t necessarily in our plans. I have to fight the urge to roll my eyes, especially knowing that two weeks have passed and one of them barely speaks to me, the other is fucking psychotic, and Orion…well, he’s a good guy.

At least the cappuccino paired with a cranberry orange muffin was delicious.

On our way to Rockefeller Center for some late morning skating, I remember the rose he had delivered to my apartment, but just as I’m about to thank him for it, I feel the distinct sensation that someone is watching me.

Chances are, it’s this paranoia of being seen that’s making me feel on edge. I swear my spidey senses are on high alert, which is putting a damper on this outing.

Mickey decides we’re walking down to the skating rink, crossing the park and hitting up Fifth Avenue heading due south for half a mile. Our conversation turns easy, fluid, the way it has always been between us. After all, we’re just best friends—only friends—turned lovers.

There are too many years between us for me to sever the bond we’ve built, too many memories and intricate feelings that tie ustogether. I love him, of course, I do, but I’m also angry at him for chipping away at that trust with his words and remarks then taking a huge chunk out by laying his hand on me in violence. Still, the loyalty that’s been growing for the last twenty years isn’t easy to shed. In fact, it feels downright impossible at this point.

So when he puts his arm around my shoulder, I can’t help the flinch.

“The fuck was that, Bo?” Of course he noticed.

“I’m still pissed off. A pastry and a coffee aren’t going to erase what you did.” Mickey has the decency to nod, acknowledging my anger.

“Yeah, I get that but, Bo, you’ll see. After today, you’ll forgive me.” I don’t answer. At this point, anything I say will be based on feelings alone. I want to see actions.

When we cross over to the Rockefeller Center, I’m surprised there aren’t more people there. I’d anticipated a full house but this is nice. It’s a Saturday morning, which means the bulk of the skaters is made up of bundled up kids falling on their butts more than standing upright. Some parents are holding their hands, others are encouraging them to continue until their next fall.

This scene is a trigger for me. All these attentive mothers and sometimes fathers doting on their babies, showing love and patience with every outburst and river of tears when the ice hits their child’s rear end. It’s beautiful and heartwarming but it tears my heart apart like the first time I was placed in a foster home.

I was five when this type of moment with my parents was ripped away from me. Five when they were killed by a mass shooter in a fucking mall, of all places.

But I shake it off, this growing anxiety building at the base of my belly and threatening a bout of nausea. Mickey is trying,he’s planned an entire day to remind me of how good we are together.

Still, I can’t help the tiny snark that pops out of my mouth.

“Well, isn’t this a very Norman Rockwell-y image?” I’d studied the beloved New Yorker paintings in one of my classes in college. “The American dream viewed through Art.” The obvious message that jumps out is his sentimental portrayal of modern America, but there’s no denying his underlying message was more political in nature. The realism mixed with just enough caricature is what made him a household name back in the day. Hell, the fact I’m even referencing him over a hundred years later speaks volumes about his popularity.

“Come on, a couple of laps in the rink will snuff out that bitchiness.” Mickey flashes me a wide grin, reminding me that he’s joking. Maybe I’m being a little too guarded. After all, this is us. We joke, we throw shade, it’s who we are.

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