“I guess that could work. I’m curious to meet Martha, and keen to spend some time with Sheryl and Kristin. They’re so overwhelmingly nice.”
“Do you also think there must be something hidden underneath that perfect exterior of theirs? Two people can’t be that perfect together.”
Amber broke out into a smile. “Oh, Micky.” She shook her head.
“Come on,” Micky insisted. “There must be something.”
“We had dinner with them once. We don’t know them that well.”
Micky was enjoying the distraction of speculating about their acquaintances—who were turning into friends. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Kristin moonlighted as a high-end BDSM Mistress.”
Amber narrowed her eyes, as though sunk deep into thought. “I could see that.”
“Or maybe it’s the other way around. You just never know.”
“Sheryl? She’s so laid-back… I don’t know.” Amber scrunched her lips together. “We only know one thing for sure. They are one hot couple.”
“Shall I invite them then? I actually already spoke to Kristin about it.”
“Sure. How about next Saturday, so I can let my hair down a bit?”
Micky chuckled. “I haven’t seen you let your hair down in ten years.”
“My version of it then. I’ll drink two glasses of wine instead of one.” Amber sat up a bit straighter. “Don’t forget the task at hand. Why don’t you text Robin now? And let Martha know about the dinner, ask her if she’s free to join.”
“Christ. Yes, boss.” Micky looked her friend in the eyes for a fraction of a second. There was always nothing but good-heartedness to be found in them.
Micky did as she was told, inviting Martha to dinner first, then, her heart beating in her throat, sending a message to Robin saying: I’m sorry, but I can’t be friends with you. I would always be hoping for more.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
It wasn’t Micky’s usual Sunday morning ritual to make French toast for her children, partly because Olivia had been listening to Amber’s anti-sugar rants too much and only reluctantly pecked at her breakfast, and partly because Sunday morning breakfast was never a big deal.
It used to be, pre-divorce. Sunday was the only day of the week that Darren had focused all his attention on his family and he used to be the one to cook them eggs to order, with crispy bacon and bread he had fetched from the bakery on a brisk walk before any of them got up.
After Darren moved out, Micky had attempted to recreate the atmosphere of days past, but no matter how hard she tried, there would always be one person missing from their Sunday morning tableau. No amount of French toast could ever fill that gap.
But this particular Sunday morning, Micky was feeling especially guilty for robbing her children of a constant fatherly presence in their lives, and dipped white bread into a bowl of beaten eggs as though the very act could undo that knot in her stomach.
At the table where Olivia and Christopher were sitting now, a flock of lesbians would gather next week. And only seven short days ago—though it felt more like a lifetime—Micky had brought another woman into this house she shared with her children, and oh the things they had done. Micky straightened her posture and made sure the slice of bread she’d just transferred to the pan didn’t stick. She didn’t want to think of Robin right then. Preferably, she’d never think of Robin again, but her subconscious brain heartily disagreed. Although it did help that Robin had yet to reply to the message Micky sent the day before.
“Voilà.” Micky presented Christopher with his breakfast first, hoping that the look of it would entice Olivia to have some as well. “French toast for my favorite man in the world.”
“Thanks, Mom.” He tucked in immediately, so when Micky asked what they wanted to do that day, his mouth was too full to reply.
“Can’t we just hang out here? We don’t have to do something every Sunday,” Olivia said.
“What did you do last Sunday?” Micky asked casually.
“I told you already. Dad and Lisa took us to see a movie,” Olivia said.
It was true that Micky already knew about this, but she wanted to find out more about Lisa. After all, her accompanying them to the movies was something entirely new to them—seeing their father with a woman who was not their mother.
Micky stopped the dipping of bread into egg and turned to face Olivia. “What’s she like, then?” Micky had held in that particular question since she’d picked up the kids from school last Wednesday. She didn’t want to be that kind of mother, but she was dying of curiosity.