I snuggled my cheek to his shoulder, hating that.

Mickey had a boss he did not respect, a job he didn’t like doing that bought him taking a lot of complaints from angry people about decisions he did not make.

He’d had a wife he loved who’d become an alcoholic right before his eyes. He lost her and now she was making him live in fear for his kids not only when they were with her but what her effect was on them when they weren’t.

He needed to become fire chief.

He needed to get his business off the ground.

And Rhiannon needed to sort herself out.

As for me, I needed to do what I could to give Mickey as many flashes of really fucking good as I could.

Mickey read my mood but he read it wrong.

“Sorry, baby, you don’t need my bitching.”

“Actually, I do,” I returned. “Because if you don’t lay it on me, it’ll eat you up inside and your kids need you whole, standing and fighting. So I’ll take whatever you got. It isn’t hard. So you have that and you have what you need to take care of your babies.”

Mickey was silent and the night was still. This lasted so long it made me tense.

“Mickey?”

“Sixteen years. Fuck, that asshole blew it.”

I relaxed against him.

“I spoiled our kids,” I admitted. “Gave them everything they wanted.”

“Yeah, got a dose of that,” he returned.

“Conrad didn’t like it. He talked to me. I didn’t listen.”

“God, fuck, sorry. You’re right. It’s a wonder your kids are functioning instead of in inpatient therapy. Now I get it. You spoiled your kids. That guy had every reason to step out on you.”

There was lightness to his voice but just to be sure, I asked, “Are you joking?”

“Fuck yeah, Amy. Shit,” he answered, his voice shaking.

I pressed my cheek into his chest and also started shaking.

Then audibly giggling.

Mickey audibly chuckled with me.

When I stopped, I lifted my glass and took a sip of wine.

When Mickey stopped, he did the same with his beer.

We fell silent and sat in the dark.

But I did it hoping it was one of Mickey Donovan’s moments of decent.

Or maybe even a hint of a flash of happy.

* * * * *

The next afternoon, my phone on my kitchen counter rang.

I saw it was Mickey calling and I snatched it up, glanced at my landing, saw the TV on and bits of both my kids’ limbs. Neither of them looked my way, so casually, I took the call while walking to the hall and heading toward my bedroom.

“Hey,” I answered.

“Hey back. Havin’ a good day?”

“I think so, although I’m a little concerned about what appears to be evidence that suggests my kids have a serious television habit.”

“They’re there again?”