I would not rise to the bait. I couldn’t imagine why he wanted a reaction from me, but he couldn’t have it because I didn’t have it in me.

“Nothing’s up my ass, Mickey. I was having a glass of wine and reading when you phoned. And it isn’t exactly early here.”

“It’s nine thirty,” he stated.

“Yes. And I’m relaxed and was into a book. I had lunch with the girls today. No Dove House. Not a big day. Nothing to report. I’m mellowed out and am probably going to go to bed soon except I’m into this book so it might keep me up reading.”

He took a moment as if to digest that while assessing its veracity (and there was absolutely no veracity) before he said, “Then I’ll let you get back to your book. But I gotta ask you somethin’ tough and that is, keep your kids at your ex’s tomorrow. Once I get us home and the kids settled in, I’m comin’ over. We gotta talk.”

So he wasn’t wasting time.

“Text me when you’re on your way over,” I told him.

“Will do. Now I’ll let you go.”

“Okay. Enjoy your last few hours of cactus and sunshine.”

“Sun went down already, baby.”

There was humor in his tone. I hadn’t heard that in over a week.

It pained me.

“Then enjoy your last few hours of cactus and warmth.”

“Will do that too. Later, Amy.”

“Good-bye, Mickey.”

I didn’t hang up.

He didn’t either.

“Babe?” he called.

“Yes,” I answered.

“That it?”

What could he possibly want?

“Sorry, was juggling wine, didn’t hit the button,” I lied. “Anyway, ’bye again, Mickey. See you tomorrow.”

Then I hit the button and set the phone down.

I stared at it. I did this a long time.

It didn’t ring.

So that was it. I knew it then.

Mickey didn’t call me back.

He should have because I disconnected without telling him I loved him.

But he didn’t care because it was over between him and me.

Why, I had no clue.

Except I was me and when shit like this happened, I’d learned there didn’t really need to be a reason.

* * * * *

The next evening after eight, my phone chimed.

I looked to it and saw it was Mickey.

On my way.

Swiftly, I snatched it up and replied, Door is open.

I was in the kitchen making tea.

As he lived right across the street, my torture in waiting for him didn’t last long.

The door opened.

Jeans. Sweater. Boots. He looked tired around his eyes from all the travelling but he still looked all Mickey.

The weight I was carrying pressed down further.

“Hey,” I called, opening the paper around my teabag.

“Hey back,” he replied, closing the door and moving toward me.