Page 93 of I Love My Mistake
NICOLE
Chapter Forty
OUTSIDE ELLA
Icall to him, “Michael!” but he’s too far down Stuyvesant Street to hear me. Dodging faceless strangers, I break into a sprint and desperately again cry out, “Michael!” I’m running as fast as I can to the man who nearly broke me. This is the last thing I ever thought I’d be doing. Michael knocks my confidence sideways. He always does. His energy is so much stronger than mine it makes me feel weak. It’s like I’m looking for him to tell me who I am. But he’s also like a drug, a drug that wakes me up and makes me feel alive even though that feeling is acquired through pain. I need pain now, because it’s my only option. I might as well be yelling save me. That’s what I really want.
“Michael!!!”
He turns around like he doesn’t believe it’s really me calling his name. His dreadlocked friend looks at me, but his emotions are either nonexistent or unreadable. Michael’s though, they’re written all over his face, as clear and vibrantly as a lit up Billboard in Time Square. He’s shocked, his dark Spanish features creased as he squints, his hands flowing out from his body as though to receive me. His friend gives him a tap twice on the shoulder and leaves, crossing the street to give Michael – to give us – space.
I stop just short of slamming into his arms. My addiction wants me to run into them, but there’s a part of my heart that’s screaming no! We stare at each other as I gather my breath and intentions. He tilts his head, both agitated and relieved. I feel the same way. What are my intentions? Now that I’m here, I don’t know what to do. What can I say to him? What am I doing here? Suddenly…irrationally… I wish my girlfriends would come get me. But I shove that desperate desire down deep to the place everything my guardian angel is screaming at me. I’m sorry, Angel. I don’t want to be good or do the right thing.
Not tonight.
“You waiting for me to say something?” He runs his fingers through his long dark hair, sketching my lips with a slow look. He’s confused. So am I.
“I don’t know,” I whisper, my eyes darting from his eyes to his lips, and back again. I want to kiss and I want to slap him.
Michael surprises me with a jealous angry growl. “So, where’s that guy? Why aren’t you with him tonight?”
Anger boils in my chest immediately. He means Mark and I don’t want to hear it. “Excuse me? What guy?”
Incensed, his eyes darken as his nostrils flare. “You know which one! Oh fuck me. Don’t look away, Nic. Just lay it all out on the table. I’m not fucking around here!”
My eyes flash as I meet his again. “Are you kidding me?” I’m being loud, but I can’t stop myself from yelling. How dare he of all people tell me not to hide. I poke him hard in the chest. “You think you have the right to grill me about anyone, when you were married and never told me? Why don’t you lay it out on the table, Michael? Because I lay it alllllll out now.” I sweep my hands out from my body. “It’s alllllll out. Ever since you broke me, believe me, it is OUT there! I’m not afraid of emotions anymore, so don’t play that old card with me! Like I’m still that locked up girl who needs your guidance into the great big world of feelings! I’m there! Believe me, I feel!”
“Nic,” Michael says quietly, eyes darting again hotly to my mouth.
“NO!” Every syllable I yell is a whip cracking across his face. “You don’t get to say who I spend time with, and you don’t get to say who I am and who I am not! And most of all – Michael!” I roll his name off my tongue like it’s as appetizing as eating a pile of maggots. “You do NOT get to say anything that has any connection to this!” I slam my hands hard against my heart and glare at him. “You know why? Because you’re the one who tore it out of my chest, threw it on broken glass, and stomped on it while nonchalantly smoking a fucking cigarette and drinking a glass of fucking Syrah night after fucking night! That’s why!” I stare at his silence. At the darkness surrounding his spirit. At the strong lines of his high Spanish cheekbones. At his oh-so-bad-for-me lips, parted.
We reach for each other, slamming our mouths together in a violent kiss. We make each other pay for the pain we’ve caused with groping hands and feverish lashing tongues. Gasping against gasps, I grab his head as we kiss, pushing my body against his pants. His hands squeeze me so hard it hurts. I’m glad it hurts. I want it to. We are two people who were in a cookie jar that the other was forced to stay out of. Two people who have always wondered what that cookie would taste like, and who are starving for a really good cookie.