Writing Log #1

[kilroy]

Piece of the novel. Probably one of many. From "February."


Michelle hadn’t changed a bit. Still the same unflattering page boy haircut, the perpetual expression of mild distaste on her face. Through the café window I could see that she still didn't wear makeup or jewelry-- she thought they were "frivolous." We all called her Mickey, which she hated. Mickey, Mickey, Mickey.

When she saw me, her head snapped up a little quicker than I was expecting. I saluted her through the window, and she followed me with her eyes as I made my way through the door and into the seat across from her. The diamond-cutting glare was somewhat undermined, however, by the way her hand was fidgeting with her purse beneath the table. "Hello, Michael," she said with a slight and entirely forgotten drawl.

I nodded. "Mickey."

She flinched but covered it well, running a quick hand through her inadequate hair. "I’m glad you could make it," she said with attempted warmth.

"Yeah, well, anything for you, your majesty," I replied. "What can this old and humble servant do to ease your pain? Hemlock, perhaps?"

Her hand clenched into a fist and bumped the underside of the table. "First you can knock off the goddamn patronizing, you little shit. I’ll take a raincheck for it, just lay off of me today, all right?"

I was astonished. She was hurting: really, genuinely hurting. If anything had happened to Emma... "Fine. Let’s not waste any more time with social niceties. What do you want, Mickey?"

She looked me square in the eye, something sad just behind her expression. "You really hate me, don't you?"

"I’ve had years of practice and you’ve never given me a reason to think different."

"Same old Mike..." she muttered. Her expression closed like a door shutting. "Fine. I don't need you to like me."

"Then what do you need?"

"Two things, Mikey. Your help and your silence."

I sat back in my chair. "Are we having the same conversation? Why, after all the love lost between the two of us, should I give you anything?"

"Because I’m fucking pregnant, Mike. And you are the first person I’ve told."

"Pregnant! Congratulations! I'm sure I can find something for the baby shower; maybe a crib made from the bones of innocent virgins?"

She banged her hand on the table and the napkin holder jumped. "Don't you listen?" she hissed. "You're the first person I've told. Including Emma."

My next few words died in my throat. "You haven't told Emma."

"No."

"Which means this wasn't planned."

"No."

"Which means you've been cheating on her."

"Yes."

"With men."

"With a man."

I looked at her, stunned. "Mickey, you are in deep, deep shit."

She threw up her hands. "Don’t you think I know that? Why the hell would I come to you if I didn’t already have as much shit in my life as I could take?"

I let that one slide. "Does the father know?"

"What part of 'first person I’ve told' was unclear?"

"The 'person' part," I retorted. "I know a little too much of your dating history."

"Oh thanks," she said, "Wonderful, well played. Now are you going to help me or not?"

I tried to throttle myself down to a manageable level of anger. "What do you want, Mickey? Counseling? Someone to tell Emma for you? You’ve been stringing her along for years! The only reason I haven’t murdered you in your sleep is because I love Emma too much to put her through it. She loves you, and she's always been loyal, and this is how you repay her?"

"I... know she loves me." She flinched when she said it. I resisted the urge to punch her. She pressed on: "I know I’ve been horrible to her. And I know the only thing that's been keeping us together is her stupid, loving blindness..."

I cut in with a hand. "Well then maybe this is the wake-up call she needs. At least it’ll get you out of her life."

She glared at me. "It'll kill her, Mike. It won't be like with Lewis. She'll get it right this time."

I remembered standing around the hospital bed with the rest of the gang, trying to focus on her red hair because it was the only part of her that had any color left; trying to look at her face so I wouldn't have to look at the bandages on her arms. I looked at Mickey and asked, "What do you suggest?"

She closed her eyes. "I need an abortion, and it needs to be secret. I need money, and transportation, and a cover story, which means I need help."

There was a single dull tap on the back inside of my skull. "So you thought you'd ask me."

She shook her head. "I'd ask the father, but he's already gone... he wouldn't even if I could find him anyway. You're what I have left."

I struggled to find words. "And Emma?"

Mickey's lip curled into an unreadable little smirk. "It's over between us one way or the other now."

I looked out the window, thought about the little love songs Emma made up on her guitar. I remembered the look on her face when she sang her first for Mickey.

As I looked down at the table, I muttered, "Do you have any idea how lucky you are?"

There was a quiet hush of fabric as she got up. "Yes," she said. "I have a pretty good idea."</lj-cut