Soaring (Magdalene #2)(88)
Author: Kristen Ashley

“That chair is awesome,” Pippa retorted, making the warmth inside me snuggle deeper, which was what their bickering was doing, as crazy as that sounded.

Auden turned his attention back to the TV, clicking the remote, answering, “It is. But it’d look stupid, crammed up here with all this other stuff. And it’s not like chairs grow on trees.”

“I didn’t say they did,” Pippa returned.

“Just be cool for once,” Auden shot back.

“Okay,” I cut in. “I love it that you love my chair, Pip. And I love it that you’re protective of my design aesthetic, Auden. But how about we make this zone,” I circled my hand to indicate the space we were occupying, “a bicker free zone for ten minutes.”

Pippa hunched back into the couch and Auden turned back to the TV, doing this grinning.

“Design aesthetic,” he muttered, clearly amused.

Back in the day, I amused my boy often.

Right then, knowing I did, I tasted a sweet so beautiful, I knew I’d buried the memory so understanding I’d lost it wouldn’t kill me.

When he did, Pippa audibly swallowed back a giggle before also muttering, “Mom’s so goofy.”

I drew in a silent breath and let it out.

Whackjob I hated.

Goofy I’d take since, to my kids, something they told me frequently, I’d always been goofy.

That also tasted sweet.

I’d missed it too.

The ten minutes actually only lasted about two before Pippa asked irritably, “Can we watch something while you schedule your bazillion programs into the DVR?”

I looked at the programming happening and wondered when my son actually intended to watch all that.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“Something,” she answered.

Expertly, Auden changed the channel to something Pippa would accept then went back to programming the DVR.

But he did this asking, “That cool for you, Mom?”

In my son’s voice (or my daughter’s), “Mom” was the most beautiful word in the English language.

“Yeah, kiddo,” I replied, not even knowing what we were watching.

I didn’t care.

They were back.

My kids were back.

With me.

* * * * *

“Amy, that’s fuckin’ great,” Mickey said in my ear through the phone while I reclined on my daybed in my bedroom.

The kids were still camped out in front of the TV, but I’d gone to my room because it was late.

It was also high time to text Lawr and Robin.

But I decided to phone Mickey.

Lawr and Robin texted back with different but equally elated responses.

Mickey was giving his verbally.

“It’s actually Lawrie’s doing,” I told him. “He called them a while ago and gave them a talking to.”

“Just a catalyst to finish the work you been doin’, darlin’,” Mickey replied. “Don’t give away credit you should take.”

That was when it happened. I didn’t know why that was what made it happen. But it happened.

And my soft sob was audible.

“Fuck, Amy,” Mickey whispered.

“I missed them,” I whispered back, my voice husky and trembling.

“Can’t imagine, don’t want to, baby, but they’re back. Rejoice.”

“I am, Mickey. These are happy tears,” I told him.

“Then I won’t walk over and jimmy up your window so I can climb in and take care of you.”

God, he was a good man.

And suddenly, I wished they were sad tears.

“You could still do that,” I told him.

“How about we don’t introduce me to your kids with the possibility of them catchin’ me breakin’ into your bedroom?”

I was still crying a little even as I giggled.

“That I like to hear,” he murmured, that murmur underlining his words.

“So, kids DVRing a million programs, do you think that means they’re going to come over and watch them?” I asked hesitantly, wiping away my tears, asking this because I wanted the answer to be a definitive yes, but I was worried it would be an uncertain one.

“Don’t know your kids’ habits, babe, but also do not know a kid who tapes a show they don’t intend to watch. I also know, if they got a million taping, your DVR space is gonna be used up and so they’re gonna have to find a way to clear it somehow, and that shit’s not gonna happen comin’ over once a month.”

That was not definitive.

But I’d take it.

“I should let them know they’re welcome over anytime,” I declared.

“You haven’t already done that?” he asked.

“I should repeat to them perhaps more than once over the next two days that they’re welcome over anytime,” I amended.

I could hear his smile in his, “Good plan.”

“Are you still at the firehouse?” I asked.

“Yep,” he answered.

“I should let you go,” I noted.

“Yeah, but only because I went somewhere to talk privately, the guys have invaded and they’re givin’ me shit for talkin’ to my girlfriend.”

I again very much liked him referring to me as his girlfriend.

But my back went straight. “That isn’t very nice.”

“You got time to kill, apparently they feel in the mood to kill it tonight bein’ assholes.”

I had a feeling this was directed right to guys.

I also had a feeling I really should let Mickey go.

“I’ll help put an end to that and say goodnight,” I offered.

“Okay, darlin’, check in tomorrow.”

“I will, Mickey. Stay sharp.”

“Always,” he replied. “Later, Amy.”

“Later, honey.”

We hung up and stared at my unlit fireplace.

Don’t give away credit you should take.

There was no denying that their Uncle Lawrie calling and sharing he felt they needed to shape up helped.

But Mickey was right.

It was mostly me.

I’d been in the battle of my life, the stakes the most important there were.

And I’d won.

On that thought, feeling like I was floating for a different reason, I got up and walked to my bed. I put my phone on the nightstand and went to my bathroom. I got ready for bed, turned out the lights, slipped between the sheets.

And I fell asleep easily.

* * * * *

I was at the kitchen counter, clicking through my laptop, when I saw movement.

I looked up and saw Auden wandering in wearing a navy tee snug across his broad (and getting broader) chest and a loose pair of plaid pajama bottoms.