The Corner Table at Mickey's Pt. 04

"So, let me get this straight." Robin's voice was amused. "You've chosen to grace Jim by bestowing your affections upon him. But oh my gawd! He has the temerity, the unmitigated gall, to be insufficiently appreciative of your largesse and refuses to dedicate himself twenty-four seven to hot-ifying his bod for your delectation? What an ingrate!"

After a moment Mallory asked, "What does delectation mean?"

"Pleasure and delight."

"You don't have to be sarcastic as fuck about it." What the sour words really meant was, "Yeah, that's what I wanted."

Robin dropped her share of the bill onto the table. "Gotta run. Deposition in an hour."

Mallory moved over to the bar and pushed her empty glass across it. "Another cran and soda?"

Her mind resisted focusing on what they'd been talking about. Idly she picked up her phone and started scrolling back through time. A selfie with a guy here or there. She remembered their names, barely in some cases, but that was about it. Delete. No sense in keeping memorabilia of times that weren't even memories anymore. Delete.

Swipe. A nice one from the first girls' night out with Robin. That picture made her feel warm inside.

Swipe. She burst out laughing. The two of them at the same table, this time with a guy photobombing. He'd become a little bit of a nuisance, determined to get Robin's number. He'd only stopped when Robin said tipsily, "I'm sorry, I'm queer," and leaned over and kissed her "girlfriend" firmly on the mouth. Robin had then spent the rest of the evening drunk-apologizing for "That's assault. I know, I'm a lawyer. I'm so sorry."

Until Mallory had grabbed her friend's face firmly between her palms, and said, "If you don't shut up, I'm going to tell DH we're having a lesbian affair and see if wants to join in." Robin had looked at her in blank astonishment and then burst out laughing. The two had been best friends ever since.

She froze as several more swipes brought another image into view. How did this one get here? Michael with his arm around her, her head on his shoulder, the New York skyline in the background. She remembered that evening out with her fiancé and sister-in-law-to-be. She saw the slight tension around her eyes. It had been some comment about my wine choice, she remembered vaguely. Her finger hovered over the trashcan icon, then withdrew. Keep this one. Anytime you forget, look at it and remember.

She scrolled further. She smiled at the beach picture. Bobby. A gentle not-quite-melancholy replaced the anger. She studied the image fondly.

He wasn't as buff as I remember him. The unexpected thought disturbed her. The man in the picture was just what you'd expect of a twenty-two-year-old who hiked sometimes, ran a couple of miles with his girlfriend maybe once a week, played the occasional game of pickup b-ball. Averagely fit. A "before" picture to ... she remembered Josh's rippling abdomen.

But the last time in your life you were completely content in a relationship. That realization upset her more. Her mind flicked back through the catalog of men, easily matching shortcomings to the Joshes and the Brandons and the Nicks and the Aimons and ...

It stopped at Tom. What went wrong there?

"Commitment-phobic," her excuse at the time, was too much of a stretch. She'd known that deep inside then, admitted it now. Her response to Robin that they were just friends who enjoyed each other's company was only half the answer. True, but only half of it.

You were afraid of Tom. As soon as she told herself that, she knew it was wrong. The thought of Tom hurting her was ludicrous.

You were afraid of what Tom could do if he were Michael. A bartender's gift of gab, a successful business, the breadth of knowledge that comes with a humanities degree, a body sculpted over the years ... a man who could make you feel inadequate in every way Michael had without lifting a finger.

Tom wasn't Michael, but you weren't ready to risk that. You got scared and you ran. Tom wasn't Michael, if for no other reason than he's still your friend after you torched your relationship.

She looked up at the man she was thinking about. "Twice I've gotten lucky with you," she said without considering her words. She saw Shannon's head swivel sharply.

"Oh! I mean ... I mean lucky that we were friends, not the, you know, the other."

Shannon relaxed, both at the words and Tom's gentle stroke on her arm.

"What do you mean, Mal?"

"I got lucky because we stayed friends even after I made up some bullshit excuse for breaking up. I got lucky the second time because ..." Suddenly she felt awkward, mostly that Shannon was there, but her audience was waiting. "Because we're better as friends."

"I think you're right about that."

"Why?" She wanted to know all of a sudden. She wanted some other perspective.

He set his bar rag down and pulled Shannon into the curve of his arm. "Taking sex out of the equation." Mallory realized his gesture toward his girlfriend wasn't random; it was for both reassurance and maybe self-protection as Shannon tensed. "If you look at what was left, it was two people who enjoyed hockey games and dinner out once in a while. Buddies." He shrugged. "Jim is going to go to a hockey game with me, and he and I enjoy Friday dinners.

"We hadn't realized that we'd gone as far as we were going to go because, well, we were still in the early stages." Mallory saw his arm tighten at some movement Shannon made, probably because all three of them had a mental flash of what the early stages comprised.

"Nothing wrong with that. We're just two different people. You want someone who keeps you on your toes and makes life a daily adventure. I have simpler tastes: I want to run my bar, have a drink with friends once in a while, and end the day with a redhead who feels like home to me."

He waited to see if that was enough. Mallory nodded. She slid off her stool and headed for the ladies' room. Behind her, the silence was broken by Shannon's soft, "Thomas Byrne, you're going to be the luckiest fella on the planet after we close tonight."

Washing her hands, an unbidden image of Jim arose. Kind. Intelligent. Funny. Unexpected. Faithful.

Flawed.

Not just flawed, flawed in a way that you aren't. She glanced at her reflection in the glass of the mirror. An ass to die for, she remembered saying to him. She didn't have to lift her shirt to see the six-pack below the sports bra, the muscles that slid underneath just enough body fat to still appear feminine.

She felt a sudden guilt. Jim had gotten past her defenses, not only because he was kind and all those other things, but because she could clutch that tiny, unacknowledged feeling of superiority. Find a shortcoming and keep it around in case you need a weapon. It felt like a knife in her gut. Isn't that what Michael did?

But Michael used his; I didn't.

Maybe not to hurt. But maybe to keep someone from getting too close?

She felt light-headed for a second and leaned on the sink.

That's one of the things Robin's been trying to tell you.

She faced herself in the mirror. Only the grace of God allowed Tom to turn out to be a good decision, and you don't get lucky like that twice. Pushing Jim away would be ... would be the second-worst decision of your life right after saying yes to that pathetic New York loser.

Somehow, feeling contempt for Michael rather than relief she'd escaped him, reducing him to a label instead of calling him by his name, cleared her mind.

She pulled up the picture of Bobby on her phone and stared at it, forcing herself to look at the not-hardbody of the last man she'd been head over heels with. Who knows what you'd have looked like at thirty-five, Bobby. Her eyes wandered to the girl leaning against him, one who didn't squirm at wearing a bikini but who, one could tell, had no thoughts about setting foot inside a weight room. What would that girl have looked like if she hadn't met Michael?

I've become a scared, arrogant little bitch. What does Jim see in me? Beyond an ass to die for. Because somehow, she knew it wasn't that.

"What do you see in me?"

Her question caught him by surprise. His eyes came up from staring at the mat as he struggled to hold the final seconds of his plank, meeting hers as she didn't struggle. He dropped to one knee.

"Uh, uh, uh!" She gestured with her chin. As he came back into position, she said, "I'm putting ten seconds on the clock."

She ignored his grimace, ignored the ding on her watch, and counted them out. "... eight, nine, annnd down." She'd taken to working out alongside him when they were in the gym. Sometimes she did something a little tougher--she was doing straight-arm planks while he did low ones--but their workouts were communal instead of trainer–trainee ... or taskmaster–slave, as he termed it.

She didn't push for an answer as they went over to the ellipticals then back to the mat.

He stared at the ground in front of him, occasionally ducking to wipe his forehead on his sleeve. "If you need a reason, I guess someone who listened to a man alternately moan and rant about something that she probably didn't have the slightest interest in hearing. Someone who--"

"You didn't moan."

"Of course I did. I just wasn't a total drama queen about it."

"Annnd down." She met his eyes as they stood. "Why do you say, 'If you need a reason'?"

"I just like you. I find you interesting and exciting. I don't need anything beyond that."

His words echoed Tom's description of Shannon--"She's my girlfriend. I just like her."--and Mallory realized the charges of over-analyzing were true.

She also realized she'd killed the lighthearted mood that had started the day. She worked to retrieve it. "You forgot, 'And you have a great ass.' I saw you checking it out as we walked past the mirrors."

If she hoped for abashed or disconcerted, she was disappointed. Without missing a beat and with no flush of embarrassment, he said, "To die for--I believe that's how it's described."

Mallory burst out in laughter because he remembered her description to him, made in jest of course, and to herself the other night, made in somber reflection.

However, days later, a moment came when depression had her wondering if that's what Jim did see in her ... at least for a second, the fear was there. That very morning that she'd asked him the question, she'd twisted an ankle running. Badly. And in trying not to faceplant from it, she'd hurt her knee also.

"Running is absolutely out of the question," the doctor ordered. "Crutches or cane. And stay out of the gym. I know you, and you'll put weight on that leg somehow. You can do permanent damage; do you want surgery?"--that last in response to the rebellion he saw on her face.

It was okay for a week, though she fretted. The next couple had her antsy. Then her scale confirmed something she didn't want to be confirmed, even if it was only a few. The shadow of "six weeks or a bit more, and that's only if you listen to me" appalled her. And then the universe piled on and delivered the coup de grâce.

"So, what about your day has you on a two-Yuengling bender?" It was a Wednesday and she had stopped in, knowing Jim would be behind the bar. Now he set the second open bottle in front of her.

"An hour ago, I realized I'm falling apart!" She tried to keep her voice light even though a part of her was in a very different place.

"What?" His eyes did a quick flick over her. He leaned over the counter to look down. "I don't see any parts missing." He turned and peered around the floor behind her. "Nothing lying there either."

"Don't be a jackass!" The laugh was only somewhat forced. "I was fixing my face when I found three gray hairs! My first."

"I have a hard time being sympathetic."

She looked at the infinitesimal silvering of hair at his temples. "First of all, Mr. Smarty Pants, if I had sandy hair like yours, no one would ever notice, but when it's dark like mine, they stand out like neon lights."

He searched her head. "I don't see anyth--"

She cut him off in disbelief. "You don't think I left them, do you?"

He put up his hands in surrender.

"Second, it's different for you guys. You just get distinguished while we turn into hags."

The edge to her tone caused him to cock his head. He reached into the bar refrigerator for another Yuengling.

"I already have one."

"This is mine. Come on." He met Tom's eyes for a significant second. Then he scooped up her bottle with his, pushed under the bar flap, and dropped down into a booth away from anyone else. He waited for her to slide off the stool, gather her cane, and hobble over.

"So?"

"I'm laid up for a month more. I can't do anything."

He nodded, understanding what that meant to her.

"And I've put on a little weight."

"It doesNOT look bad."

"You've noticed!" She was in shock.

"Mallory," he said with a tone that implied infinite patience along with incredulity, "do you have any idea how many times a morning I check you out? And even though you're only there to act as the bane of my existence right now, you still wear yoga pants. They're like spray paint."

"Does it bother you?"

"Yes it does, but o--"

That's when her mood made her think that Jim liked her for her looks ... when she heard the "yes it does" ... when the fears Michael had buried in her grabbed hold for a second and wrenched her back to a different time. The rest of his sentence took a moment to sink in.

"--nly because I know it upsets you. I think it looks fine."

"But my--"

He plowed right over her. "Yes, your butt. It's got the tiniest fraction more curve. That's a win."

"But--"

He kept going. "And if you gain a few more pounds, then I'm sure your boobs will get a little bigger, and that's a win also."

"But--"

"And a few more than that and you'll feel soft and cuddly. Another win."

"That's not fun--"

He wasn't done. "And if you lose the weight you've put on, then you'll look sportier, and that's a win too."

He finally reached over and put a finger across her lips before she sputtered again. "If you're not getting the picture, regardless of how you look, it's a win. I'm generally a glass-half-full guy, but with a woman I'm interested in, it's closer to almost spilling over." He took his finger away experimentally, smiled when she stayed silent. Then his eyes crinkled. "Gray hair might be a deal-breaker, though. Skip the gym; hit the salon."

He ducked the bar coaster.

DH raised his glass to signal for attention. "Jim and I are going for our motorcycle test tomorrow afternoon. Wish us luck."

"Good luck."

Mallory knew that, underneath, Robin's response wasn't entirely wholehearted, that she had a problem with DH's new hobby. A little bit of it, of course, was concern over the danger. "But," Robin had confided one day, "it's that this is just one more thing that will take him away during the limited time he's home. And it's not just 'Gonna go shoot pool with the boys for an hour.' It's long rides."

But now she put on her game face and smiled at her husband, raising her glass in salute along with everyone else wishing them luck.

"Thank you, everyone. And--"

"I have an announcement of my own," Robin cut in on DH. Everyone's focus shifted. "Two weeks ago, I signed up for the Motorcycle Safety Program class next week to get my license."

"Woot!"--"Way to go, Rob!"--"Everyone stay off the sidewalks and lawns!"--"Deadly!"

Only DH didn't say anything. He was looking at Robin with a funny expression.

"It was a surprise for you. I thought you'd be pleased we could do it together," she said.

"I am. I am so thrilled I can't describe it. But I'm afraid you can't do it next week."

"Why not? I already talked to my boss about time off."

"Because I already talked to him too, and you and I are flying to Bermuda Sunday morning for a week. You're going to be super-duper surprised when I tell you at dinner tomorrow night."

After a long pause, "But you're flying to Guatemala on Sunday."

"That's old news. Did I forget to mention that you're looking at the newest associate professor of environmental studies at Penn State, Altoona campus?"

Robin's mouth fell open, and she sat there shocked.

Finally, Jim, who Mallory realized was in on the news, spoke up. "Would you like me to provide simultaneous English-to-Blonde translation?"

That broke Robin's spell. "Asshole!" she said with a smile. Then she leaned over and ignored the whistles and cheers--first from her tablemates and then from the rest of the bar--as she showed DH exactly what she thought of his new job.

Later, giving Jim a touch of the same before saying goodnight, Mallory said, "It's so romantic. It's exactly like 'The Gift of the Magi' except, well, different."

"Yeah."

It wasn't until he responded that she realized that: one, he had obviously read one of her favorite authors, and two, she'd spoken as if she'd just known that would be true.

And it wasn't until much later that she realized a third thing. "Everybody wants to think someone will make the effort for them." Robin's words from weeks back. Goddammit! What other timebombs has that byotch put into my brain?

Mallory finally learned the lesson that time, Robin, and Tom had been trying to teach her. Even though it was late she picked up her phone.

"Hello?" His voice was muzzy with sleep.

"I woke you."

"Yep."

"I wanted to ask you something."

"And it can't wait?"

"Look, I know I said you had to walk on Saturday mornings, and I know you have your test in the afternoon, but I was wondering if you wanted to play hooky from the walk and do something early? Maybe go out to that breakfast place in Somerset that was on Food Network. You said you wanted to try the blueberry praline pancakes."

"Who is this, and what have you done with Mallory?"

"I'm serious."

"Seriously, do I need to call the police?"

"Jim!"

As they parted the next day, her claiming some shopping but really to sneak some upper body work--I'll be careful! she insisted to herself--and then go shopping, she watched him head up the walk to his building. It had been a wonderful morning.

She admitted the pancakes had been delicious. On an impulse, she turned from stepping back into her car and looked at her rear in the side window glass. On any other woman, I'd say that looked attractive. She'd caught him sneaking a peek earlier; he still hadn't learned about reflections, including those in the picture windows of a pancake house. Maybe a little less obsessive wouldn't be so--

She turned mid-thought, only to find Jim had paused at the door of his building to look back at her. Her actions had been patently obvious; his amusement at them, ditto. She flushed and stuck out her tongue. As he laughed and waved a final time, she saw how happy he looked ... and, suddenly, how strikingly attractive that made someone.

Tom was astonished to recognize the figure puffing along in front of him.

"Jim, behind you."

A kaleidoscope of expressions poured over Jim's face as he looked around: alarm at being recognized, relief at someone interrupting his misery, awkwardness at the labored breathing that made speech difficult, pleasure at a friend's face.

Tom could tell that Jim wanted to use the encounter as an excuse to stop--hey, gotta be polite to a friend, right?--but he could see the impulse being shoved down.

A grunted, "Tom." A move to the side to make room and a wave turned into a motion to go ahead and pass.