Free Mike, Mike & Me by Wendy Markham

leaves the toilet seat up?”
    “Only when she vomits,” I conceded.
    Still, he failed to crack a smile.
    “The thing is, Beau, moving in together is a huge step.”
    “I know. But we’ve been going out forever, and…” And I just assumed forever was in our future, as well . But I was suddenly afraid to tell him that, because I was afraid, for the first time, that he might not feel the same way.
    “Living together is different. That’s a huge commitment.”
    “I know.”
    “I just don’t think I’m capable of that yet.”
    “Yet? So you will be…soon?”
    He hesitated. “I don’t know.”
    “You mean, you might not ever be ready?”
    “I don’t know, Beau!” He sounded exasperated.
    No, this wasn’t going as well as it could be. In fact, if it were going any worse, you might call it a breakup.
    “I don’t know what to say, Mike.”
    “I don’t either. But I’m being honest.”
    We walked on in silence for a good five minutes.
    I felt sick inside. All I wanted was to be home. Alone. So that I could cry in my bed.
    But Mike was staying with me, and Valerie was probably there, and I knew I would be trapped once I got there.
    About as trapped as I felt out here on the street with Mike.
    The crowd had thinned now that we were getting away from the theater district. If we headed over to Eighth Avenue and up a few more blocks, we might even be able to catch a cab uptown. I said as much to Mike.
    “You want to go right home? I thought you wanted to eat first.”
    “I’m not hungry anymore.”
    “Well, we can go get a drink and talk.”
    “About not moving in together?” I asked tartly.
    He shrugged. “Whatever. Never mind. I’m beat. Let’s get a cab and go back to your place and just go to sleep.”
    And we did.

nine
    The present
    I’ m curled up on the couch in the family room watching David Letterman and eating lo-carb coffee-mocha ice cream straight out of the container when I hear a key in the back door.
    “Beau?” Mike calls, his wing tips tapping across the ceramic tile in the kitchen. “You still up?”
    “Down here,” I call, and mute the volume on the television remote.
    I hear a jangling sound as he tosses his keys on the counter and a thud as he drops his briefcase on the floor by the door. The refrigerator door opens and closes and he comes down, a bottle of Poland Spring in hand.
    “Hi,” I say, making room for him on the couch by my feet.
    He plants a quick kiss on my forehead. I can smell the city on his clothes and liquor on his breath. Not a lot, and I actually kind of like the smell. Plus, it explains the kiss. He’s always affectionate when he’s had a drink or two.
    “Sorry it’s so late,” he says, plopping down on the couch and twisting the plastic top off his water. “I missed the 9:52 train by three minutes and I had to wait an hour for the next one.”
    “That stinks.” I watch David Letterman silently asking Demi Moore something that’s making her squirm and laugh.
    “Yeah. How are the boys?”
    “Asleep, finally.”
    “Did they give you a hard time about going to bed?”
    “Do they ever not give me a hard time about going to bed?”
    He shrugs and guzzles some water. “What did you do all day?”
    “Played the world’s longest game of Candyland. Cleaned up a zillion spills. Changed diapers.” Answered an e-mail from the ex-love-of-my-life. “Mikey had a playdate with Chelsea. After she left, we went to the park and played in the sandbox until Josh stole some kid’s metal shovel and hit Mikey over the head with it.”
    He winces. “Ouch. Why is he so bad these days?”
    “You mean naughty.”
    “No, I mean bad. Violence is bad. Poor Mikey. Do they even make metal sandbox shovels these days?”
    “Apparently, they do. Either that or it was a valuable antique, which now has an indentation the shape of Mikey’s skull.”
    “Great. Was he okay?”
    “After the bleeding stopped, he was fine. Oh, and Tyler has another yeast infection. I called