Mike, Mike and Me. Wendy Markham
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I had no intention of cheating on him.
Yet.
“Oh, my God…look at that,” said the guy with whom I would not be cheating on Mike.
Yet.
I followed his gaze up to the television over the bar, where a special news bulletin was unfolding. The room had fallen silent as everybody seemed to notice the television at once. In mute horror, we watched a passenger jet crash-land and burst into a fireball.
“Where is it?” I heard somebody ask.
“Somewhere in the Midwest,” came the official-sounding reply.
My stomach turned over. Mike was flying over the Midwest.
Calm down, Beau. Thousands of people are flying over the Midwest right now. What are the odds that it’s his plane?
“What airline is it?” somebody else was asking.
“Looks like United.”
I gripped the arms of my bar stool to keep from toppling over. Mike was flying on United.
“Beau…are you okay?”
I looked up to see my companion watching me worriedly.
“My…friend is on United, flying from California. What if—?”
“Shh, listen…” He reached out and squeezed my hand reassuringly as the news bulletin proceeded.
I was too frantic to focus; I couldn’t see, couldn’t hear. I wanted to bolt, but I was afraid to move. I was afraid to breathe. It was as though the slightest movement could carry the tragedy home.
Still fixated on the television screen, Mike told me, “That plane was headed to O’Hare from Denver. Your friend was flying from California? Was it a direct flight?”
“Yes. But what if—”
“Do you have the flight number?”
“Yes.” Somehow, I managed to produce the scribbled information from the bottom of my bag, and handed it over with a trembling hand. My heart was racing and it felt as though a giant rubber band were compressing my chest.
Mike compared the scribbled flight number to the television screen, double-checking a few times before telling me, “The plane that crashed was flight 232. Your friend was on flight 194.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
I could feel tears springing to my eyes. I’d never been so relieved in my entire life.
Then I remembered that I had just held hands with a stranger.
Shit.
Reaching for my glass, I drained what remained of my drink in one long gulp, thinking it might steady my nerves. I plunked the glass back on the bar, heaved a shuddering sigh and imagined hurtling myself into Mike’s arms in the near future.
“The friend you’re meeting here…is she a she, or is she a he?”
I looked up to see the other Mike watching me. It dawned on me that even in my panic a few moments ago—my hand-holding panic—I couldn’t bring myself to say the B word in front of him.
“Boyfriend.” I said it now, then spelled out for good measure, “She’s a he, well, he’s a he, and he’s my boyfriend. Not my friend. I don’t know why I called him my friend.”
“Maybe because you didn’t want me to know you were involved with somebody else?”
I feigned shock. Now my heart was racing all over again, dammit.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he said before I could respond. “You’re thinking I’m a cocky son of a bitch. Right?”
Fortified by gin, I said, “Well…kind of, yes.”
“The thing is, I would have asked you out, and not just because you work in TV. I would have asked you out before I knew that, because you’re gorgeous and I like your laugh and like I said, I’m new in town.”
“How new?”
“New enough not to have a girlfriend.”
Yet.
I was sure that wouldn’t last long. The city wasn’t exactly teeming with cute, stylish, witty, straight guys.
But I already had one of those, so I had no choice but to release this one back into the wild.
“Listen,” he said, “if it doesn’t work out with your boyfriend, give me a call.”
“It’ll work out with him,” I assured him with more confidence than I felt.
“Well, if you find yourself casting a sitcom, give me a call.”
I laughed. “Will do.”
But I was sure I wouldn’t.
So sure that the next morning, as Mike lay snoring in my bed, I crept across the room and removed the blue business card from my bag. I tossed it right into the garbage can without a second glance.
After all, Mike was back. My Mike. And I wasn’t interested in anybody but him.
Yet…
seven
The present
Hey Beau, Bet you’re surprised to hear from me. I Googled your name and found your e-mail address and figured I’d drop you a line. Where are you living now? I’ve moved around quite a bit, but now I’m pretty settled in Florida. Anyway, I’d love to know what you’re up to, so please write back. Take care. Mike
And that’s it.
I reread the e-mail at least a dozen times, just to make sure there isn’t something more. Some hidden meaning between the lines. Some clue as to why he suddenly decided to get in touch after all these years.
Unless…
No. It has to be him.
Of course it’s him.
He didn’t sign his last name. He didn’t have to. He knew I’d know who he was the second I saw Happy Nappy. Happy Nappy 64—the year he was born.
So…
Why?
Why is he barging into my life now, after all these years?
Because he Googled me?
Why did he Google me?
Okay, confession time: I Googled him, too.
It’s not as though he’s been on my mind every second for the past decade and a half, but like I said before, he does tend to pop up now and then. I can’t help getting lost in memories sometimes, and I can’t help occasionally wondering where he is, what he’s doing, whether he’s married with children.
Back when we first got the computer, I entered his name in the Google search engine and held my breath until it came up with thousands of hits. His name was too common. I gave up after the first few hundred. But I knew that if I really wanted to get in touch with him, I could have done it. I could have tracked down his parents, or old mutual friends, or hell, I could have hired a private detective.
Not that I would have gone to that extreme.
Still, now that he’s found me…
Now that I know where he is…
I have this sudden, pressing need to know more.
Like, what is he doing in Florida? He never said anything about wanting to move to Florida.
And…
Is he married with children?
But I can’t come right out and ask him that. I can’t write Dear Mike, Thanks for