Page 63 of Under the Stars

Mike

Winthrop Island, New York

If he’s not exactly expecting Meredith to fall into his arms and declare her undying love—which he’s not—he figures he might get laid, at least. One last celebratory roll in the pool house cushions, before she leaves for Hollywood.

But Meredith just lays her arms across her chest, right underneath her boobs, and says, “Well, that’s nice for you. Are you going to let Audrey keep one of the paintings?”

“Audrey? Why?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Because she’s your daughter?”

“Meredith,” he says, “what the fuck is wrong with you? I realize you’ve always been too cool for school and shit, but you might at least pretend to be happy for me.”

“I am happy for you. I can just see the Mo, all decked out like a nineteenth-century cathouse—”

“You know what, Meredith? Screw it. I’m done.”

He turns for the lawn.

“Wait,” she says.

And it stops him in his tracks. All she has to do—all Meredith has ever had to do, from the time they were about three years old, which is as early as he can remember—is hold up her hand and say Wait.

Like a dog, he waits.

“Mike, I’m sorry. I’m being a bitch. It’s got nothing to do with you.”

“Sure, whatever.”

He won’t turn around. He’ll wait, maybe, but he won’t turn around.

Damn it. Not this time. He can picture her anyway, lying on the sun lounger in her bikini made of dental floss, some thick work of literary genius open on her lap, so beautiful he can’t even breathe when he looks at her.

Can’t even wrap his head around the idea of kissing her, having sex with her, and yet he has. He did. He does .

Every time, like God lets him squint past the gates of heaven, then boots him clear for a laugh.

“Mike,” she says, in a soft voice, “don’t leave me.”

—

The day she left.

Well, he won’t think about it. He can’t think about it.

He’s spent three decades not thinking about it, but not thinking about it doesn’t change the fact that it’s there .

That it happened. That he stood on that ferry dock on a chilly March day and watched the fucking boat shrink and shrink until it was gone.

But who was he kidding? She was never going to stick around.

Not Meredith, not his radiant, restless Meredith.

Every single minute he spent with her, he knew they were numbered.

So he tried just to live as large inside them as he could, so that when she left he could say to himself that at least he had loved the hell out of that woman, while he had the chance.

And when she split—well, he knew better than to try to follow her.

Better to die once of a single, clean blow than to die every day of a million little ones.

He didn’t figure she would take the kid, though.

He was not an idiot. He knew from the moment Meredith dangled that wand in front of his face that his odds were not secure.

He didn’t care. Probably was good enough for him.

Probably would keep Meredith hooked to him for a little while longer, at least, and anyway the poor asshole was dead who might have said otherwise.

Then Audrey was born. When a baby smiles at you like Audrey smiled at Mike that first time, this tiny month-old helpless infant, you didn’t exactly fucking care if your dude got there first, or not.

Her mother’s smile. He would die for that smile.

And then she was gone. The light from his life. His baby girl, his sweet little honeybee, along with her aggravating mother.

All right, so he moved on. Hooked up with this girl and that girl, had a few girlfriends. But there was nobody like Meredith. Nobody who owned him.

Nobody else in the world who could hold up her hand and say Wait.

And he would wait.

Don’t leave me, she says.

He sighs at the grass in front of him. The slope of lawn leading up to the beautiful stone backside of Greyfriars. Like a princess in a castle, he used to think, when he was a kid. He was going to rescue her and shit.

“Meredith,” he says, “what the fuck are you talking about? You know I’m never going to walk away from you. You’re the one who leaves, not me.”

She doesn’t reply. He turns around just in time to see her disappear into the pool house.

Like a dog, he follows her.

—

“Go away,” she snaps.

He scoops her up in his arms. “Not a fucking chance, babe.”

What he loves most about Meredith losing it against his shirt, is he knows she only loses it for him. There is not one single man in the world who knows what it’s like to hold Meredith Fisher in his arms while she cries her brains out, except him. Mike Kennedy of Winthrop Island.

That’s got to be something, right?

He loves the tears that soak his shirt. Her hair in his mouth that tastes like salt from the pool.

His mermaid, his sea creature. The mother of his daughter.

If she rises to her feet and stalks right out of this pool house and never returns—and there’s a solid chance she will—he’ll still be the luckiest man on the face of the earth.

The sobs turn to hiccups. In another minute she’s going to get horny, and you know what? He’ll be there for her.

—

So they’re lying on the cushions afterward, Meredith naked on his chest, examining his stubble for ingrown hairs, and she says, “This is where it all started, remember?”

“Where what started? You and me?”

She reaches down. “You remember.”

Hell, yes, he remembers. He remembers the instructions she gave him—pretty specific.

He remembers taking the ferry to New London and buying condoms. He remembers turning up at the pool at the appointed hour—ten o’clock—having already blown his wad twice that day, so afraid was he that he’d humiliate himself in the moment.

He remembers how she finally turned up at eleven, when he was ready to cry with disappointment, and explained that Isobel had stayed up late to watch a movie on TV, so she couldn’t get out earlier.

He remembers seeing her boobs for the first time.

He remembers how she showed him how to touch her.

He remembers her face when she finally came.

He remembers rolling the condom down this erection of almost painful proportions.

He remembers pushing inside her, gritting his teeth— go slow, go slow, I said slow motherfucker, gentle, gentle, gentle —and still she made a little squeak of pain, so he stopped and waited until she said okay go ahead, meanwhile his brain was like white hot, like he couldn’t even think, like he was one big penis, he’s inside Meredith, his dick is literally inside Meredith right now, all the way in, they’re having sex, actual sex, he’s pulling out and pushing in again just like on the tapes in his dad’s porn stash, she’s making these noises in her throat, he’s going to come—

“Sure, I remember,” he says. “You never forget your first time, right?”

Meredith lifts her head. “Was it really your first time?”

“What the fuck does that mean? That was our deal, right? Lose your virginity to your best friend instead of some drunk rando from the mainland?”

“I just thought—I don’t know. You seemed to know what you were doing. You were—you know, not bad. It barely even hurt.”

“Yeah, because I wanted to make sure it wasn’t the last time we had sex.”

She laughs and wriggles into his side.

“Wait a second,” he says. “You mean all this time? You thought I lied to you?”

“Not exactly lied .”

“Jesus, Meredith. I don’t know what to say.”

He stares at the ceiling. Meredith picks at the hair on his chest.

“So anyway,” she says. “I was thinking. You could maybe come with me.”

He takes a moment to process this.

“Come with you? To California ?”

“The shoot starts in New York, actually. Then Rome.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

She yanks at a hair next to his left nipple. “No, I’m not kidding, as a matter of fact. You could be my sobriety counselor.”

“Now I know you’re kidding.”

She spreads her hand over his paunch and jiggles the flesh. He should probably work out some more.

“Seriously, though,” she says. “How about it?”

“What, lay my heart out on a block for you to chop to pieces?”

Meredith lifts herself back up on his chest and stares in his eyes. “I’m not going to promise you I won’t.”

He is drowning—literally unable to breathe—inside the blueness of her fucking eyes. Her skin under his hands. Her boobs squashed against his ribs.

“Fuck,” he says.

“How about it?”

“What about the inn? What am I supposed to do, shut down the only dive on Winthrop Island? Where are people supposed to grab a beer and a burger?”

She smiles. “I’ve been doing a little thinking. Like maybe you could find someone else to run it. Hand over the reins to a trusted family member who—unlike you—actually knows how to run a restaurant. Who maybe needs an excuse to stick around Winthrop for a while so she can work up the guts to—”

Audrey’s voice cuts her off. “ Meredith? Is that—”

Mike dives for cover.

“ Oh my God! Meredith! Oh my God! ” Audrey shrieks from the doorway.

Meredith drawls, “Honeybee, for God’s sake. Get a hold of yourself. Mike, will you hand me a towel?”

Sedge stands at Audrey’s shoulder, hands braced on his thighs, fucking helpless with laughter. Mike throws Meredith a towel and yanks his shirt over his head. His shorts land against his chest.

“Here you go, bro,” says Sedge. “They were on the—shit, I can’t stand it—Audrey, get back here—”

“Eyes! Burning!”

“Honey, it’s okay. Birds do it—”

“You don’t understand! It’s my mom and dad !”

“ I walked in on my parents once. Come to think of it, I walked in on my dad with his best friend once. So honestly? You might be overre—”

“Don’t say it!”

“All right. I won’t say it.”

Mike finally gets his shorts zipped up and buttoned. He holds out a hand to Meredith and hauls her to her feet. Her damp hair tumbles over her shoulders. She smells of salt water and sex.

“What do you think, babe?” he says. “Should we tell the kids the news?”