“I'm so sorry,” Mischa whispered. “I don't think I'll ever stop being sorry. I do love you. I just wish I could've loved you the way you needed.”
“I think we spent too much time talking about shit that didn't matter. Maybe we should've talked more about what we really wanted,” he suggested.
She decided it wouldn't be helpful to point out to him that she'd done just that. Several times. All the time.
“I always thought of you as my husband, Mikey. I still do most of the time. I don't think it'll go away for a while,” she told him. He chuckled.
“The Mikes.”
A nickname given to them by friends – Mischa could be Russian for “Michael”.
“Mischa. Russian, 'Who is Like God'.”
“I love you, Mikey,” she sighed, then panicked. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Am I allowed to say that?”
“It's okay. I love you, too, Mischa. That's the worst part. Loving you so much at the same time as hating you,” he told her.
“Tell me about it. I go through that every day when I look in the mirror.”
They laughed together again, and she thought maybe, just maybe, they could get back to that place where they were good friends again.
“I gotta go,” he sighed, pulling himself into a standing position.
“Okay. Just … I gotta double check. Dudes. You're dating a dude. You like dudes,” she clarified. He blushed a little.
“Yeah. Yeah, I like 'dudes',” he answered.
“And you like girls?”
“Very much.”
“Wow. You're so … progressive.”
“Shut up, Mischa.”
Old habits die hard, and he playfully smacked her on the ass. They both froze for a second, then laughed some more.
Maybe even best friends.
“Stop by, anytime. Whenever. All the time. Or you know, take your time,” she rambled.
“Time. Will definitely take some time,” he nodded as he opened the front door.
“Thanks for coming over. Really,” she told him. He stopped in the hallway.
“I talked to your dad the other day,” he said quickly.
“Oh yeah? That's good,” she guessed, though she couldn't be sure.
“Yeah. We talked for a while. It was actually good, which is weird, considering we didn't talk a lot when you and I were together. He told me a lot of stuff,” Mike said. She raised her eyebrows.
“Well, that is good, I guess,” she laughed. Mike took a deep breath. Wouldn't meet her eyes.
“You should call him, Misch.”
“Huh?”
“I fucking hate him and I hope his dick rots off,” Mike snapped, surprising her. He wasn't prone to being nasty. “But … he made you happy. And I know you, and I can't imagine how lonely you must have been, to have done what you did. So yeah. Call him.”
“You're an amazing man, Michael Rapaport,” she whispered, blinking away the tears.
“Ah, too late now. Now someone else is experiencing this awesomeness,” he teased, but she could tell he was trying not to cry, as well.
“They better be worthy of you,” she teased back.
“I hope so, too.”
He nodded and walked off down the hall.
Wow. Wooooooooooow.
Mischa shut the door and immediately went into her bedroom. She went to lay on her bed, but saw that her cell phone was blinking with a new text message. She opened it up as she stretched out on her back. It was from Lacey.
Hopefully by the time you read this, he's come and gone. I hope it went well. Enjoy your freedom for the night. The tiny terror and I will be back in the morning. CALL ME if you need me.
Mischa laughed and cried a little at the text. She had the most amazing friends. That she could do what she'd done, and they still stood by her, still took care of her. Amazing people.
There was a little symbol in the upper left hand corner of her phone. A little envelope. A little picture, she'd been avoiding looking at it for weeks. Couldn't bear the thought of it.
“... he made you happy. Call him.”
She pressed the button before she knew what she was doing. She wondered if maybe it had been psychological – she'd been avoiding the voicemail because she'd been waiting for absolution. Forgiveness for her sins against her husband. Her anger at Tal had long since cooled, and she liked to pretend she had moved on into indifference.
“Pining” and “depression” were better words for how she actually felt.
The minute his warm voice filled her ear, she felt the tension wash away. The days, months, all the time. She was immediately back in that timeless space.
“Hey dancer lady. Well, I guess it's official. You really don't want to talk to me. But I hope you'll listen.
“Whenever you hear this, I hope it finds you well. I hope you're dancing, because you were built for it. I hope you're smiling, because your mouth was made for it. I hope you're laughing, because it's the most incredible sound. And I hope you're being loved by somebody, because you deserve it.
“I know we lied a lot. To other people, to each other. About a lot of things. About most things. But I never lied about the most important thing – how I felt about you. I was always honest, from the very beginning. I didn't want to be attached to you. I kept pretending I wasn't. But we couldn't stop it. Your heart swallowed me whole. You know my real name, you've been to my real home. You always saw the real me. Not that guy on the job. I should've told you that when I had the chance.