Wendy Markham - Mike, Mike and Me

I forgot all about that, but not all about him.

I could never forget him if I tried.

And I had. Tried, that is. For a long time, I tried to forget him. I thought it would be better. Easier.

Then I realized nothing would ever be easy, and I stopped trying.

Lately, what I’ve been trying to do—maybe subconsciously, I realize now—is remember him. Remember Mike. Remember what we had.

Remember why the hell I was so willing to leave it behind, to leave him.

But for all the things I remember, I can’t remember that and I didn’t remember Happy Nappy.

Now, my heart beating in my throat as I stare at the screen name, I highlight HappyNappy64 and click on it.

Please, I beg silently as the battery-operated swing clicks back and forth behind my desk and animated televised Dora chatters in Spanish from the next room and Mikey and Chelsea argue upstairs over how many Legos are necessary for a properly tall Empire State Building…

Please don’t be porn.

Please don’t be porn.

Please be him.

Be Mike.

The Other Mike.

The Mike I didn’t marry.

The Mike I can’t forget.

Please, HappyNappy64, please turn out to be him.

And it does.

The past

“Can I get you another one?” the bartender asked, gesturing at my glass that now contained only melting ice cubes and a sliver of lime.

I contemplated the question. The first drink had gone down pretty easily, and I still had more than an hour to kill in the airport bar before Mike’s plane was due to land. But I didn’t want to be wasted when he got here, and the drinks weren’t exactly a bargain.

“Go for it,” a voice urged, and I glanced up to see that it had come from the guy on the next bar stool.

I immediately noticed that he was good-looking. I mean, how could I not? I was a red-blooded female, even if I was just biding my time until the love of my life stepped through the jetway.

Yes, this guy was good-looking. He had a brooding, Johnny Depp thing going on around the eyes. Plus he had style, no doubt about that. His dark hair was cut fashionably long on top, short on the sides, and brushed his collar in back. In other words, he had a mullet.

Don’t laugh.

Back in the summer of 1989, mullets were not reserved for rednecks and butch lesbians alone. No, mullets were the happening hairstyle of the moment, and this guy had one.

He also had on a pair of baggy jeans, a white T-shirt and a short black-and-white patterned jacket with shoulder pads.

Hair and clothes: A plus for effort.

But he was a babe even beyond those variables that were within his control. His dark eyes were fringed by thick, sooty lashes. There was a deep cleft in his chin and deeper dimples on either side of his mouth when he grinned.

He was grinning at me, and God help me, I found myself grinning right back at him.

He told me to go for it.

Yeah, and he was talking about the drink, I reminded myself.

Aloud, I said, “Go for it? That’s easy for you to say.”

“Well, why not? Oh, I get it. You’re a plainclothes pilot, right? You’re about to take off for Paris or something, and it would be irresponsible to take the controls after a couple of drinks.”

It wasn’t that hilarious, but I laughed as though it were the funniest thing I’d ever heard. “No, I’m not a plainclothes pilot. I’m just…”

“Broke?” he guessed, a little too close to truth for comfort.

“Not exactly.”

“Well, this one’s on me anyway. Another round,” he told the bartender, who nodded and headed for the top shelf and two fresh glasses before I could protest.

“Mine wasn’t Tangueray the first time,” I pointed out to the good-looking and fashionable guy, who shrugged.

“Mine was. And I’m treating.”

“Thanks. But…”

“But?”

I wanted to tell him that I had a boyfriend. But I didn’t know how to do it without making it sound as though I thought he was interested in me, which I didn’t. Or, even worse, as though I was interested in him. Which I wasn’t.

I mean, he was just a polite guy politely buying me a drink. To be polite.

Did I mention that in addition to being polite, he was very good-looking? Fashionable, too.

“Never mind,” I told him, and attempted to shift my attention elsewhere. Because he might be buying me a drink, but that didn’t mean we were now a couple.

I mean, he was a total stranger, and I was on the verge of being reunited with Mike.

“Mike,” the total stranger said just then out of the blue, and I looked at him, startled.

“Excuse me?”

What was he, some kind of mind reader?

Or maybe I’d just imagined it. Maybe he hadn’t said Mike at all. Maybe he’d said something similar. Like…

Might.

Or bike.

Oh, yeah. Bike. That made a lot of sense.

“Mike,” he repeated, sticking his hand out in front of me.

“Mike?” I echoed.

“That’s my name.”

No way.

He was Mike?

I decided the coincidence was some great cosmic sign. A sign that meant…

Well, to be honest, I had no idea what it meant. But it couldn’t be good.

“I’m Beau,” I said, because he was waiting.

“Nice to meet you, Beau.”

As I watched the bartender twisting lime into our fresh drinks, I told myself that I had to get out of here. Now. I would pretend I had to go to the bathroom and just not come back.

“Where are you headed?”

Again with the mind reading? I stared at him in disbelief, wondering how he could possibly know.

“To the ladies’ room,” I admitted, starting to slide off my stool.

I stopped when he burst out laughing.

“Hey, I hear it’s great at this time of year,” he said.

“Huh?”

“The ladies’ room. Never mind. Bad joke.”

The bartender set down our drinks. I reached for mine, needing it desperately.

He went on, “I meant, where are you headed from here? Flying someplace on vacation? Or business?”

“Oh! No, I’m just…I’m meeting somebody’s plane.” And I’m head over heels in love with him. So stop flirting.

Are you flirting?

Or is it my imagination?

“How about you?” I asked him, after taking a sip of my second drink. The second drink I shouldn’t have been having in the first place.

“I landed a while ago. My luggage missed the connection at O’Hare so I have to wait for it to get here on the next flight.”

“You’re in New York on vacation?”

“I just moved here a few months ago.”

“Oh.”

He just moved here. Which meant that he lived here. Unlike Mike. My Mike.

“So you live here, too,” he pointed out conveniently.

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Upper West Side.” I didn’t want to ask him where he lived because it really didn’t matter because I was never going to see him again.

Then again, it seemed rude not to ask, so I did.

“Lower East Side.”

“East Village?”

“Lower.”

“SoHo?”

“Lower,” he repeated with a shrug. “Chinatown, really.”

“You live in Chinatown?”

“Yeah. But I’m not Chinese,” he said, deadpan.

“You’re kidding. You’re not?” I asked, also deadpan.

“No. People make that mistake all the time, though.”

“They do?”

“Yeah, you know, they’ll ask me for my recipe for kung pao chicken or they’ll want to know how to play piaji, and I—”

“Piaji?” I cut in.

“Yeah, it’s a traditional Chinese game.” He grinned.

“Really?”

“Really. And actually, I really do know how to play. You soak up a lot when you live in the neighborhood, you know?”

“Yeah.”

“Like, I bet you know how to eat Sunday brunch like nobody’s business.”