Me and Her
Mike: Can I take you up on the sleepover?
Patrick: You’re always welcome.
Mike: Are you sure?
Mike: …
Seamus: Bed is made. Towels are laid out.
Mike: Thank you.
“You didn’t?”
I clutched the plastic bag in my lap as I nodded.
Knocking on Patrick’s front door had been an act of desperation.
I couldn’t stay at Rose’s once the silent treatment started.
I still didn’t know if Sammy had overheard the conversation, but after he left, even Edward’s mood shifted.
The house had become suffocating, and I couldn’t weather the two most caring people in my life disappointed in my behavior.
As soon as I asked, “Can I stay tonight?” Patrick ushered me and my makeshift overnight bag inside.
From the living room, Seamus had only said a simple, “Shoes,” before returning to his novel.
I had thought about texting Sammy and suggesting a sleepover, but I had done the opposite of what I told myself.
I needed space to work on myself. Ignoring that had turned into a problem that had gotten messy.
“I know it doesn’t help, but I’m sure half of Firefly has fantasized about slamming the door on her.”
It didn’t help.
Seamus hadn’t looked up from his book while I told my story.
I half expected a scoff or even a chortle.
Sitting in his recliner, he silently turned the page of whatever mystery novel had caught his attention.
For anyone who didn’t know him, he might have appeared bothered or annoyed, but Seamus didn’t mince words.
I took the silence as a comfortable invitation.
“I messed up.”
Patrick turned on the couch, resting a hand on mine. “Gladys will act as if she’ll take that grudge to the grave. But you know she’ll—”
“I mean, with Mabel.”
Seamus quietly closed his book.
Patrick took my hand. His thumb moved back and forth in slow motion.
I had needed to escape Rose’s silent treatment, but more than that, I needed to escape myself.
Every decision since that performance, I pretended I went off in search of the real Mike.
I came to Firefly to dig into my psyche and sort out the rest of my life. Instead… I found excuses.
Seamus stood, set his book on the end table, and headed to the dining room.
“Why did you do it?”
“I didn’t want to be forty and—”
“No. Why did you create Mabel?” Patrick wouldn’t shy away from the tough questions. “Why her?”
I thought of middle school science class.
Mr. Voorhese rattled on about some experiment I couldn’t remember.
When he finished, he told the class to pair off.
He never let us decide our own partners.
While the rest of the class squealed in delight, reaching out to one another with excitement, I froze.
The odd student out, I found myself paired with the teacher.
High school prom, I’d made a pact with Margot.
If neither of us found a date, we’d go together.
We had both been labeled the ‘quiet ones’ by our teachers.
Too shy to function, we banded together.
A week before prom, I asked which of us should drive.
She revealed that she had a date. The head of the math team had asked her.
With the confession, she promptly added that I could tag along with them if I wanted.
The emptiness had started at an early age.
There were dozens of memories with the same sentiment.
Each one mounted, and as I got older, I felt the emptiness had grown until I didn’t know how to pull myself back.
But not her; she cut through those feelings as if they were paper ready to be turned into streamers.
“Loneliness.” I bit my bottom lip, sitting with the admission. “She made me feel less lonely.”
The tears streaked down my cheeks. I didn’t hide the pain, not from Patrick. His grip on my hand tightened. It pained me to admit the truth behind Mabel’s birth, but here, with Patrick, I felt safe. He didn’t offer an escape; he simply listened.
“Here.” Seamus rounded the corner, drink in hand.
I felt safe with Patrick and Seamus.
He handed me a glass of amber liquid. That much I expected, but it was the box of tissues that left me choked up.
I took both, and he returned to his chair as if there weren’t a grown man crying in his living room.
Patrick had told me stories about Seamus and his ‘actions over words’ philosophy. Seeing it only made me tear up more.
“Why put her away?”
Patrick didn’t ask to be nosy; I could hear the sincerity in his tone.
I glanced down at the glass, swirling the liquid.
It almost felt foolish admitting it, like nobody would understand what it meant to play a role for the rest of the world.
It sounded pathetic in my head. There might be a glass of bourbon in my hand, but I was that kid sitting alone at the lunch table again.
The tears flowed, and Patrick leaned forward, hugging me.
As much as I needed a friend, somebody who knew me, I wanted there to be somebody who understood.
I couldn’t explain the feeling—it simply was.
I hadn’t been good enough without her, and with her, I shone. The first attempt to reclaim myself—
Seamus cleared his throat.
Patrick kissed the top of my head and sat back on the couch. I almost forgot Seamus had returned. He had returned to his recliner, nearly swallowed by the plush cushions, but he hadn’t reached for his book. He folded his hands neatly in his lap, taking his time now that he had our attention.
“I lied for years.” The sharing of his best bourbon had been sweet. Seamus sharing more than a scoff or grumble, I hadn’t expected that. “I lied to the people I loved. I lied to my friends. They forgave me.”
His eyes dropped to his hands. He licked his lips, going silent. His thumbs battled one another, turning and turning. I could almost feel the weight of his thoughts, heavier than any one person should attempt to carry.
“I still haven’t forgiven myself.” Patrick moved to stand, and Seamus held up his hand, keeping him perched on the couch. “I pretended to be what I’m not. I created a life that reinforced my fears.”
My hand covered my heart. I hurt for him.
“What changed?” I asked, already knowing the answer. A bartender—
“I found a reason to love myself.”
Seamus…
The stone-cold grump of my life…
He just…
My heart…
I didn’t know what to…
The confession squeezed my heart, forcing it to beat.
It was more moving than a romantic movie and more sincere than a wedding vow.
When he lifted his eyes, staring at Patrick, the gruff exterior faded, and all I saw was a man in love.
Yes, in love with Patrick, but also with himself.
Seamus had found a path toward forgiveness, and right now…
right now, I was going to cry some more.
Patrick fidgeted in his seat until Seamus finally flagged him over. “Fine.”
Springing from the couch, he charged Seamus. “My big teddy bear has a heart of gold.” His arms wrapped around his partner’s neck as he showered him with kisses. While Patrick tried strangling him with affection, I mouthed a simple, “Thank you.”
Seamus nodded and raised his glass. Quietly, I returned the gesture.
The night had grown late, and my emotions left me exhausted.
After Seamus shared his story, the conversation felt…
lighter. We talked about the parade and its importance for the community, ours and Firefly’s.
Seamus admitted he had never been to one before, and when asked if he was excited, he simply said, “We’ll see. ”
I walked into the spare bedroom, ready to collapse on the bed.
I expected I’d spend the night staring at the ceiling, analyzing every life choice.
Whenever Sammy came to mind, I imagined a little version of me pushing him out of my brain.
He’d have his moment, but right now I needed to think about Mike… and Mabel.
On the corner of the bed sat a folded brown towel and a matching washcloth.
Seamus seldom spoke; he had Patrick to fill the dead air.
His actions, however, were loud and clear.
Each fold of the towel reminded me that I had friends who loved me without conditions.
As I confronted my demons and surely spiraled, it’d only take a glance at fresh linens to save me.
At the foot sat a battered cardboard box with “Bar Napkins” in bold letters on the side. Curiosity got the best of me, and I sat next to it, pulling the flaps open. I gasped at the sight of a sparkling tiara. I pulled it out, my thumb rubbing over the spots that once held rhinestones.
In the middle of a song, a furious hair flip had sent it flying across the bar. Patrick had almost caught it before it smacked against a row of vodka bottles. Scratched and slightly bent, I had kept it as a reminder that when it came to bobby pins, more were always better.
I peered inside and found the contents of my dressing room. After that night, I asked Patrick if he’d take care of everything. I thought he’d throw it in the dumpster and move on. Instead, he rescued it… Rescued her.
Throwing it onto the floor and sealing it wouldn’t stop her. I had this image of her locked away like a dirty secret. I had done to her what I convinced myself she had done to me. Eyeing the box, I knew it was time to have a conversation.
As I pulled out the mannequin head wearing a blonde wig, I unlocked the door. My fingers ran through the bangs, separating them enough to see the mannequin’s eyes. I could almost see her staring back. One eye had nearly rubbed off, making the expression almost sad.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
For years she had been my courage, my voice when I couldn’t speak.
She hadn’t stolen my spotlight—I had handed it to her.
Mabel had become a safety blanket I wore whenever things got difficult.
She’d have sashayed into the lunchroom, thrust down her red tray, and made space at the table.
At prom, she’d have come with choreography and left an icon. In science, she’d have…
I chuckled.
“You’d have made the teacher do the work while you gave fashion tips.”
It wasn’t me or her. It was me and her.
I walked to the old desk occupying the far wall.
I set the mannequin head on the corner while I continued rummaging through the box.
Patrick had saved half-used containers of makeup, a sequin dress, and dozens of pieces of fake jewelry.
It pained me to think she had been reduced to items in a box.
For all the laughter and joy she brought, she had been stowed away as if she didn’t matter.
It had been my doing. Like always, I ran instead of confronting my fears.
I pulled out the box holding a set of extra-long lashes. My finger ran over the clear piece of plastic, and I could almost feel the weight of them. Reaching into the box, my fingers scoured the bottom, looking for the little tube. The cold aluminum container hid inside the toe of a high-heel shoe.
I flipped open the case and pulled out the right lash. Once upon a time, I’d need tweezers or an applicator to steady my hand. After years of speedy ensembles, I had perfected the art of quick application. Counting to ten, I let the glue turn tacky before closing my eyes.
I repeated it for the left. I wouldn’t win a beauty contest with crooked eyelashes, but in the silence of the bedroom, it would do. With a quick flutter, the heaviness felt like home. From the box, I pulled out the mascara, and with a quick wave of the wand, my eyes were ready for the stage.
I eyed the wig.
Since my retirement performance, I told myself I needed to find myself. I went in search of an elusive mystery I still couldn’t identify. Distraction after distraction, I looked for answers everywhere but where I should have. Instead of having a conversation with myself… my whole self, I ran.
I reached for the wig, sliding it off the mannequin’s scalp. Combing it with my fingers, I realized it needed some love. It was probably a few strolls across the stage too many since I last shampooed it.
It was time to stop running.
I got up from the chair and stood in front of the full-length mirror hanging on the back of the door.
Lashes without makeup looked odd, but if I squinted, I could almost see her staring back at me.
Bending over, I flipped the wig and, in a fluid motion, pulled it over my scalp.
I hesitated, standing fearful of what conclusions I’d reach.
“Stop running,” I whispered.
With a dramatic flip, the wig barely held on. It wasn’t my best work. With the growing stubble on my face, she looked different. With a pucker of the lip, it was easy to see the woman behind the man.
My alter ego. My other half. My partner.
I had been quick to blame, fast to assume my unease had been because of her.
We still needed to find a way to coexist. I couldn’t rely on her to fight my battles and stand in for me when things got tough.
The more I thought about it… I had turned her into a shield, armor that kept me safe.
I almost laughed at the conversation in my head.
What did a complete me look like? Perhaps it wasn’t one or the other, but where I drew the line?
I couldn’t let her be my shield.
I couldn’t let her stand in for my battles.
I couldn’t let her consume me.
“I’m sorry.”
Without distractions, I needed to have an honest conversation with myself. Who did I want to be? Who did I want us to be? There was no more running. Difficult conversations without answers needed to be said aloud.
Glancing at the box, I wondered if Patrick had left it here intentionally. I owed him a hug and a pie. That is, if Rose forgave my bad behavior. I owed so many people apologies. Gladys. Rose. Amanda. Sammy.
I pulled my phone from my pocket. It wouldn’t be solved tonight, but I wanted to be sure I had a chance to be honest before Sammy left Firefly.
Mike: Sorry about how dinner ended.
Mike: Can we talk after Pride?
Mike: I haven’t been entirely honest.
I held to my promise. I turned my phone off. Whatever his reply, I would deal with it tomorrow. Tonight, I wanted to spend time with an old friend.
Eyelashes fluttered in the mirror. “Honey, I’ve missed you.”