Addendum 3.1 – "Custody pt. 1"
November 1985 – Fairfield, CT
Angela stared ferociously into her bathroom mirror. She had thought she looked nice this morning, taking time to pin her hair into a sensibly professional, twisted crown. Now she felt like she was 90 years old. She plucked the pins and combs from her immaculate updo and shook out the curls.
Breathing deeply through her teeth, Angela got even angrier. She wasn't entirely sure why, but the cool wetness in her panties that had existed ever since Tony told her of Michael's imminent arrival made it worse. In a swift attack, the buttons of her high-neck blouse were driven from the holes holding her 'sensibly professional' vision in place.
I did look nice! I went into the Guacamunchies meeting today feeling my best, performing my best, and we got the account. It was a great success… and I'm still disgusted with myself! What's my problem!?
Angela whipped her face away from her harried reflection and stormed into her room, ripping her shirt off as she went.
I am NOT old.
She dug through her drawer for a few seconds before realizing she wasn't in the right drawer for pajamas.
I am not STUPID!
Bracing both her hands on the corners of her tall dresser, she forced herself to breathe more steadily. When she got the air to come out fairly smoothly, she stood up with a final exhale. Opening the top drawer, still a little more powerfully than she might've, the contents slid forward, and a wide, white ribbon caught her eye.
My Anniversary babydoll.
Angela stared at it. The pressure built in her head so fast, she was almost surprised she hadn't somehow moved the piece telepathically, but she wasn't surprised by the tears that now shielded her line of sight. With a ragged breath, Angela slowly exhumed the delicate lace from its lavender-scented burial.
Michael loved this.
I loved this.
I loved him.
DAMN it! I still do!
Angela fingered the babydoll in solemn reverence, lifting it gently to her closed eyes like she were napping on a cloud. Michael's warmth and acceptance traveled across time and met her where she stood. Then sadness sat on her like it was one of those 300 pound gorillas he loved so much. She'd had such high hopes for them, and now they were gone. Without Michael here, she'd been able to start moving forward. Or maybe I just conveniently forgot.
Either way, her nose wasn't having it, and when she had to sniff up a bubble of snot, she moved the babydoll sharply away from her face. Holding it up in front of her, she stood like that for a long time.
She brought it to her heart, which quieted as she slid the pads of her fingers over the delicate lace. Tilting her head, she studied the stitching. It felt fine and lovely.
I felt beautiful in this. I felt chosen.
She wanted to put it on.
So, she did.
Angela tucked her hair behind her ear as she, once again, examined herself in the bathroom mirror. The long flaps of white lace lay breezily against her, and she remembered Michael coming into their room in the middle of that disappointing night, whispering to her and kissing her body awake.
She peeled one side open and remembered him doing the same, softly moving his mouth to her stomach, making her feel like a goddess. She remembered him pulling the satin bow loose, looking like he didn't know precisely what would unfurl. Michael was always so in the moment in bed.
Angela ran her fingers down that same ribbon and held it between her fingers.
Alone.
She had gratefully gotten to the place where she could accept the dichotomy of their relationship. Michael was an intense and sensitive lover, but she needed that outside the bedroom, too, and he didn't give her that. It was best for both of them that they didn't continue to try making a life together. She knew this. But with the thought of his plucky, Californian choice running like a ticker across her brain, the reality of his romantic capabilities started to taunt louder and louder in her head.
The bathroom that usually felt warm and welcoming now felt stiff and oppressive. What'd he call it? 'Kinky grandma shit'? Damn.
Even staring at herself in the wispy sexiness of this expensive lingerie, Angela felt decrepit. She started to focus on the wrinkles by her eyes and the thinning skin at her throat, convinced that's all Michael saw when he looked at her tonight. After all, she could dress up, but she was still her 34 year old self. She didn't know what age Heather was, but it felt safe to assume she wasn't older.
Eyes pulsing open in fury and frustration, Angela tore back into her bedroom and let her mind slash back.
I don't want Michael. That nice shit was just for the sheets! He is not a nice guy! That poor woman doesn't have a clue what she's walking into. I do, and it isn't worth it!
But her vigorous tirade only brought her in front of her bed, and she stood there, looking at the beautiful crochetwork. And soon, she didn't see stuffy. She saw where Michael had met her, despite her extraordinary efforts to put their marriage out of its misery.
She saw where she'd slept peacefully, for the last 8 months, with barely a bad dream. Now, not even her waking hours were safe.
But it wasn't just Michael's successful and repeated attempts to please her over those two weeks of ventured reconciliation. It was the determination with which he did it that was so captivating. He'd been vehemently choosing her, like she'd always wanted him to. At least, I thought he was.
Angela's sadness got even heavier, and her headache followed suit. He was just scared of losing everything he'd come to count on. That was his passion. Not me.
…But oh, it felt like it was me. And just the slightest taste of that again tonight, when he'd opted for a gentle kiss on the cheek over a handshake, she'd felt it again - like he'd wanted me.
But he doesn't. He wants Heather.
Ugh! Angela rolled her eyes dramatically. She was disgusted with herself. Why do I want this man, who doesn't want me, and who I don't want but apparently can't stop pining over? WHY!?
Frustration trickled down that kissed cheek as her stare became more intense, and she raked her nails through her already disheveled hair.
She still wanted there to be a good guy and a bad guy. She wanted to know what she was dealing with and to combat it without the tears. But it was impossible to separate the two. The same Michael with whisper-soft lips and soul beckoning eyes is the one who'd spent 8 years swiping her heart up and down a cheese grater with precious little remorse. Her vision was now shaking with her head as her breaths again began to deepen.
He does touch softly. He did fill me. When I was naked, he looked at me like I had angel wings sprouting out of my back!
That's as far into the truth as this descending, mental loop got. Snatching her red, silk robe from the back of her door, Angela was still tying it in slipshod fashion as she powered across the hall.
Trying to settle her breaths, Angela's flushed face squinted in torture as her knuckles trilled on Tony's door.
"Tony!" her hushed whisper insisted.
She knocked again. "Tony!"
From behind the door, she heard the start of his response, "I'm comin', I'm comin'!" Tony was still talking as he opened the door, but at her dramatic exhale of relief, his voice drifted off and his confused eyes widened into thinly veiled fear.
His face didn't move, but a little voice did make it through. "Angela?"
"Tony, I know it's late, but I really need to go to the gym. Would you please watch the kids?"
Still frozen, his minimalistic, "Uh-huh," permitted her to spin on her heel and go change into her running clothes.
Angela walked out of the gym that night, both depleted and regenerated, and looked up. Her eyes scanned the sky, and sure enough, just above the northern horizon, the Big Dipper caught her eye. She smiled, feeling Ben's tight hug soothe her shivering core.
'You've always been worth it,' he'd said when he'd given her his mother's pearls.
Always.
Angela allowed herself a deep breath and a smile, wishing she were wearing them. Ben wanted me to be reminded of who I am.
I am professional. I am traditional. And you know what? I'm proud of it. I've worked hard to build my life, and I did it intentionally. If Michael isn't into that anymore, that's probably the best possible outcome.
November 1985 – La Guardia
"Angela, we're gonna go get some donuts. You want anything?" Tony asked as Jonathan pulled heavily on his arm. Mona handed Sam a clear lip gloss as they all waited for Angela's answer.
Angela looked up with lagged attention from where she was signing for the tickets at the luggage desk. "Oh- um… yes, please. Uh, anything with chocolate. And a mocha!"
Michael smirked and rolled his eyes.
"You got it, boss!" Tony's now drifting voice carried from where it was being pulled. "We'll see you at the gate!"
Sam handed Mona back her lip gloss with a shiny smile, and the ladies followed the boys to breakfast.
Angela took her receipt and the tickets and put them in her purse. She looked up to see Michael's unchanged face.
"What?"
He shook his head and adjusted his carry-on over his shoulder as they started to walk. "Nothing I'm surprised about, sweet tooth."
Her eyelids dropped a bit, but she stared his teasing judgment off. "I like chocolate, okay?"
"Mm-hmm..." his smirk continued. "You know, that's gonna catch up with you one of these days."
Angela lost her jokey mood, "Excuse me?"
Michael's eyebrows rose to double down. "Yeah. All that fat…" He shook his head, "And you should be getting your sugars from plants."
Oh, no, he didn't… Completely dumbfounded, Angela's open mouth stalled as they walked.
Michael nodded, encouraging himself despite her. "Los Angeles is one of the healthiest places in the country. They teach you how to treat your body right."
A tried smile of instruction took shape on Angela's now coherent face. "Let me be perfectly clear, Michael: I am not interested in you concerning yourself with my body anymore. I will dunk my chocolate donut into my chocolate coffee, and you can suck sugar right from the cane, okay?"
An extremely pleased smile flicked up Michael's eyebrows, and he turned his face in the direction they were headed. "It's too bad I can't keep your dirty mouth around for laughs."
Angela tried to release a steady stream of air, "Yeah, that's a shame…" Then realizing the opportunity, she turned her face toward Michael. "So, how'd you meet this, uh… Heather?"
Michael's smirk continued, "Through work."
With an elongated nod, Angela made it barely a few seconds before revealing herself without even looking at him. "So, how old is she?"
"She's 24."
Angela's face turned toward him as slowly as her mouth fell open.
"What!?" he said pointedly.
A deeply authentic laugh burst out of Angela as she held his stubborn gaze.
He let her enjoy herself for several seconds before asking her again, "What's so funny?"
Angela sucked in some desperately needed air. "Nothing! It's just – wow! It looks like I'm not the only one whose tastes haven't changed," she grinned.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"That's about how old I was when we met," Angela laughed again.
Michael's face lost its humor, but Angela didn't care.
"Actually, she's younger," he smiled coolly. "And I'd be damned surprised if that gap is any more impressive than the one between you and Paxton."
Angela's smile faded from obnoxious to genuine as the warmth of Grant's memory started to tingle deep behind her panty line. Taking a second to herself, and a light hand to her neck, her quieted presence reapproached, "You're right. I'm sorry."
Michael's intensifying breaths settled him into a glare. "I'm going to go look for a smoothie bar."
A/N: Angela's "I am NOT old!" is the same line from Older Than Springtime, and her 90 year old reflection is vibin' similarly. I know. ;)
