Mickey - The View From Here PART TWO - Gallavich

Sauced and Sour

Dinner with Lip and Tami was awkward, to say the least. I couldn’t look at my husband, too perplexed and enraged for a public setting. I barely spoke, focusing instead on my meal as to get out of there as fast as possible. I wanted to scream at Ian, unsure if I even wanted to sleep at home tonight. I could always sleep in the ambulance if I wanted to avoid him that badly.

Hoping to keep an optimistic façade, Ian tried to act as though nothing had happened, using a fake laugh so many times I lost count. He smiled and attempted light conversation, but Tami was suspicious.

“You're quiet,” she observed as she poked at her salad with her fork.

“You doing okay, Mick?” Lip asked, following Tami's lead.

Too afraid of what would come out of my mouth, I opted to flash my own fake smile and shrug, conveying that I was fine.

“Mickey’s quiet ‘cause he just ran into ‘the one that got away,’” Ian swiped before sucking his teeth with distain and drinking from his whiskey glass. “He’s got a lot on his mind. Which is new for him.”

Like Ian had flicked a light switch within me, I snapped. Instead of losing my shit and causing a scene, I lay down my fork and knife, stood from the table, and addressed only my in-laws. “Sorry for ruining dinner. He usually doesn’t drink this much, so Ian’s shitfaced and talking out of his ass.” I tossed a fold of cash onto the table, amounting to around $150. “Meal’s on us,” I concluded before taking my leave with Ian following without hesitation.

The ride home was silent. I still couldn’t look at him.

Upon walking into our apartment, Ian removed his jacket and whipped it across the room. He let out an aggravated groan and stormed into the kitchen for more alcohol.

“You’ve had enough,” I warned, keeping in mind that his medication wasn't to be mixed with alcohol. I usually tried not to nag, but he was taking it too far.

“No, no, no. You don’t get to nag me right now, not after that,” Ian growled, opening a fresh beer from the fridge.

My breath trembled with rage. “You’re not seriously mad at me, are you? Ian, you’re the one that gave him our number and invited over. Not me.”

His shoulders hitched in an exaggerated shrug. “Just giving you what you want.”

I paced toward him. “Why the fuck would I want that?”

“Well, I know had to give him up when they sent you back from Mexico,” he reasoned, misconstruing our history.

Before I could stop myself, my hands were planted on his chest, shoving him into the wall a foot behind him. “Are you fucking deluded? I turned myself in, risking more jail time than you could ever fucking handle, to be with you! I left Russ because I love you!”

“I’m sorry you had to give up the love of your life to protect me,” Ian slurred. Why was I drawn to men who loved veiled insults? Sarcastic, he added, “you’ve sacrificed so much for me.”

I shook my head in protest before taking another step into his personal bubble, consumed with a rage toward him I had never experienced before. “I have, actually.”

Scoffing, Ian stepped to me, a challenge to throw the first punch. “Name one thing.”

“Yevgeny!” I snarled, giving him another shove before I stormed over to the couch.

Slightly sobered by our exchange, Ian lingered in the archway to the living room. “That isn’t fair. I was sick.”

“I know. I was trying to help you,” I reminded him with a noticeable lack of warmth in my tone. “So, you kidnapped my son, stole my car, and booked it out of town. And I still stood by you like a fucking idiot.”

“Now you care? Just because you saw him? They’ve been out of your life for years. He doesn’t even remember you. And if he does, he wants nothing to do with you!” Ian rebutted before shamefully rubbing his eyelids. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Yeah, probably not” I said, rising to my feet once more. I grabbed my keys and started toward the front door only for him to grab my arm. He was gentle but firm enough that I paused.

“Where are you going?”

“To sleep in the fuckin' ambulance.”

When Ian let me go, he spat viciously, “real convincing. Just admit you’re going out to see Russ.”

With a roll of my eyes, I tossed my keys onto the coffee table and veered into our bedroom. “Talk to me when you're sober. You’re acting like a delusional asshole,” I informed my husband before slamming our bedroom door shut, leaving him alone in the living room.

I made a decision that night. I could handle almost anything when it came to Ian, but I refused to go down another destructive path with him. If Ian wanted to drink hard liquor with his medication, I needed to separate myself from him until he had his wits about him. With accusations as ridiculous as me running away with Russ, it was fair to say this could turn toxic. Luckily, in the last few years, I learned some patience. Ian would apologise in the morning, and all would be relatively well again. I just had to wait.