Page 44 of Insta [FAM]

MIKA

Jesus. We just walked into a swingers party. Which makes me even angrier.

“Who the fuck are you?” A guy, dressed only in his briefs, storms towards me. “You broke my fucking door, and I’m going to call security.”

He tries to swing at me, but I’m faster. I catch his wrist, and bend his palm back, which makes him squeal like the fat pig he is. “You have three minors in your apartment while hosting a glorified fuckfest, you still want to call security?” He pales, and still has the decency to look confused. “No, there are no children here, I swear.”

“Zach!” I shout, looking around. “Zach!”

A few moments later, Zach appears from the hallway, his sisters hiding behind him. He looks as furious as I am, but Nelly and Holly-Anna have been crying, and from the way they’re trembling, it’s obvious they’re scared.

“Come here, Zach,” Dad says, stepping towards them. A quick assessment from Zach, who can see the resemblance between me and Dad, has him shuffling himself and his sisters to where we are.

“You’re not taking my kids!”

I look up and see a weasel of a man. Wearing only a towel around his waist, he approaches me, and I'm happy to let go of the simpering fool in my grasp if it means I can beat the shit out of…“You are?”

“Derick,” he huffs. “Their father, and Dion’s ex.”

“Well, I’m Dion’s current,” I'm not sure why I say that, but it just comes out, “and you just made a very big mistake.” My fist connects with his nose, and he stumbles back. A young woman — the youngest here, I think, — rushes to him. “Oh, God.” She tries to wipe his nose, and only succeeds in making the blood come out faster.

“You brought your children to a swingers party?” I ask, incredulity fusing with pure hatred for a man I’ve only ever heard of. And none of it has ever been good.

“Well, it technically was my weekend, and my fiancé and I wanted to celebrate our engagement. They were in the media room.” He glares at Zach, and then at me. “They’re perfectly safe.”

“No, they’re not. And I’m sure your divorce attorney will be thrilled to hear about this.”

He sputters something stupid and tries to stand when I step away. “I’m taking them with me,” I snap.

“They’re not going anywhere,” he snarls, lunging for me. “And you assaulted me!” He cocks his fist and lands a pithy little punch on my chest — he’s too short to get to my face. I’m about to beat him the fuck up when my father barks, “Mikere, waiho ki te mara.” Leave it on the field. It’s what he used to tell me when an opponent tried to rattle me during a rugby game. I was violent, and sometimes I got into heaps of trouble for it when I played rugby, but my father taught me to leave it on the field. Because more times than not, my opponent only wanted a reaction out of me because I scared them. Everything about me scared them. A quick look at Zach affirms that this is not worth it, beating his father up isn’t worth it, but being able to protect him and his sisters is. Without another word, Dad and I usher Zach and his sisters out the apartment, and back to my truck. Zach hesitates before getting in and turns to me. “Thanks for coming, Mika. It’s more than my dead-beat asshole of a father would have done for us.” I could reprimand him for speaking about his father with such disrespect, since I come from a home where we respect our parents no matter what, but all I see is a kid who's been let down more times than he can probably count, and who’s had to grow up faster than most kids his age. I reach my hand out, and we bump fists, and what I see then is a kid who’s grateful. He nods once, and slides in the backseat, quick to comfort a tearful Holly-Anna. She gives me her sad eyes, and whispers, “Thank you, Mika.”

Again, the drive home is silent, and at some point, Ny calls Dad to let him know her and Mum managed to get ahold of Dion, who’s pacing the entryway to my house when we walk in. The girls run to her, and she’s kissing their heads, and apologizing, but when she looks at her son, he’s angry, and quite honestly, I don’t blame him. “Zach,” Mum calls. “Why don’t you and your sisters join us in the kitchen for some ice-cream, hmm?” He’s not sure, but he looks at me, and I nod, letting him know it’s okay. He’s safe. Amelia stands behind Dion, being comforted by Nyree, who is ushered into the kitchen by my father. Leaving Dion and I alone. She’s a mess — when isn’t she? — but I’m not so naive to think this hasn’t rattled her in a different way. But I’m seething, my anger barely controlled under the surface of my skin, and it’s not just because of her recklessness, or the fact that she was too busy posting drunken videos on Instagram to be there when her kids needed her. It’s because I care about her more than is reasonable given our current situation-ship.

“Mika, I—” She stops, and rubs her hand up and down her arm. In jeans and a distressed t-shirt, even now she’s beautiful. Her eyes are bright blue, from the crying no doubt, and her hair is in a haphazard bun atop her head. I’m not one to question another parent’s way of raising their kid, or kids, in this instance, but I’m more than disappointed in Dion right now, and the feeling sits right alongside the clusterfuck of everything else I feel for her. It’s maddening, and enough to drive a man crazy. “I’m sorry,” she finally says, her voice cracking.

“I’m not the one you should be apologizing to,” I reply, placing my hands on my hips.

She swallows, and I’m expecting her to fight, or argue, with me, but before she can muster up the energy to do so, I tell her, “I can’t do this anymore, Dion.”

Her brows furrow, and she licks her lips. “What do you mean?”

“I mean you and me. All of it. You’re in your own fucking bubble, with no fucks to give, and that’s not how I want to live my life.”

She straightens, drops her arms. “I have fucks to give,” is her retort, and if I weren’t so mad, and so defeated, and so confused, I’d find the humor in her ability to pick and choose her fights. But I don’t want to fight this battle. “I’m just selective about who I have fucks to give about.”

“And tonight, you proved you don’t have any for your kids, because do you know where I found them?” She shakes her head. “At a swingers party, with Derick and his fiancé, on what he said was his weekend.”

“That lying piece of shit!” she shrieks. “You found them at a fucking fuck-fest party?”

I don’t respond, just watch. She cups her hand over her mouth, and whatever bit of fight she had left in her, dissipates. Quickly. “Oh, my God.” Cupping both hands over her face, she starts crying, and the sucker in me goes to comfort her without a second thought. On a primal level it’s me man, this woman, she mine. But we don’t live in the Stone Age, and Dion must want me back.

“We got them out,” I tell her quietly. “But I think it’s best you call your lawyer in the morning.”

Stepping out of my embrace, she wipes her face, and looks up at me. “Why’d you go?” she asks, quiet enough that no one else hears. “When Zach called, why’d you go?” I was expecting her to ask me why I didn’t call her first, but this question is far easier to answer.

“Because I’m falling head over ass for his mother.” I’m pretty sure I hear a small chorus of hallelujah and finally from the kitchen, but neither I nor Dion pay it any mind.

“You are?” Why she looks taken aback by my admission is a mystery I’m likely never to solve, just like every other mystery that makes Dion Dion.