Page 247 of End Game

Micah doesn't finish the sentence for me.

He never does that.

Like I'm leaving them behind.

Like being excited about someone wanting me separately somehow means I don't want what we've built.

Like wanting more is a shitty thing to do when I'm already lucky.

I rub both palms over my face. “This is stupid.”

“No.”

“I haven't even gone anywhere yet.”

“No.”

“Austin invited me to one charity show, not the Grammys.”

“Also true.”

“You're very helpful.”

“I try.”

He steps closer again. His hands settle at my hips. “What are you actually scared of?”

“I didn't say I was scared.”

Micah raises an eyebrow.

“Fine.”

I look down at the email again.

My name is still there.

DEX MERCER — vocals / writing session

“I think I'm scared I'm going to like it too much.” The words come out quieter than I intend.

Micah doesn't react immediately.

So I keep going.

“Not Chicago. Obviously I'll like Chicago. Food, music, probable bad decisions. Great town.”

“Dex.”

“I know.”

His expression softens.

And there it is—the part that makes jokes harder.

“For years, music was just…” I search for the word. “Mine. It could be big in my head without actually requiring anything from me.”

Micah listens.