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Focus, Peyton. Now is not the time to get lost. Especially in his addictive irises.
“Always want things the easy way, huh?”
His brows pinch at the middle. His eyes dart between mine and try to read all the words left unsaid. But I don’t wear my emotions on my sleeve. Not anymore. Now, I cover them in armor.
“I don’t know what that means.”
Of course, he doesn’t. Why would he? Instead of sitting down and thinking, he just wants the answer handed to him. Sorry, Micah. No such luck.
“It means, if you want the answer, you’ll have to work for it. Dig deep. Real deep. The answers are there. You’re just looking in the wrong places.”
Before he asks me another question, I back away and head for the storage room. I fetch the dustpan, but don’t leave immediately. Instead, I grab hold of the shelf, bend at the waist, and heave for air.
Did I really do that? Did I tell Micah to go hunt for the truth? To search his past—our past—to find answers?
Damnit.
This isn’t how it is supposed to go. I should keep up the back-and-forth quips. Not hand over the key to everything.
What if he unlocks the door? What if he remembers me from years ago? Remembers who I am, what he did and the cruel words he said. Will he look at me with fresh hate? Pity me, perhaps? Stir the pot and try to shove me down? Again.
No. Hell no.
You know… I hope he unlocks our history. Hope he remembers who I am and all the shitty things he did. Maybe, if I’m lucky, he will man up and apologize. Grovel. Beg for my forgiveness.
That would be a sight.
But I see the flip side of the coin. If it all comes crashing back, I picture him playing it off or acting ignorant to save face. Because that is who he is. Micah Reed. Asshole extraordinaire.
