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MICAH
Peyton hasn’t beenthe same since last Saturday. Can’t pinpoint what is different, but something just seems off.
Wednesday and yesterday, we only spoke when absolutely necessary. Every time I peeked in her direction, she appeared lost. Somewhere besides Roar. Eyes staring off in the distance, but without focus. She chatted with patrons in the bar, but her conversations lacked their typical zeal. Her harrowing smiles seemed forced.
Between the early morning hours of Sunday, when we parted ways at Teddy’s, and early Wednesday evening, something shifted in Peyton’s world.
But my life and perspective had shifted too.
After the conversation at Jonas and Autumn’s Sunday night, I didn’t sleep for shit. Didn’t get much sleep the two days following, either.
What I had done to Peyton all those years ago weighed heavily on my mind and heart. Made me twitchy and restless, night after night. I had lain awake in bed for hours and replayed all the horrible words I’d said to and about her. Each night, I counted the bubbles in the popcorn ceiling to distract myself or fall asleep from boredom. But it neither distracted nor induced boredom. To my amazement and pitifulness, the highest I counted was 412. The only reason I stopped… the wind kicked up outside, swept the tree branch near my window and the dancing shadow caught my attention.
Exhaustion is no comparison to how I feel. My cement-pillar legs drag with each step forward. My lead-beam arms and robotic hands move only because my mind wills them to. Thank goodness my lungs and heart do their job without directive.
Did our conversation Saturday upset her? Dredge up old memories?
I grit my teeth and hang my head, ashamed at the person I was to her years ago. Had my parents known how I behaved back then—especially to a girl—they would have had me booted from the track team and on house arrest for months.
The question now is… how do I fix this? How do I make up for the asshole juvenile I once was? Will she forgive me and my deplorable behavior? Or will she forever harbor hatred for me in her heart?
When a crowd favorite booms through the speakers, the horde of bodies shifts from the bar to the dance floor.
I inch closer to Peyton, her eyes downcast, and focused on the glass she has cleaned three times. I knock her shoulder and she lifts her gaze and blinks.
“Everything alright? Seems like you’re somewhere else tonight.”
She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Yes. No. I don’t know.”
“Want to talk about it?”
One shoulder shrugs as she sets the glass down. “Not now. Another time, maybe.”
Seeing Peyton like this stirs the memories I recalled this past week. Although I was a royal prick to her, I did see her around school. I honestly don’t recall any feelings for her—positive or negative. Back then, Peyton was just a random girl. Day after day, week after week, month after month, she remained the same. Decked head to toe in black. Baggy pants and a hoodie with the hood up. A black-and-white, checker-print backpack hooked on both shoulders. A folder, textbook, and mass market-sized book clutched close to her chest. Head up, but eyes on the ground.
Yes, Mercedes and her twat gang of besties got me to call Peyton a slut. But when I caught sight of her during my senior year, I wondered why those girls had it out for her. Were they jealous of her individuality? Did they envy she had male friends without having to put out? Was it her curves that had them calling her names and spreading lies? Or were they just bitches who refused to like people not similar to them?
Not that it matters now, but I think it was all of the above. Plus, Peyton wasn’t a follower. Still isn’t. She does her own thing, in her own time.
Before she walks off, I wrap a hand around her forearm. Her eyes drop and stare at her arm a beat before she lifts her gaze. “Meet me at Teddy’s after work,” I say with an added softness in my voice. Hoping she doesn’t hear it as a demand.
Her eyes dart between mine. Brows twitch imperceptibly. Glassiness highlights the gray flecks in her vibrant violet irises. She licks, then tucks her lips between her teeth.
Not sure why, but she looks on the verge of tears.
The chambers of my heart contract and expand faster. An ache climbs from beneath my ribs and up my throat, lodging itself at my Adam’s apple and swelling. I swallow and it does nothing to taper the sensation. To quell the emotion stuck firmly in place.
The overwhelming urge to hug her weighs my limbs. To haul her into me and press her close to my chest. Wrap my arms around her waist, squeeze tight and slide a hand up her spine to her neck. To feel her breath and heat on my skin.
“I’ll think about it,” she says hoarsely.
I drop my hand and she drifts to the end of the bar. A smile dons her face, but the gesture is all for show. The feisty and vivacious woman that lights up the bar four nights a week is nowhere to be found. In her place is a woman with a difficult past and wounded heart.
Hopefully tonight, she will let me heal part of her wound.
* * *
Neck deep in logging invoices, I press the heels of my palms to my eyes. This is what happens when I lose focus. Shit piles up. Work doesn’t get done and mounts up day by day.
Invoices don’t necessarily take long to input. But my mind has been elsewhere this week. Focused on a woman I hope joins me later at the diner.
“Only a dozen more to go. Just get it done, Reed.”
The stack thins as I key stats into the spreadsheet. Three invoices from the bottom, a knock at the door startles me out of my zone. Then it swings open. I finish keying in the line, then look up to see who entered.
Peyton stands just inside the door, the fingers of one hand picking at the nails on the other.
“What’s up?” I swivel in the chair to face her head-on.
“Three things.” I lift my brows. “Yes, I’ll meet you at Teddy’s later.” A corner of my mouth kicks up, but falls flat as she winces. “Dan has an issue with someone’s ID at the door. And Ted is trying to break up a fight near the bar.”
“Shit.” I bolt from my chair and race out the door with Peyton on my heels. “Let Dan know I’ll be at the door as soon as I’m done with Ted.”
“On it.”
The moment I round the end of the hall, chaos smacks me in the face. A crowd encircles Ted and two men. A woman hovers behind one of the men and I assume she is the reason the two men are throwing punches.
When I approach, Ted spots me with wide eyes. He has one man pinned in his grip, but the other won’t calm down. I step between the two and get in the free man’s face.
“Back the fuck up,” I yell.
