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PEYTON
Was last night a mistake?
I asked myself the same question for the umpteenth time since leaving Micah’s house. The question distracted me the entire drive home. Cars and landmarks had passed in a blur. I vaguely remember saying good night to Reese as I zombie-walked to my bedroom. But the question kept me wide eyed in bed more hours than desirable. Woke me after maybe five hours of fitful sleep.
And now, as I lie in the comfort of my bed and stare at the ceiling, the question still haunts every synapses.
Was going to Micah’s house and kissing him a mistake?
Over the last two weeks, I watched Micah morph into a shell of himself. Watched him turn into someone unrecognizable. More sullen. Frail. Lackluster. Each day, his posture slumped farther forward. The shadows under his eyes grew darker, more purple. And he refused to make eye contact with anyone longer than necessary.
Going to Micah’s after work felt like the right thing to do when he asked. Agreeing to a friendship with him did too.
Then I blurred the lines less than an hour later. What a disaster I am.
I don’t regret kissing Micah. Not one bit. I am, however, pissed at myself for sending mixed messages. If I say I want friendship, I shouldn’t kiss him. Friends don’t kiss. Well, not the way I kiss Micah.
“Damn it,” I huff out as I slap a pillow over my face. Too bad smothering myself won’t fix the situation. Too bad I don’t know how to separate what I should do from what I actually feel.
Friendship with Micah is important and a major component of our relationship. Having a foundation—learning more about our backstories, what makes us tick, our individual mannerisms—matters. Doesn’t need to be life altering facts. Small pieces build up. Like whether or not he picks his nose. Does he prefer the toilet paper over or under? Cats or dogs? Animal preference says a lot about a person. No matter, I don’t want to enter a serious relationship without a history between us; even if the history is short.
Micah and I definitely have history. A path we navigated together and worked to improve. Then a tree snapped and fell over the path. Blocked us from moving forward. While Micah stood in front of the tree and tried to move it, I retreated. Stepped back into the brush and tucked myself away. Stayed hidden until comfortable enough to step into the light again. Now, we are back at the start. Trying to get around the tree and learning how to be a team again.
Starting over isn’t easy. Not when you want to skip steps.
Hours had passed and I still feel the softness of Micah’s lips on my lips. The scrape of his stubble along my chin. His taste on my tongue. It is too much and not enough.
A shiver rolls up my spine. A thin sheen of sweat blankets my skin. Heat blooms at the base of my tailbone and pools between my thighs.
“Ugh.” I groan at how fast my thoughts went from point A to B. How I went from telling myself I need a friendship with Micah first to fantasizing about him. Am I a lost cause or what?
Peeling my arm away, I squint at the morning sunshine brightening the room. Sleep will have to wait. I throw back the covers and drop my arms in a huff.
Shower time.
Staying in bed any longer is not an option. My wayward thoughts are the last thing I need.
I make quick work of washing my hair and body. Then throw on lounge pants and a tank top. In the kitchen, I spy a folded paper on the counter. Unfolding it, I chuckle at Reese’s scratchy script.
Morning Sunshine,
Stop laughing at my handwriting.
Anyway… leftover breakfast casserole in the fridge.
Xo
I amble over to the fridge and retrieve the casserole dish. Scooping out enough for two, I plop the egg, sausage, and potato concoction on a plate, put it in the microwave, and press the two-minute button. I pour a tall glass of orange juice and toast a slice of bread while I wait. Settling at the breakfast bar, I eat and scroll through new emails, deleting the junk and scanning the keepers. Then I clear the other notifications. Same stuff, new day in social media land. No surprise.
After cleaning the dishes, I stretch out on the couch and distract myself with a few episodes of Supernatural. As the intro credits come to an end, my mind wanders to Micah. Until I suggested it, he had never seen the show. This seemed absurd. The show has fifteen seasons for crying out loud. As for me, I have rewatched the show. Not difficult when it is my “I don’t have anything to do, so I’ll watch TV” show. But Micah doesn’t need to be privy to this information.
When the episode ends, I turn off the television and rise from the couch. “Lazy time is over,” I mumble as I enter my room.
Since the promotion, I dress slightly less provocative for work. My tops are still a bit snug with a dash of cleavage. But my bottoms are less second skin and more loose skinny dress pants. After wearing snug, curve flaunting pants for so long, dressing in looser attire has been an adjustment. The pants are growing on me more each day.
I twist left, then right as I check myself out in the full-length mirror. The yellow top has wide straps on the shoulders, forms a V at the start of my cleavage, flows over my breasts and hangs loose a few inches below the waistline of my black pants. The more I stare in the mirror, the more I evaluate myself. And the more I tell myself I look like a sunflower.
“Why is this so difficult?” I tug at the shirt hem. Contemplate switching out the top for a different color. “Ugh.” I give up and stick with the yellow.
In the bathroom, I add enough makeup to be noticeable but not take an hour to apply. Brush my hair and opt to leave it down for once. Since I no longer dart like a madwoman behind the bar for nine-plus hours a night, I worry less about my hair in my face or drinks. Plus, not having my hair strangled in an elastic band all night is a nice change.
With my hair styled into soft waves, I exit the bathroom and slip on a pair of heeled boots. Grab my purse and phone, then head for the kitchen. I whip together a quick lunch, eat, then pack some snacks in my purse for later. One last trip to the bathroom, I lint brush my pants and swipe gloss over my lips before tucking the tube in my purse.
The sun beams down as I drive toward Tampa. Temperatures are too hot to ride with the windows down on the way to work. But I look forward to the salty wind in my hair on the drive home.
It isn’t long before I park behind Roar, next to Micah’s truck. How long has he been here?
I check the time on the dash—thirty minutes early. Either he arrived early to set up the rest of the Bar Olympics or in the hopes we would have more time alone. I have no qualms about spending time alone with Micah. But I am, on the other hand, still kicking myself for blurring the lines last night.
“Get it over with already,” I coach myself as I exit the car.
