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PEYTON
Why the hellam I here? Why did I agree to this?
Agreeing to meet Micah at his house after what just happened is not a good idea. Especially with my mind all over the place. I don’t know which way is up or whose truth to believe. Anger and frustration and anguish claw me up one side and down the other. My guardian angel has one hand on her hip while she wags a finger from the other in my face. The words I told you so on the tip of her tongue.
I want to heed her advice and drive off before Micah gets home. Save my heart from another walk down Shitty Life Lane. Yet, here I am. Waiting. A glutton for punishment.
I press the heel of my palm to my breastbone and rub. Do my best to sooth the ache and simmer the heightened sting. One by one, my heart leaks every ounce of hope and joy and possibility I had for Micah. Spills it at my feet. And I simply watch it puddle before it seeps into the earth.
Fuck.
When it comes to me, Micah Reed breeds misfortune.
As a young woman, I pined for him. Watched him from afar on the track. Peeked his direction whenever he was near. Even after he crushed my soul with his words, even after he made a mockery of me in front of half the school, I still yearned for his affection. For his attention. For any fondness he would bestow upon me.
Then, I grew up.
The memory of him always sat in the shadows of my mind, but I moved on. Found people who knew my worth. Knew I wasn’t just some loner girl with a crazy obsession for all things black. Knew I had more to give. And those people surrounded me with smiles and laughter and love. They lifted me up and brought me back to life. Showed me real friendship and what it meant to care for others. I owe them more than I will ever be able to give.
So why the hell am I here?
Why did I willingly choose to walk into the lion’s den? Why am I setting myself up for more pain? More pain inflicted by Micah Reed.
“Because I’m a fucking idiot,” I whisper into the dark cab of my SUV.
Unlike last night, Micah’s house holds no interest. I don’t stare at the shrubs and flowering plants along the front and try to guess what they are. I don’t stare at the wood fence and wonder what setup he has beyond the wall of windows. I don’t have the energy to care. Not tonight. Not after the wake-up call from Little Miss Red Dress.
Not focusing on anything in particular, I stare toward the end of the street. Let my eyes glaze over as they land on the yellow diamond sign that reads no outlet. Space out and let my mind blank as I wait.
Before long, Micah’s headlights beam around the corner and blind me in the rearview mirror. Once he parks in the driveway, I move my car to park behind him. He hops out of his truck with two hefty bags of food and waits for me to join him.
Here we go.
The thirteen steps from his driveway to the front door feel like miles. Neither of us says a word as he unlocks the door, flips the light on and gestures me toward the couch. He sets the bags on the table, kisses the top of my head and wanders down the hall to what I presume is his bedroom.
Twenty-one breaths later, he settles on the couch, his leg brushing mine. Silence dominates the room like a deprivation chamber. And with each passing tick of the clock, a new pin gets pushed into the voodoo doll made to inflict me with pain.
Cursed. That’s what this is. My life curse. If not, I am all ears for some other logical explanation. Some magical reason as to why I can’t seem to hold on to… love, happiness, anything worthwhile.
I don’t love Micah. It is way too soon to feel such a powerful emotion. But I do like him. More than I imagined possible after all the hurt he caused.
But every person I get romantically close to… the relationship always goes south. Every. Single. Time.
Am I destined to be a loner hag? A cat lady minus the cats. Always just me, myself and I as my hair turns gray and wrinkles define my face more than my expression.
As a little girl, I don’t remember a time when I played dress-up, pretended to marry the boy up the street, and have babies in our perfect house with the perfect yard. I never fantasized about a prince sweeping me off my feet and rescuing me from tragedy. I didn’t dream of a happily ever after and forever love. It just wasn’t who I was.
But as years passed, my perspective on life shifted. I see things in a different light and with occasional filters. I wonder what would happen if I took a leap, tried something new, explored all the possibilities.
I don’t want to spend my life alone. But I also don’t want the heartache that comes with giving your all to another person.
And with Micah’s history, heartache has an open-ended invitation.
Carton by carton, he pulls the food from bags. Sets a small container of shrimp egg foo young, rice and gravy in front of me on the coffee table. Places a fork and chopsticks on top.
“Hungry?” I choke out as Micah removes another four cartons and a container of soup.
He gives a timid smile. “I like leftovers. Makes my life easier.”
Life probably won’t be so easy for the next however many months. I want to say this to him. Want to tell him just because he says the baby—real or not—isn’t his, doesn’t make it true. Only science will prove one way or the other. And as crazy as the woman was in Roar, I don’t picture her backing down. She will return, with a smug smile on her face. She will be a constant smack in the face, a constant reminder of who Micah was before.
I open the cartons and poke at the food. Eat a few small bites. Taste the egg, shrimp and vegetable pancakes, but don’t savor them. Not like I usually do. When I peek at Micah from the corner of my eye, he appears to be in the same predicament. Half an egg roll eaten, some missing lo mein noodles, and a few slurps of egg drop soup gone.
“Micah…” He sets the egg roll down on the wrapper, wipes his hands clean, then meets my gaze. His eyes are veiny and damp. The starry flecks less visible in his dark-sky irises. “We have to talk about this.”
Have to, versus want to, are two different animals.
I don’t want to talk about the possibility of some random woman being pregnant from the guy I just started spending time with. We just sorted out our differences. He apologized and I mentally forgave him sometime over the last two weeks. Things between us were headed in a good direction. And now we need to talk about this.
We need to talk about the what-ifs.
“Yeah, we do.” He huffs and sags into the couch. “For the record, though, this sucks.”
This does suck. Hairy, sweaty, nasty balls.
He sits back up, plants his elbows on his knees, then leans forward and hangs his head. His broad shoulders stretch the cotton of his shirt. Put the definition of his muscles and stress on display. I swallow at the sight. My fingers itch to reach out. To trace the lines of tension in his neck and upper back and soothe his suffering. I lift a hand, then hesitate. Resist temptation. Drop my hand, curl my fingers into fists at my sides and force them to stay put.
