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Micah may need comfort right now, but so do I. This situation may not be directly impacting me, but it impacts me nonetheless.
“What if she is pregnant?” I pose the first of many questions.
He sits straighter. “She might be.” He twists to face me and our knees knock. “But I won’t believe anything without proof.”
This I understand. If I were in his shoes, I would want hard evidence too. To be present as the tests are performed. Receive my own letter of proof when the results become available. Micah may have slept with his fair share of the female population, but I believe him when he says he practiced safety measures.
“What if tests prove the baby is yours?” I wince as the words leave my lips.
My reaction may give the vibe I don’t care for children. Couldn’t be further from the truth. I love their chubby cheeks and chunky legs. Love their expressions and laughter when you make faces or speak in different tones. Love how soft they are and how good they smell. Their innocence and untainted view of the world. Babies and young children are just happy.
But the idea of potentially dating someone while another woman carries his child… not sure I have the strength to handle it.
Micah reaches for my hand and I let him take it. He cocoons it in both of his. I focus on the warmth of his touch. The way his thumbs draw small circles over the top of my hand. And how he stares at our joined hands as if scared they will disappear if he looks away.
“Don’t think it will.” He lifts his red eyes. “But if the baby is mine, I’ll take responsibility.” I jerk my hand back, but Micah doesn’t release me from his grip. “That doesn’t mean anything changes between us, Peyton.”
I love and hate that he won’t let me go. That he refuses to surrender to outside forces. That he plans to fight for what he wants, but will still do the right thing in the end if need be.
The Micah in front of me isn’t the same from my teenage years. Teenage Micah was more selfish and did whatever benefited his life the most. Adult Micah still has some of these same tendencies, but knows when to step up and be a man. When to do the right thing, but not let anyone rob him of life and the prospect of love.
“I want to believe you. God, Micah, I really do. But you can’t deny a baby would flip your world upside down.”
“Not denying it. But life is what we make it. If this woman is pregnant with my child, I will do my part. Doing my part does not equal being in a relationship with her.” Fingers brush the underside of my chin and lift. Our eyes lock. Neither of us breathes. “If I haven’t made it obvious yet, I want a relationship with you.”
You know what they say about assuming… and I am definitely not going to assume with Micah Reed. Not when it comes to matters of the heart. Not when he has the ability to squash me like a bug and walk away unscathed.
His fingers drop away from my chin. Then his knuckles brush along my cheek. I sigh, and my entire frame caves forward. There will always be a piece of me that is weak for Micah. A part always ready to crumple to his demands, his will. This doesn’t necessarily make me weak as a woman. Just weak when it comes to making informative, clear-minded decisions regarding him.
And I cannot afford to be weak.
“Let’s eat,” I suggest. My appetite may not have returned, but I hate food waste.
Micah flips on the television, but neither of us pays attention as our food slowly disappears. Dinner tonight is riddled with silence and anxiety and stress over what the future holds. Not only my future with Micah but also his if he becomes a father. Like it or not, fatherhood will change his life more than he realizes.
When I can’t eat another bite, I close up the containers and put them in one of the bags. “I should go.”
I need time alone to process this evening’s news. And maybe some best-friend time to mull it over. When too close to a situation, it’s always better to talk with someone not in the thick of it. Someone you trust and will listen to when they give advice.
“Sorry,” Micah mumbles as we rise from the couch.
“For what?”
“Fucking this up. Seems to be my specialty.” He laughs without humor as I lead us to the door. “But I’ll make it better. I swear.”
I don’t doubt his proclamation. Micah is the type to go after what he wants. If what he wants happens to be yours truly, it will happen. Doesn’t mean I won’t make him work for it, though.
Before I get out the door, before I stop him from stepping closer, Micah crushes my lips with a smoldering kiss. And for one, two, three vicious beats of my pulse, I remain stone cold. Frigid as he tries to coax a kiss in return. The softness of his lips, the warmth of his arms circling my waist, and the sweet woodsy scent of his cologne… the triple whammy makes me surrender. I fist his shirt and haul him closer. Kiss him as if this may be the last time—because who knows what tomorrow will bring.
My body says to never let go. But my mind tells me to stop, take a step back, and leave. To get out of here before my feet refuse to go. Difficult as it is, I break the kiss. I unclench my fingers and turn my back to Micah.
“I should go,” I mutter and twist the knob.
From the door to the car, the only noise to fill the silence is the clack of my heels and the soft thumps of Micah’s bare feet hitting the ground. No buzzing insects. No wind gusts to rustle the leaves. No chatty neighbors or rumbling car engines. Nothing but undiluted silence. An awkward, unbearable silence until I unlock the car.
I start the car and roll down the window. “Thanks for dinner.”
He reaches forward, his knuckles brush down my cheek. “Sorry it wasn’t as great as last night.”
God, this is so weird. Why does this have to be so fucking weird? “I better go.”
With a solemn nod, he takes one, two steps back. “Drive safe. See you tomorrow.”
I roll up my window, back out of the driveway, and watch as Micah disappears in my rearview mirror. The moment he vanishes, a fist tightens around my heart as the floodgates open and spill down my cheeks. I drive the short distance home in a mental and visual blur. The minute I walk through the front door and Reese takes one look at me, two warm arms engulf me.
This annihilates the dam wall on my emotions. My frame shakes as I drench Reese’s shirt. He hugs me impossibly tighter, rubs a gentle hand up and down my spine, and shushes me as we rock in place. My purse hits the floor with a thump, and my keys clang when they land next. At some point, without me realizing, Reese walks us to the couch and sets me in his lap.
After hour-long minutes, the tears form dry salt lines to my chin. Snot clogs my nose and stains Reese’s shirt. My throat withered; eyes puffy and achy. My heart an ashy mold waiting for the breeze to blow it to dust.
Reese holds me close while his one hand continues its journey up and down my spine. Every other stroke up, he stops to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear or run his fingers through the strands.
“Talk to me, sunshine,” he whispers, his breath warm and comforting at my temple.
