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MICAH
The longer Peyton is silent,the more I wither at the seams.
Yesterday, she walked in the back door of Roar, set her belongings in a locker, threw me a half-assed smile, and got to work. I had sent her a text in the morning—like I had for weeks—and got no response. All night, she slung drinks behind the bar and laughed with patrons. But the moment she glanced my way, an impossible wall erected between us.
I hate walls. But she needs space. I get it.
Does space equal zero interaction? No standard greeting or cordial exchanges. Fuck if I know. But her avoidance is the slowest, most torturous death. Like getting thrown on the rack, limbs bound at the wrists and ankles, torso stabilized, and, inch by inch, my starfished body gets stretched to its limit.
“Hey, boss,” Ted says as I approach the front. “You good?”
Irritates me to no end that people read my emotions without a word. It isn’t my nature to flaunt my feelings. Yet, I don’t shut down or dodge them. But having my heart on my sleeve—at work, no less—is an open invitation for questions. Questions I have no desire to answer.
“Yeah, man. Just got a lot on my mind is all.” The two seconds I pause to take a breath, Ted opens his mouth to speak. But I beat him to it. “Things good here?” I point toward the door.
He nods, then prattles on about the few people who tried to get in without paying cover or were underage. His voice hangs in the atmosphere, but I don’t absorb a word. Not when I spot Peyton across the club, smiling and laughing with two guys.
How many days had passed since she smiled at me with gaiety? Two. Two decades-long days. And I hated every single, solitary second of those two days.
Ted stops talking and I have enough sense to notice. I pat his shoulder, force a smile, and leave him to stroll the perimeter of Roar with Peyton in my periphery. Her champagne locks secured in a high ponytail, I recall the silky gloss of the strands. Her laughter floats across the club as flashes of her under me as I tickled her ribs invade my vision.
Fuck.
When was the last time I focused so much attention on one woman? Let her occupy my every waking and sleeping thought.
Sadly, the answer to that question comes too quick. Rochelle.
Rochelle Cook was the only woman I let consume me. In every way possible. She lured me in and sank her perfectly manicured claws into my heart until every drop of blood dried at her feet. I hadn’t realized it at the time, but my entire life revolved around her and her needs.
Until the day she drove her five-inch heel through my heart and left me a fraction of a man.
Is the same happening? Am I setting myself up to suffer all over again? Maybe, but I don’t think Peyton has a malicious bone in her body. I don’t picture her hurting me on purpose.
As I step behind the bar, I approach Peyton like a scared animal. I plant each foot forward with care. Keep my frame relaxed and expression neutral.
The extended silence between us has run me ragged. Sleep has been shit. Two nights ago—when she sat in my living room and occupied my space—was the last time I ate. And the constant nausea has my throat raw.
I sidle up to her but leave inches between our arms. “Need help?”
She peers from the corner of her eye, then tucks her lips between her teeth. Just when I think she may say yes, she shakes her head. “I’m good. Thanks, though.”
I don’t want to walk away. Can’t force my feet to move. “Ready for Monday? We can do one last walk through.” At this point, I am throwing darts in the dark and hoping something sticks.
“No. Ani went over most of it with me.” Of course she did.
“Well, if you need anything, I’m here.”
Ugh. This fucking sucks.
I exit the bar without hurry. Send voiceless wishes to the universe Peyton will stop me as I head for the office. But my wishes go unanswered as I enter the hall and turn into the office. I drop into the chair, plant my elbows on the desk, and drop my head in my hands.
Only two days have passed, yet I don’t know how much more of this I can take. Peyton’s silence is a life sentence on death row. Years in solitary confinement with my arms in a straitjacket and soiled floors beneath my feet.
I swallow down my personal agony and bury myself in work. Distract myself with every possible task. Stay in the office until closing time and wallow in my new personal hell.
When Peyton and I go our separate ways at the end of the night, I say nothing. Not good night or goodbye. No “talk to you later” or “good luck on Monday.” Nothing.
The worst part… she does the same. And after she drives out of the lot, I open my car door and spew the empty contents in my stomach across the concrete. No relief comes. Just the same emptiness I have felt since Thursday night.
I need to fix this. Fix us.
* * *
“What’s up with you?” Gavin knocks me in the shoulder with his. “You’ve been scary quiet.”
I am not in the mood to deal with questions or criticism. Life is shitty enough, no need to add another helping to the heaping pile. “Nothing,” I grumble.
“Bullshit.” I tilt my head to face Gavin and narrow my eyes. “We’ve known each other almost twenty years. Your lame, short answers don’t fly with me, bro. You don’t spill, I’ll spew some bullshit to Shelly to make you talk.”
Jesus fuck. Can a man not get one goddamn night without diving headfirst into the dark? All I want is one night. One. One night where Peyton doesn’t own every other minute in my head. Is one night too much to ask?
Seems as if tonight will not be that night.
