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PEYTON
I have never hatedsilence and distance. Not until now.
When one day bleeds into the next, when your mind never shuts off, gauging reality is a feat. And reality has been one gigantic blur since the woman in the red dress walked into Roar. Since I pretty much shut Micah out.
In the two weeks since she walked up to the bar and dropped the ticking time bomb, I have noticed a significant change in Micah. Not just physically, but also in his demeanor. With my new schedule, we see each other less. Which makes the changes that much more dramatic.
Across the club, I spot the purple crescent moons beneath his eyes. Notice the looseness of his shirt on his shoulders and chest, and the bagginess of his dress slacks. Every smile he flashes to the employees or guests is forced and brief. And he hasn’t looked my direction in days. Too many days.
Seeing Micah like this, slowly sinking without a life preserver, wrings my insides to no end.
Is it the woman who has him gaunt and a shell of himself? Does the idea of becoming a parent scare him this much?
Our in-depth conversations prior to this never revolved around serious topics, such as marriage and children. Sure, we have both been in serious relationships and the idea of next steps may have crossed our minds. But obviously, ideas are where it ended since we are single and childless.
Or am I the reason for his frail frame and sullen disposition? Has my standoffish attitude and silence whittled him to this state? My eyes trail over his caved frame and dulled irises. Study his timid, forced smiles and the minimal energy he exerts with everyone—staff and patrons alike.
Micah and I share a horrid history, but we were headed in a new direction. To a positive place. A place full of second chances and possibilities, genuine affection and his lips on mine.
What if he hurts me? What if he doesn’t and this turns out to be what you’ve been waiting for? The voice in my head has me backpedaling for the hundredth time in days. Has me seeing both sides of the coin. The same voice keeps me from making a sound decision. Because that voice belongs to my heart and it continues to argue with my brain.
“Making my rounds,” I tell Mable as I exit the bar. Mable has been doing exceptional. Slaying Monday and Tuesday with me and working Wednesday with more hands on deck.
I wander through Roar, doing my best to steer away from the karaoke stage setup in the middle of the dance floor. Out of the corner of my eye, Micah stays opposite me and heads for the hall. He lengthens his stride and his feet tread quicker. Before I fully turn my head to see him, he darts inside the office and closes the door.
Finishing my circuit around the club, I check in with the staff and patrons, then head to the office. Being away from Micah has given me time to think. More than enough time. At this rate, I am surprised my brain hasn’t swollen or some form of self-combustion hasn’t occurred with all my thinking.
But I am done thinking. Done seeing him suffer. Done asking myself questions I don’t have answers to. Questions neither of us have answers to. Now, all that’s left is us, suffering. And I hate it.
Although unnecessary, I knock on the door before turning the handle and entering. One, two, three steps into the room, Micah finally lifts his head from his hands. His starry eyes are puffy and lackluster and rip my heart to shreds. The dark marks beneath his lashes are more noticeable this close up. A vise squeezes my middle and holds me captive at what he has dealt with. Alone.
“Hey,” I choke out and close the door without taking my eyes off his.
He licks, then tucks his lips between his teeth. His head tilts slightly off-kilter as he breaks eye contact and stares down at the desk. “Hey,” he says almost inaudibly.
I flip the lock on the door, then walk across the room. Wood scrapes concrete as I drag the guest chair around to park it beside Micah. He remains frozen as I sink into the chair and stare at his profile. Aside from the horrendous singing outside the room, silence consumes the space.
It eats me alive.
“Micah…” His breath stutters and, without second thought, I reach for his hand. “Please. Look at me.”
Soft blond lashes dust his skin as his lids close. I give his hand a gentle squeeze and wait him out. Give him whatever time he needs. Life has changed so much—for us both—in the last two weeks.
Waiting, I focus on my breath. Count each inhale, each exhale. Concentrate on the warmth of his hand. The occasional callous where his fingers meet his palm. How his fingers twitch—just the slightest bit—every other heartbeat. And when his breathing calms, mine does too.
As if in slow motion, he tilts his head my direction. The muted-gold flecks over his dark-blue irises remind me of dying stars in distant galaxies. Their light fading and swallowing the darkness around them. Seeing them this close, seeing him this close, is a punch to the solar plexus.
Life-altering information was hurtled at him and I abandoned ship for my own selfish needs. I harbor no guilt for wanting to keep my heart safe. But I do foster guilt for not supporting him or lending an ear or shoulder. Especially when he needed me most.
“Sorry,” I say, although the five-letter word doesn’t feel adequate.
He laughs without humor. “Why are you sorry?”
My free hand comes to his cheek. Thumb brushes the arch of his cheekbone. Fingers comb through his hair. His eyes close as he leans into my touch. And the pang beneath my breastbone wanes slightly.
“Of all the times for me to go tight lipped, it’s when you need my voice most. So, I’m sorry. For ignoring you and not being there when you probably needed me most.”
He shakes his head and I drop my hand. His legs swing around and weave between mine as he scoots closer. “I did need you. But you needed space to think too.” Fingers brush over my temple, down the angle of my jaw and to my chin. “Not gonna lie. Your silence, your distance, it sucked. But I respect it.”
“Thank you.”
His fingers continue to trace the ridges and valleys of my face. I close my eyes and bask in the trail of tingles his touch leaves behind.
“Missed you.”
