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My phone is a bigger problem. In waking hours it’s rare for me to go twenty minutes without checking it for texts or monitoring political polls. I highly doubt some drunk blonde will be able to hack into the layers of security on my phone and I’m just too stressed out and irritated to deal with this shit right now. I’ll get a new damn phone tomorrow.
Maybe I should be more anxious about tonight’s drama but the constant grind of the grueling campaign has taken a toll. We’re in the final six week stretch before the election and I feel like I’m hardly allowed to sleep.
My father doesn’t know that I’ve been counting down the days until it’s over. I need a break. And the more time I spend in the political sphere the more I think it’s not for me.
Sometimes I feel like this job is eating me alive. There are so many days when I just want to escape.
My father doesn’t know that either.
This has been a weird night. I decide to take Micah up on his offer of a beer. He didn’t lie that the fridge is well stocked with beer and bottled water, but otherwise it’s laughably bare except for a brick of cheddar cheese that may have been edible at some point but now resembles a science experiment.
The door to the balcony is still open, although when I get closer I realize the term ‘balcony’ is rather generous. It’s more like a fire escape with a narrow platform, hemmed in only by a rickety metal fence. Though it never gets truly cold in Em City, there’s a pleasant bite of autumn outside, a nice shift from the stifling tyranny of summer.
Micah’s folding chair takes up a good chunk of the space out here and he’s deep in concentration mode, his head bent as his pencil moves across a page in smooth arcs. Even with help from the harsh light of the neighboring motel’s Vacancy sign, this doesn’t appear to be ideal drawing conditions.
He’s so intent on his task that I have to clear my throat to get his attention. His head snaps up and I could swear he’s startled to see me. Which doesn’t make sense because he can’t possibly have forgotten that I’m here.
Then I notice how he straightens his back and his eyes scan my body more carefully.
No, he wasn’t surprised to see me. He was just surprised to see me likethis. Hair down, barefoot, wearing his sweatshirt.
Speaking of shirts, he’s lost his since he stepped out here. I’ve seen Micah shirtless before so his kaleidoscope of tattoos is no shock. But here, late at night, alone in the dark, there’s a different feeling in the air.
I hold up the beer. “Can I trouble you for a bottle opener?”
He wordlessly reaches out and I hand him the cold beer. Micah swiftly pops the lid off with his teeth, spits out the cap and hands the bottle back.
I drop down on a metal fire escape step, careful to keep my knees together as Micah eyes me. He keeps watching while I take some hearty swallows of beer. The beer is cold going down but that will change once it settles in my stomach. I’m barely even a social drinker. Mostly I indulge in a few sips here and there because it’s expected. But tonight I like the taste of the beer.
And I like the way Micah watches me drink it.
He hasn’t resumed his sketching. I wonder what he’s drawing. Then again, if he wanted me to know then he wouldn’t have rushed to close the cover of his sketchbook earlier.
“So what was up with your big date?” he asks.
I don’t want to talk about Pierce Carrington. “Not exactly a date. It was kind of a work thing.”
“And then he ditched you at an east side bar?”
“Something like that.” I roll the bottle between my palms. “He’s a real asshole.”
Micah lets out a low whistle. “Will wonders never cease. Never heard little Tess Ballerini curse before.”
“Then you don’t listen very well. I curse all the time.”
“Not around me you don’t.”
“Fuck you, Micah. Is that better?”
“Slightly.”
“Well, you’ve always been tough to please.”
He snorts. “Did you ever try?”
It’s not my imagination, this crackle of electricity between us.
A long moment of silence passes as we evaluate each other.
