I end up on Micah’s doorstep with a Hey-can-we-forget-everything-I-said? gift from the drugstore. Standing on his front porch now, his chalk drawings beneath my feet, I second-guess myself.
He doesn’t want you here.
I breathe in through my nose.
Good in.
Bad out.
In.
Out.
The monsters quiet slightly. Not gone, but enough to let me knock.
Micah answers the door in sweatpants and his rumpled good vibes only hoodie. His hair is matted against his head on one side, and his cheek bears deep blanket wrinkle lines. No whimsical socks today; he’s stripped of his brightness.
He squints into the angled afternoon light, keeping the door semi-closed, his face expressionless.
“Yeah?”
He rakes his fingers through his hair, staring at the ground. I want to grab his face and make him look at me. Make me feel the electricity that lit up the dark of the custodial closet.
“I—I just needed to see you.”
“No need to waste your time worrying about people like me,” he says, the same edge to his voice. My heart sinks.
“Micah. I…” I pause. How do I make this better? “I’m sorry. I was a total jerk, and I probably shouldn’t be here, but I need to know you’re okay. Are you? Okay?”
“No.”
“Oh….”
“Is that not that answer you wanted?”
“No. Maybe. I don’t know.”
“Well, do you want the truth, or do you want to ask the question so you can check it off your list?”
I force myself to look at him, even though I’m embarrassed to be here and horrified at how I treated him and scared by the hurt in his usually bright eyes.
“I want the truth.”
Micah leans against the doorframe, arms folded protectively across his chest.
“Well, the truth is, if I were okay, I wouldn’t be asleep at four in the afternoon. I wouldn’t have spent the last week in bed, trying to stay unconscious. I wouldn’t have to muster every molecule in my brain to be having this conversation right now because looking at you makes me—”
He stops, like the thought of how I treated him hurts. It hurts me, too.
“So, no, I’m not okay, and if that makes you uncomfortable, then maybe you shouldn’t be here.”
He looks me in the eyes now, intensely, daring me to say something. Daring me to walk away.
“I—I don’t know what to say. I don’t even know why I’m here, exactly.” I shush the voice in my head that’s yelling at me to stop. To turn away. To leave before I screw this up like I do everything. “All I know is, I wish I could take back what I said, and all I’ve wanted all week is to see you, and I want to tell you some things that I should have told you already, and I know there’s absolutely no reason for you to trust me, but if it’s all right with you, I’d like to be with you. I’d like to stay.”
Micah scratches his head, considering me as he uncrosses his arms. “I’m pretty shitty company right now.”
“Perfect,” I say. “That’s kind of my entire brand.”
Micah’s gaze lands on my hand. “I’m sorry, but I cannot continue this conversation until I know: Is that a Bob Ross bobblehead?”
“Oh, yeah. For you.” I hand him the box. He shakes it, bouncing Bob’s head back and forth.
“This is the most amazing and strangest gift anyone’s ever given me.” His eyes are still dull, but the anger has softened somewhat. “Perhaps the perfect metaphor for us.”
Us. My brain rolls the word. Polishes it until it sparkles.
“Well, I’m nothing if not strange,” I say.
The corners of his mouth lift, only slightly, and he opens the door wider, leaning against it like he’s half-annoyed, half trying not to smile.
“Well,” he says. “You coming in or what?”
