Page 20 of A Crazy Kind of Love
“You kissed Micah Sinclair.”
“Yeah.”
“Micah fucking Sinclair.”
“Yes.”
“Good God. How was it?” Now he leaned forward, looking at me like I might levitate at any moment.
“It was amazing. Up until I nearly passed out and abandoned him on the sidewalk.”
“What?” He jumped up and peered out the window, as if he could see the sidewalk from that angle. “Did you say anything to him?”
I looked at him through veiled lids. “I was kind of too busy trying not to drop into a coma at his feet.”
“You didn’t tell him anything?”
I crossed my arms. “Drop it. It’s probably for the best anyway. Can you imagine if I’d asked him to help me up here?”
His eyes rolled up to some invisible thought bubble over his head. “I’d like to imagine that.”
“Zion!” I laughed. “You’re the worst.”
He shrugged. “But yeah. It’s probably better that you don’t get involved with him. He’d end up breaking your heart. And he wouldn’t even mean to.”
“Yeah.” I stretched, and that caused Zion to yawn. “I should get some sleep. Why are you home, anyway? I figured you’d be at Robert’s.”
He fell into the sofa beside me and grimaced. “He’s ghosting me. I thought about going out anyway, but my heart wasn’t in it.”
I scooted over and lay my head on his chest, snuggling against him, drowsy. “I’m sorry. I wished I’d known you were here eating your heart out.”
He wrapped his arms around my shoulders and squeezed. “No worries. Plenty more fish in the sea. At least one of us got some action.” He dialed his Southern accent to eleven and said, “After all, tomorrow IS another day.”
* * *
I woke up to the sounds of sizzling in the kitchen. I gravitated to the living room, dropped on the sofa, and checked my glucose. Over the months I’d lived with Zion, he’d become part-time roommate and full-time best friend. We’d been close in college, but since we worked and lived together, our relationship had morphed into one of family. And I suspected he’d made some kind of deal with my mom to keep an eye on me. Once in a while, he hovered—especially when he thought I was overdoing things. I didn’t mind so much. I knew he cared about me as much as I cared about him.
He fluttered around, fixing breakfast, so I got up to straighten, but he told me to sit and relax until after I ate. Since I’d moved in, I hadn’t had a serious hypoglycemic episode, but he’d been there in college when I’d landed in the hospital after a particularly stressful finals week. He obviously still wore a cloud of worry about the night before.
It was a good thing it was Saturday morning. If we’d been at work, his behavior would have irritated Andy. Andy only grudgingly put up with extra accommodations, like allowing me to keep juice and insulin in his minifridge. Andy told me his college roommate had been able to control his diabetes through diet and exercise as if my precautionary syringes were further proof of a character weakness. No use explaining to him that my body did not actually produce insulin.
I felt fine, but I’d never convince Zion of that. So I sat down to read a book, but my mind wandered as I daydreamed about the night before. Or more accurately, fretted about what Micah must be thinking after I’d left him standing on the sidewalk without an explanation. Did he think I was still angry at him for insulting me? (I was.) Or offended by him for kissing me? (I wasn’t.) Or repulsed by him physically. (Definitely wasn’t.) I had no way to reach him to apologize and tell him I’d loved every second of that kiss. (I had.)
Did he feel like an idiot? I did.
In addition to worrying I was putting him off, I couldn’t shake the idea he was putting me on. Was he serious about why he invited me into the party? Surely, he just charmed his way through everything. Did girls ever say no to Micah Sinclair? How many questions had he silenced with those lips?
Zion was right though. If I let myself fall for Micah Sinclair, he’d break my heart without even knowing it. Better to acknowledge he was having a bit of fun and let it go.
When my phone rang, Zion was handing me a plate of something yellow and orange—either cheese eggs or undercooked eggs—and I didn’t bother to check the incoming contact before hitting Answer.
“Josephine, what the hell?” I pulled the phone away from my face and stared at the screen. I kicked the leg of the coffee table.
“Morning, Andy. What’s up?’ For him to call on a Saturday morning did not bode well.
“I waited last night for your pictures. I finally gave up and went to bed only to discover you uploaded everything in the middle of the night.”
“I know but—”
