Page 50 of Micah

Hell, ask her favorite color.

Instead, I just stand there.

Looking at her.

She smiles shyly.

“Thanks again, um, Micah.”

Then she slips away behind the bar to finish closing.

I hate that she leaves.

Hate how empty the room feels the second she's more than a few feet away.

I almost call her back.

Almost.

But I don't.

When the place is nearly empty, I slide four twenties beneath my bottle.

More than enough to cover one beer and dinner.

Probably breakfast too.

I stand.

No goodbye.

No wave.

Goodbye means conversation.

And we already established I suck at conversation.

It’s just that every time I think about talking to Sloane O'Brien, I'm painfully aware there are only two possible outcomes.

I'll say something stupid.

Or worse...

Something true.

Neither option feels particularly safe.

The cool night air hits me as I step outside.

Crickets chirp somewhere beyond Main Street.

The little town has gone quiet.

I walk to my SUV and grab the parts box from the passenger seat.

Cabin filter.

Engine air filter.