Page 73 of Micah
By the time closing rolls around, I've made approximately six hundred mistakes.
Not big ones.
Nothing anyone else would notice.
I ring up a beer twice.
Forget ranch dressing for table seven.
Nearly burn an order of onion rings because I'm too busy staring at the back door every time it opens.
I’m too busy thinking about him.
Micah.
Three days since he'd looked at me with those pale blue eyes full of things he never actually said—and it feels like three months.
Since then, it’s been a whole lot of nothing.
No texts. Which makes sense because how could he text me when we’ve ever exchanged phone numbers?
No visits.
No midnight filter changes.
Just no Micah.
And I don't understand.
Who kisses a woman like that—like she’s the damn air he needs to live—and then, poof, just disappears?
Did I read it wrong?
Did he regret it?
Was it pity?
Sympathy?
A moment of weakness?
God.
Listen to yourself.
You're thirty-three years old, Sloane.
Not sixteen.
Quit acting like some lovesick teenager.
I sigh and wipe down another section of the bar.
I have other things I should be worrying about.
Like my brother and his odd behavior.
Especially, the way he’s been in front of the cash register all night.
