Page 94 of Micah

Whatever he's saying, Patrick isn't arguing very much.

Five minutes later the office door opens.

Micah steps back into the bar alone, and for the first time since the brawl I take him in.

His shirt's wrinkled. It’s torn a bit at the collar where some idiot grabbed him, probably trying to save themselves.

One knuckle is split open.

There's blood on his forearm that definitely isn't his.

But other than that?

Not a scratch.

He walks back over to me.

Stops just within reach.

“Do you want to talk to him?”

I look toward the hallway.

Toward my office.

Toward my brother.

Patrick is older than me. We’re the only family we have left.

But still, I slowly shake my head.

“No.”

My voice cracks.

“I think...”

I swallow.

“I'm too angry right now.”

And I am. Angry. Disappointed. I just feel so let down.

And I don’t think I can listen to his explanations and excuses right now.

Micah nods once.

Like that's a perfectly reasonable answer.

Maybe it is.

Maybe I'm finally allowing myself to feel things I've spent years pushing down.

The lies.

The guilt.

The way Patrick always made me feel responsible for everything.