Page 84 of What We Bury

Fuck. I don’t know what honest would look like. Maybe I’d say—Something happened to me the night under that jetty, and it’s been happening more every day since, and when I saw you in her bedroom it stopped being something I could put in a drawer.

That’s as close as I can get. The rest—what this feeling is, what I’d call it if I were a braver man, what I felt standing in that doorway watching the two of them together—I can’t even touch it. So I leave it where it is. Behind the wall. Where it’s safe.

Because I know how to keep us all alive.

But I don’t know how to want something and survive it.

I hit send on what I have.

Me:

I’m sorry about Monday morning. I handled it badly. You didn’t deserve that.

It clicks to “read” immediately. Then the dots start in response.

The dots disappear.

The dots reappear.

The dots disappear again.

I watch them for what feels like a long time. I imagine Micah behind the bar at Unholy Desires, phone tucked under the register, typing something and erasing it over and over. I know he’s doing what I’m doing. Trying to find the smallest possible thing he can say that doesn’t lock anything in.

I save him the trouble.

Me:

Goodnight, Micah.

I send it before I can think about it.

The dots stop.

After a beat, his reply comes through.

Micah

If you don’t reappear soon, I’ll track you down.

It’s an invitation and a backhand to the side of the head. It’s perfect. It’s Micah.

I look at it for a long time.

I don’t reply.

I put the phone face-down on the counter and I go to bed. I lie in the dark with my hands flat on the comforter and I think about how fucking tangled up I’ve become.

I need you, too. Okay? Always have.

I close my eyes.

I see Sage reaching for me.

Please.

With a sigh, I open my eyes.

I don’t sleep.