Chapter 29
Micah Barrett
When I get back to my hotel room, it’s almost midnight. I unlock our suite and walk in to find River sitting on the couch in front of the television. He clicks it off with the remote and turns to me. “Hey, sorry I left. That headache was a killer.”
“Are you feeling better?”
He nods. “Yeah, man. The ibuprofen took care of it. Did you have fun with Cricket?”
“Sure.”
River runs a hand through his hair. “She’s pretty special, isn’t she?”
Guilt constricts my chest as I look at him. He really does like Cricket. And I spent the evening dancing with her and wishing she was mine. I swallow, my throat tight. “Yeah. She’s special.”
“I’m glad she has you.”
I’m not sure what he means by that, but it makes me feel even more guilty because River is a nice guy. And I’m supposed to be just a friend, but I’m having thoughts about Cricket that are far from friendship-like.
I nod at him. “Of course. We’ve been friends for a long time.” I take a step toward my room. “Well, good night.”
“See you tomorrow.”
I go into my bedroom and plop down on the bed. My phone rings, and I pick it up. It’s Cricket. I quickly answer it.
“Hey,” I say, trying to keep my voice casual despite the way my heart picks up speed.
“Hey,” she says, her voice bright. “I hope I’m not calling too late. I couldn’t stop thinking about tonight.”
I close my eyes, letting her voice wash over me. “It’s not too late. River says his headache is better. Is Kiera still up?”
“No, she was asleep when I got in. Thank you for staying with me after River left. I know you probably wanted to go back to the hotel too.”
“No, I…” I pause, realizing I’m about to say something that would reveal too much. “I had a great time dancing with you.”
She laughs, and the sound makes my chest ache. “Remember when we were kids and your mom made us take those ballroom dancing lessons at the community center?”
Despite everything, I smile. “Yes. You were so mad because I kept stepping on your feet.”
“You were terrible! And I was wearing those new white shoes my grandmother bought me. By the end of the first lesson, they looked like they’d been through a war zone.”
“Hey, I got better,” I protest, settling back against my pillows. “Eventually.”
“Eventually being the key word. Remember the recital? When we had to do that waltz in front of all the parents?”
I groan. “How could I forget? I was so nervous I forgot the entire routine halfway through.”
“I wasn’t sure what to do when you just stood there.” She’s giggling now, and I can picture her curled up on the couch in her suite, eyes bright with laughter.
“You were perfect, whispering the steps to me. But I still managed to spin you the wrong way. Poor Jake Henderson.”
She laughs. “That was my fault. I totally didn’t mean to knock into him like that. I wanted to crawl under the stage and hide. I was so embarrassed.”
“I couldn’t tell,” I say softly. “You got up, helped him find his glasses, and we finished the dance. You were always braver than me.”
There’s a moment of quiet, and when she speaks again, her voice is gentler. “We made a good team, though, didn’t we? Even when we were disasters.”
The words hit me right in the chest because yes, we did make a good team.
We always have. In school projects, family gatherings, even navigating the awkwardness of growing up.
She’s been my constant, my other half, and I’ve been too much of a coward to tell her that somewhere along the way, friendship stopped being enough.
“Yeah,” I manage. “We did.”
“I’m so lucky to have you, Micah. Really. You’re the best.”
She doesn’t say it, but the word “friend” is implied. Her words should comfort me, but instead, they feel like a door slamming shut. I stare up at the ceiling, throat tight.
“You, too, Cricket.”
“I should let you get some sleep.”
“Right.”
“Thank you again for tonight. For everything. Sweet dreams, okay?”
“Sweet dreams,” I echo.
The line goes quiet, and I hold the phone against my ear for a few seconds longer, listening to the silence where her voice used to be. Then I set it on the nightstand and stare at the ceiling.
The guilt is eating me alive. River is a genuinely good guy who cares about Cricket and treats her well.
And here I am, lying in the dark, replaying every moment of tonight.
The way she felt in my arms when we danced.
The sound of her laugh. The way she looked at me when she confided in me about her fears, like I was the most important person in her world.
But I’m not. I’m her best friend. Her safe harbor. And River… River is the one she chose to take that leap with, to try something new and scary and beautiful.
I should be happy for her. I am happy for her. She deserves someone who will cherish her, and River will do that. But it hurts to step back and watch, to smile and be supportive when all I want to do is tell her that I’m in love with her.
I turn onto my side and punch my pillow, trying to get comfortable. Tomorrow, I fly back to reality, where Cricket and River will continue building something together and I’ll continue being the supportive friend who pretends his heart doesn’t shatter a little more each time she mentions his name.
The worst part is that she’s happy. Really, genuinely happy in a way I haven’t seen in years. How can I even think about disrupting that? How selfish would I have to be to risk her first real relationship just because I finally worked up the courage to acknowledge my own feelings?
I can’t. I won’t. Cricket deserves better than that, and so does River.
But as I finally drift off to sleep, it’s her laughter I hear echoing in my head and the memory of her hand in mine as we danced.