19. Family Saving Throw #3
Micah notices where I’m looking. “You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Looking at me like you’re trying to solve a problem.”
“I frequently am trying to solve problems.”
“Am I a problem?”
“No.” The answer comes immediately enough that something in his expression changes.
It’s subtle, but the warmth in his eyes is not.
The gravitational pull that has existed between us for far too long becomes considerably more obvious in the quiet.
I know he’s attracted to me. He knows I’m attracted to him. We have both said enough over the last few months to make that fact uncomplicated.
What I don’t know is exactly what I want that attraction to become.
I lift my hand but stop before I touch him.
Micah’s gaze drops briefly to it and then returns to my eyes. He doesn’t move closer or farther away.
I place my palm against the back of his neck.
The contact is warm and immediate. My fingers move slowly upward into his hair, and his shoulders relax beneath my hand.
Instead of competing for my attention the way everything in the dining room did, the sensation gives my attention somewhere specific to settle.
The texture of his hair.
The warmth of his skin.
The subtle movement under my thumb every time he breathes.
Micah’s eyes close for half a second.
“You know,” he says quietly, “for someone with a touch aversion, you sure do keep putting your hands on me.”
“Selective touch aversion,” I explain with a smile.
“Right. Sorry.”
“It is an important distinction.”
His mouth twitches, and I run my fingers through his hair again because I want to feel the texture more.
“Does this help?” he asks after a moment.
I consider giving him a less vulnerable answer, but there isn’t any useful reason to.
“Yes.”
His eyes meet mine. “Okay.”
That’s all he says.
The lack of commentary makes something in my chest tighten for a completely different reason than before.
“You aren’t going to make that weird?”
“I think you have enough weird happening today.”
“I meant between us.”
“I know what you meant.” His voice stays quiet, and I leave my hand at the back of his neck. “We’ve talked about this.”
“We have.”
“Repeatedly.” Micah’s mouth curves. “Mostly without accomplishing anything.”
“That seems unnecessarily judgmental.”
“Wasn’t meant to be.”
“Yes, it was.”
“Maybe a little.”
I tighten my fingers slightly in his hair, more reflex than decision, and the humor in his expression shifts.
That part of our attraction is familiar too.
Micah looks at me for a long moment before his voice becomes more serious.
“I want you, Ronan. That’s not new information.”
“No. It isn’t.”
My thumb moves once along the side of his neck.
“But… I don’t need you to make any choices or do anything about that today.”
Something inside me unclenches. “That is useful.”
“I thought it might be.”
I watch him for another breath before saying, “I do want you.”
His breathing changes just enough for me to feel it through the contact between us.
“I know.”
There is no arrogance in the answer. No teasing. Just certainty.
I let my head rest back against the couch while keeping my hand where it is. “I don’t know exactly what that might look like yet.”
“Then don’t know yet.”
I turn my head toward him.
Micah shrugs slightly. “You don’t have to have the answer just because you know there’s a question.”
“That is not generally how my brain prefers to handle unresolved variables.”
“No shit.”
I tighten my fingers in his hair again.
Micah’s eyes sharpen, and the temperature between us shifts in a way neither of us could reasonably mistake for less than what it is.
His mouth curves slowly. “Careful.”
“Is that a warning?”
“Maybe.”
The word settles low in my body.
An image follows immediately—Micah downstairs with me, Cami on the table, both of them looking to me for direction.
I stop that thought before it develops further.
Not today.
But eventually.
Definitely eventually.
I loosen my grip without removing my hand. “You and Cami have discussed joining me downstairs.”
Micah actually laughs. “Have we?”
“She asked me last night when you were going to.”
“That sounds like Cami discussed it with you.”
“Have you not discussed it with her?”
His silence answers the question.
I narrow my eyes. “You have.”
Micah smiles. “Maybe.”
“Eventually?”
“God, yes.”
I laugh. “Good.” The word comes out with far more satisfaction than I intended.
I leave my hand against his skin for another moment before finally letting it fall into my lap.
The loss of contact registers immediately—I dislike that more than I expected.
Micah settles back on the couch for a moment before asking, “Ready to go back out?”
“No.”
“Three more minutes?”
“Okay.”
And he stays there in the quiet with me.
When we return to the dining room, Cami is sitting beside Margot with a mug of tea between her hands.
Her gaze finds me immediately, then shifts toward Micah before returning to me.
The question in her eyes is obvious.
I give her a small nod to tell her I’m alright.
Her smile answers with the same information.
Mom has turned off the Christmas music. I notice that immediately.
The tree lights are no longer blinking either—someone changed them to a steady setting while I was gone.
My mother doesn’t mention either accommodation, and I don’t thank her for them because I know she isn’t looking for recognition.
We simply finish brunch.
It gets easier after that, although I wouldn’t call it easy.
Dad asks Micah about the tattoo shop. Margot tells Cami a story about something ridiculous one of her children did at school, and Mom begins packing enough leftovers for all five of us despite multiple reassurances that Griffin and Dex are working today and we already have food at home.
Normal pieces of my family—or these three members of my family—slowly work their way back in around the difficult ones.
That helps.
Eventually, we’re standing near the front door while Micah tries to manage three containers of leftovers at once.
Mom hugs Cami again, then Micah, and finally me.
Her cheek presses against my shoulder. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
She pulls back, but leaves her hands on my upper arm. “I am sorry if I made you feel like you were the problem.”
My throat tightens. “Thank you.”
“I don’t think you’re the problem.”
“I know.”
Her mouth trembles. “And I don’t think Cami is either.”
“I know that too.”
“I just don’t know how to fix this.”
There are probably a thousand possible answers, and many of them would be cruel precisely because they’re true.
I choose the one that matters. “You might not be able to fix it.”
Her eyes fill again.
I continue before she can interpret that as hopelessness. “But you also don’t have to solve it today.”
Apparently Micah is rubbing off on me as well.
Mom gives me a sad smile. “No, I guess I don’t.”
I kiss her forehead and step back.
Cami doesn’t look toward the garage once as we walk to the car.
Micah takes the driver’s seat because my nervous system has reached its daily allocation of useful participation, and I don’t see any reason to make the twenty-minute drive home unnecessarily difficult.
Cami sits in the back with me, leaving Micah to act as a chauffeur of sorts.
The moment we’re moving, she turns toward me and starts curling into my side. She makes sure I see the contact coming and lift my arm to make room for her before her cheek settles against my chest.
“How bad was that?” she asks.
“Not bad.”
She lifts her head and looks at me.
I sigh. “Difficult.”
Apparently everyone in my life has collectively decided I’m no longer allowed to describe myself as fine.
“I do love your family,” she says carefully. “At least these three.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want you to think I’m upset with your mom.”
“I don’t.”
“She really was trying.”
“I know that too.”
Cami studies my face for a few seconds. “But you’re still mad.”
“Yes.”
“That’s fair.”
I kiss the top of her head as she settles back against me.
In the front seat, Micah doesn’t comment.
Just as we’re pulling into our driveway, Cami’s phone starts ringing. She looks at the screen and smiles.
“It’s Griffin.”
“Answer it.”
She climbs out while answering, immediately launching into a report about brunch as she heads toward the house.
Micah shuts off the engine.
I don’t move immediately.
Snow has started falling again, small flakes catching in the sun.
For a few seconds, we sit in silence.
Then Micah turns enough to look back at me. “You good?”
“No.”
His smile appears immediately. “Progress.”
I roll my eyes and open the door.
Micah gets out at the same time, and we meet behind the car to grab the leftovers from the trunk.
Before he can grab anything, I close the distance between us and reach for the back of his neck again.
Micah stills beneath my hand.
My thumb catches lightly against the back of his ear. “I meant what I said in there.”
“I know.”
“I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“With your family or with me?
“Yes.”
He laughs softly, and the sound hangs between us in the cold air. “Good thing you don’t have to figure either one out tonight.”
I study him.
His face. His eyes. The fact that he doesn’t step closer even though I know he wants to.
The fact that he lets me maintain control of the contact and the speed of what we’re doing.
He understands that wanting and being overwhelmed are not mutually exclusive states for me.
There are very few people who understand that distinction without requiring repeated explanations.
Micah does. Although, he did watch the incredibly slow progress it took to get Cami and me where we are.
I don’t kiss him.
I want to.
My fingers move once through his hair before I finally let him go.
Through the front window, I can see Cami moving around the living room while she talks to Griffin. The big tree glows behind her, while the smaller one in the front window continues displaying Dex’s obscene crocheted ornament to the entire neighborhood.
Our house.
Our Christmas.
Our ridiculous, complicated, imperfect family.