27. Split The Party #2
I'm sitting on the floor against the side of his bed with my laptop on my thighs.
He takes one look at me. “What are you doing?”
“Research.”
“At midnight?”
“Science has no curfew.”
He closes the door. “What are you researching?”
I shut the laptop. “Nothing.”
Micah looks at it. Then me. “Dex.”
“Don't use the voice.”
“I didn't.”
“You thought it.”
He walks over and sits on the floor beside me.
Not across.
Beside.
His shoulder touches mine.
He waits.
I hate when he does that.
Silence is basically emotional waterboarding when someone knows you're avoiding something.
Finally I open the laptop again.
The schedule fills the screen.
Twenty-eight days.
Micah studies it. “Austin's manager sent that?”
“Today.”
“Looks organized.”
“Ronan would masturbate to this spreadsheet.”
Micah snorts. “Probably.”
I scroll.
“Hotel. Flights. Meal stipend. Ground transportation. They apparently own me Monday through Friday from nine until whenever musicians stop being assholes.”
“Okay.”
“Entertainment budget for some nights.”
“Sounds terrible.”
“Right?”
“And introductions.”
“Producers. Writers. Couple label people. Some session musicians.”
Micah glances over. “That's big.”
“Don't say it like that.”
“How should I say it?”
“Smaller.”
His mouth twitches.
I close the laptop again. “The bar can't guarantee my shifts when I get back.”
Micah's expression changes. “Okay.”
“And Grave Intentions is missing a show.”
“They're okay with it?”
“Annoyingly supportive. Told me to go make a name for myself so I can make them famous.”
“Of course.”
“And this whole schedule is…” I gesture toward the laptop. “Real.”
Micah waits.
“I agreed too fast.”
“No, you didn't.”
“How do you know?”
“Because you've wanted to do nothing else since Austin asked.”
“That isn't the same thing as it being smart.”
“No.”
Thank you.
“It can be smart too.”
Fuck him.
I pull my knees up.
“What if I lose the bar?”
“You might.”
My head turns sharply.
Micah holds my gaze. “You might come back and have fewer shifts. You might have to find another bartending job.”
“That was supposed to be reassuring?”
“It wasn't.”
“Terrible boyfriend.”
“I thought we were doing honesty.”
I look away.
He continues, “You could also go to Chicago, write nothing they use, have a great month, come home, and get another bar job.”
“Fantastic.”
“Or you could write something.”
My stomach flips.
“Don't.”
“Something that makes the album.”
“Micah.”
“And somebody else could hear it.”
“Please stop helping.”
“And they could ask you to write.”
I shove my hands into my hair. “Exactly.”
He goes quiet.
I laugh, except nothing is funny. “That's the fucking problem.”
Micah watches me.
“What if this isn't one month?”
There.
I finally said it.
“What if it's another session after that? Or Austin calls and wants me in LA for a week? Or somebody wants me to guest at a show? Or Signal Saints tours, and they want me to play a couple dates because I helped write something?”
Micah doesn't interrupt.
“What if Grave Intentions starts getting better gigs because my name suddenly means something? What if I actually start making money doing music and the bar becomes the thing I have to fit around it instead of the other way around?”
My breathing is getting too fast.
I know it.
Can't seem to stop.
“What if I like that?”
Micah's brow furrows slightly. “Why wouldn't you?”
“Because I like this.” I gesture toward the room.
The house.
Him.
Everything.
“I like knowing Thursday is D&D. I like knowing who's going to be in the kitchen in the morning. I like coming home after the bar and finding you awake because your sleep schedule is almost as fucked as mine.”
“You say the sweetest things.”
“I'm serious.”
“I know.”
“I finally have all of this, Micah.” My voice cracks around the edge.
Fuck.
I look away.
“I have you. And Cami. Griffin and Ronan. The house. Grave Intentions. The bar. People know me there. I know who tips shitty and who orders the same drink every Thursday and which servers are going to need help closing before they even ask.”
I rub both hands over my face.
“And now the thing I've always treated like the fun part of my life is suddenly asking me to take four weeks away from everything else.”
Micah's hand settles against my knee. “It’s four weeks.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do.”
“No, I don't think you do.”
His hand stills.
I hate the words immediately.
But they're already out.
Micah doesn't get defensive.
He waits.
I swallow. “I'm not worried you're going to ask me to stay.”
Something changes in his face.
“I know you won't.”
“Okay.”
“That's not what I'm scared of.”
“What are you scared of?”
I stare at our knees.
At his hand.
At the chipped black polish on my thumbnail.
“I'm scared I'll go and find out I want a life that keeps taking me away from you.”
The room goes completely quiet.
There.
The real thing.
No jokes left.
Micah's fingers tighten around my knee.
Then he shifts until he's facing me more directly. “Look at me.”
I do.
“Loving me does not require you to make yourself smaller.”
My throat tightens. “That's not—”
“Yes, it is.”
“I'm not talking about making myself smaller.”
“You're talking about preemptively deciding how much you're allowed to want because you're afraid wanting more might inconvenience us.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“It's close.”
I glare at him.
He doesn't care. “Dex, four weeks in Chicago isn't leaving me.”
“It could become more.”
“Yes.”
“That doesn't bother you?”
“Of course it fucking bothers me.”
That stops me.
Micah exhales. “You think I want you gone for a month?”
“Well, when you phrase it like that—”
“No. Listen.”
I shut up.
Mostly because he has the tone now.
Not Sir.
Not quite.
Just Micah when he needs me to actually hear him.
“I'll miss you.” His eyes stay on mine. “Cami will miss you. Everyone will.”
My chest hurts.
“But missing you isn't the same thing as losing you.”
I swallow. “What if I end up traveling more?”
“Then we figure it out.”
“What if it's a lot?”
“Then we figure out what a lot means.”
“What if—”
“You haven't even gone once yet.”
I close my mouth.
Micah's thumb moves across my knee.
“You've turned four weeks in March into a world tour and a custody agreement.”
“I like to plan.”
“No, Ronan likes to plan. You catastrophize with enthusiasm.”
Fair.
I lean my head back against the mattress. “It feels like leaving everyone and everything.”
“It isn't.”
“Twenty-eight days.”
“You don't have to stay twenty-eight straight days.”
I look at him. “What?”
“Come home one weekend.”
My brain stalls.
Micah watches it happen. “You're allowed to get on a plane.”
“I—”
“Denver isn't on another continent.”
“No.”
“You could leave Friday night and go back Sunday.”
I stare at him. “That seems obvious now that you've said it.”
“Yes.”
“I hate you.”
“Love you too.”
That still works on me.
Asshole.
I let my head fall sideways onto his shoulder.
He leans his against mine.
For a while, neither of us says anything.
Then I ask, “What if I lose the bar?”
“You'll be sad.”
“Wow.”
“You asked.”
“Continue.”
“You'll miss your coworkers. Your regulars. The chaos.”
I nod.
“And then you'll either get shifts back, or you'll find another bar.”
“That easy?”
“No.” His cheek moves against my hair. “But survivable.”
I think about that. “And Grave Intentions?”
“They practically asked you to become famous for their benefit.”
I laugh.
“True.” But I’m still spiraling. “And the house?”
Micah pulls back enough to look at me.
“The house isn't going anywhere because you work somewhere else for a month.”
“No?”
“No.”
“You?”
“No.”
“Cami?”
“No.”
“Ronan?”
“He may change the locks while you're gone.”
“There it is.”
Micah smiles. “Griffin will let you back in.”
“Thank God.”
The pressure in my chest finally eases enough that I can breathe all the way in.
Micah reaches for my laptop and opens the schedule again. “Show me.”
“What?”
“The month.”
I do.
We go through it.
Not like a crisis.
Like logistics.
Flight out.
Hotel check-in.
Studio days.
The nights Austin's team has dinners planned.
The weekend with nothing scheduled.
“That one,” Micah says.
“What?”
“Come home that weekend.”
I stare at the blank Saturday and Sunday.
“You really want me to?”
He gives me a look.
Right.
Stupid question.
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
“We can also come to you if that makes more sense.”
That catches me. “All of you?”
“Maybe not all at once. Ronan might file a complaint if we drag him to another city.”
I laugh.
“But you're not disappearing into Chicago for a month unless you decide you want to.”
I look at the screen.
The boxes don't seem quite as threatening anymore.
Still big.
Still different.
But finite.
March first.
March twenty-ninth.
Then home.
Whatever happens after that can be a separate problem.
I am allowed to have problems sequentially.
Possibly.
“We're really okay?” I ask.
Micah closes the laptop.
Then he turns, catches my face in both hands, and kisses me.
Slow and sensual.
Just enough to make the answer impossible to misunderstand.
When he pulls back, his forehead stays against mine. “You get to want this.”
My eyes burn.
Fuck.
“You get to be excited about it.”
“That's asking a lot.”
“You get to be scared too.”
“Better.”
“And then you go.”
I breathe out. “And come back.”
Micah's mouth curves. “That part too.”
I kiss him again.
A minute later, when we're climbing into bed, my phone buzzes.
Austin's manager.
Another email.
ADDITIONAL STUDIO CREDIT / PROMOTIONAL INFORMATION
I groan.
Micah looks over. “What now?”
“I don't know. Probably my inevitable descent into fame and cocaine.”
“Open it tomorrow.”
I stare at the notification.
Then lock my phone.
Huh.
Growth.
I crawl into bed beside him.