Chapter Nine
The minute he opened the door to his room, Micah disappeared into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her.
He didn’t know what to do—he didn’t want to hover, but also wanted to make sure she was okay.
He changed out of his own punch-stained T-shirt, pulling it over his head by the back of the collar and swapping it for another clean one, trying to move quickly even though he knew the chance that Micah would emerge from the bathroom in the next five seconds was minimal.
Finally he figured he could make himself useful and called the number printed on his welcome paperwork, asking if there was any way to get some ginger ale, saltines, a packet of Dramamine or whatever else they might have on board.
He also explained Micah’s lockout situation and was told they could meet her back at her room and let her in to retrieve her key.
John paused, not trying to listen but finding it impossible to completely ignore that Micah was currently getting sick in his bathroom. “Maybe later,” he said. “Thanks.”
Once he’d hung up the phone, he knocked lightly on the bathroom door. He could still hear her moving around inside, but she didn’t appear to be actively throwing up anymore, so that was something. “Micah?”
Nothing.
“Everything okay?” he asked. A stupid question. Obviously everything wasn’t okay . “I mean, do you think it’s just seasickness, or…”
She groaned, and he wondered if even saying the word was the wrong move right now.
“They’re bringing you medicine,” he said. “And some other stuff.”
“Tell them to bring a horse tranquilizer,” Micah said through the door. “One guaranteed to put me out for oh, approximately five days.”
John smiled. She couldn’t be too bad off if she was making jokes like that. He sat down on the floor, leaning his back against the shared wall. “Have you ever been on a cruise before?”
“No,” she said. “And if I ever go on another again, it’ll be too soon.”
“Feeling any better now?”
The door opened then, just a crack, but it made it easier to hear her. “Yes? No. I don’t know. Mostly I feel stupid.”
John would ask her why, but he could already guess.
She would hate that she’d shown this weakness, would hate that she wasn’t in control, probably really hated that he was the one to see her this way.
He hoped that last one wasn’t true. There had been a time when he would’ve been the only one she would’ve felt comfortable seeing her this way.
“I really thought cruises were supposed to be different,” Micah said. “Like because the boat is so big, you don’t feel the water or something.”
John brought his knees up, linking his hands loosely around them. “I think that’s the idea. But it was pretty windy out there. Hopefully it’ll calm down soon.”
“Nobody ever thinks about those people on the Titanic who were feeling sick as a dog, just normal run-of-the-mill seasickness, and then had to deal with an iceberg on top of that.”
“I think on a cruise you try to avoid thinking about the Titanic at all.”
“Ah. Good point.” She laughed, such a quiet, intimate sound through that single crack in the door that John felt a sudden chill. He rubbed his hands over his knees, swallowing hard.
“You know, it’s supposed to help if you’re actually not down below,” he said. “Like if you go up to where you can look at the horizon, breathe some fresh air.”
“Well, my room has a balcony.” The door opened a little wider then, and he turned to see Micah’s fingers gripping the wood before her palm dropped to the linoleum floor. “Sorry about that, by the way.”
“Did you request specifically that I not get one?”
Another laugh, this one more of a snort. “No. I just hate when things aren’t even.”
John leaned his head back against the wall, not sure how to respond to that.
Things had never been even , but that hadn’t been a problem for him.
If they only had so many balcony rooms to go around, it made sense that they would give one to her above other members of the band.
He just hoped Ryder also got one or they’d never hear the end of it.
“They said they could let you back into your room, if you feel up to it,” he said.
Her hand was still splayed on the floor, less than a foot away from him, and he stared at it, as if it could give him some insight into what she was thinking.
She had long fingers—part of being tall, and she’d always been a little self-conscious of them.
More so because of the nail biting, which he noticed at least looked better than it had at the meeting.
She’d clearly gone for a professional manicure, her nails now painted what looked like black but what he could see was a dark navy blue.
She no longer wore any rings, not even the twisty-design one from her sister that she’d worn for so many years.
“Not yet,” she said. “If that’s okay.”
He wondered if she’d lost the ring. It was the only reason she would’ve been without it, back in the day. “It’s fine. Take as long as you need.”
There was a knock at the door, and John pushed himself up to answer it, accepting the bag with ginger ale and crackers and medicine from a guy with an unnaturally wide smile.
John almost shut the door before remembering that he was probably supposed to tip, and he dug through his pockets, trying to find money but only coming up with a guitar pick and a crumpled receipt.
“It’s good,” the man said. His badge said he was from New Zealand. “Not to worry.”
Something about the way he phrased that—the extra formality in it—made John even more determined. “No, no, hang on,” he said. “I know I have—”
“In my bag,” Micah said from the bathroom. “It should be by the door.”
Sure enough, the black cross-body bag Micah had been carrying was slouched over on the floor where she must’ve dropped it on her way in.
It felt somehow invasive, going through Micah’s stuff, but she’d clearly meant for him to.
He rummaged through a few items—pens, a small notebook held shut with a stretchy band, a bottle of medication—before he hit upon her wallet.
There was a five-dollar bill sticking out, and he grabbed it by the corner to hand to his friend at the door, who gave him a beaming smile.
“I’ll pay you back,” John said once he’d shut the door and hung Micah’s purse on the handle where she wouldn’t forget it.
He could hear the water running in the bathroom, and when she emerged she had droplets still on her chin where she must’ve rinsed her mouth out in the sink.
“Why?” she asked. “It was all stuff for me.”
He glanced inside the bag. “What do you want first?”
She held out her hand, and he gave her the entire bag. She took the bottle of ginger ale out first, uncapping it too fast and letting out a little fizz, which she ducked her head down to lick off the top before it started spilling everywhere. John glanced away, shoving his hands in his pockets.
It was weird, how easy it was being with Micah again.
How much it felt like no time had passed at all, like they still had the natural rapport they’d always had as kids, once John had gotten up the nerve to talk to her again in homeroom.
At the same time, it felt impossibly difficult.
He’d always had this awareness of her, even back in those days, but he’d shoved it down.
So deep, he told himself he didn’t feel it.
But now here she was, sitting tentatively on the edge of his bed, her head tilted back as she took a swig of the ginger ale, and even when he wasn’t looking directly at her he still always knew she was there .
They’d been each other’s first kiss. It had been when they were thirteen, one of those Should we? Just to get it over with? type of deals. At least that was how Micah had framed it.
“How are you feeling?” he asked now.
“I don’t know yet,” she said. “Should I take the medicine?”
“Couldn’t hurt.” He paused, wanting to mind his own business, but also having a sudden thought about the medication bottle that had been in her purse. “Unless it interacts with anything else you’re taking?”
She’d already put a single tablet on her tongue and swished it down with a sip of ginger ale. “That stuff in my purse is for panic attacks,” she said. “I don’t take it all the time—just if I feel one coming on or know I’m about to be in a situation that could trigger one.”
He smiled. “Like this entire cruise?”
“Believe me, that’s why I made sure I’d refilled the prescription before I got here,” she said. “But it makes me a little drowsy sometimes, so I was trying not to use it if I didn’t have to.”
He wanted to ask her more about the situations that triggered those feelings, what had happened to make her realize she needed medication in the first place. But it was definitely none of his business.
The ship moved again, the feeling somehow more unsettling for the fact that the room was completely enclosed without even a glimpse of the water outside. It felt like being inside a stomach, which was definitely not the kind of thought to share with Micah, who still looked a little pale.
“Fuck,” she said. “This sucks.”
“Lie down if you need to,” he said. “Maybe it’ll make you feel better.”
“This is your bed.”
It was still made up with crisp white hospital corners, a towel folded into an elephant resting atop the pillows. “I haven’t used it or anything. It’s clean.”
She let out a huff of a laugh. “That’s my point. It’s yours .”
But he could see suddenly just how tired she looked, how spent.
He didn’t share that observation with her—he knew how little she’d appreciate the reminder that she wasn’t looking her best, that he’d noticed, that maybe other people had, too.
They could always call back down to guest services on the ship, get someone to meet Micah outside her room and let her back in.
Get someone to tell her what her room number was in the first place.
But looking at Micah, the way she was curling her hand around the cap to the ginger ale bottle, then opening her hand back up to see the circular imprint left in her palm…
he knew that would probably be the last thing she’d want to do.
“Just rest,” he said. “I’m going to go back out, maybe take in a bit of the show if it’s already started.”
“Oh yeah. I wanted to see that.”
The Silver Cuties had done several songs on the Nightshifters soundtrack, and they’d been the main band booked for the cruise, with a full concert tonight and then another on prom night.
John didn’t know any of them personally, but he took a professional interest and generally enjoyed what music of theirs he’d heard.
“Come out later,” he said. “If you feel up to it.”
She stared up at him. The room was dim, with only the overhead light by the door switched on and no window to provide extra illumination. And yet John felt like he could see how pronounced the dark circles were under her eyes, maybe just because he knew what to look for.
“Why are you being so nice to me?” she asked, her voice almost a whisper. “Don’t you hate me?”
He thought about all the reasons he should be mad at her.
She’d broken up the band—that wasn’t just some Yoko Ono blame-the-woman type shit.
One minute they’d been taking a brief respite after a rocky European tour, trying to figure out whether to get back in the studio or keep touring, and the next minute she’d bought the rest of them out of their contract, saying she was going solo.
She’d disappeared from his life after that, had left so many of his texts on read, had completely erased all these years of history like they didn’t mean anything to her, when they’d meant everything to him. And then the one time he’d tried to see her, she’d turned him away.
“I don’t hate you, Micah,” he said. “I could never hate you.”
“I hate myself.”
He believed her. She wasn’t just tired , he realized, she was unhappy . And he wondered how long she’d felt that way.
“I wish you wouldn’t,” he said. He reached over to grab the towel animal off the pillow, setting it carefully on the nightstand before turning down the covers. “Come on, get in.”
She hesitated. “Turn around,” she said, then gave him a crooked smile when his brow furrowed at her demand. “I’ve been traveling in these clothes. I’ve been on your bathroom floor. I don’t want to contaminate your bed.”
John dutifully turned his back to her, trying to ignore the swish he knew was her pulling her shirt over her head, the hiss of a zipper and then the crackling slide of her jeans down her legs.
In the mirror on one wall, he could see a flash of ankle before he looked back down at the carpet.
He could hear her getting into the bed, the rustle of the covers, and still he stood there long after the sounds had stopped.
“You can turn back around,” she said, a smile in her voice. “I’m decent.”
It had always done something to him, the image of her in his bed. He’d just tried to ignore it. But how many nights had she burrowed under the covers right next to him, never consciously touching but sometimes waking up to find that they’d crept closer to each other in the middle of the night?
Now he could see the sharp line of her collarbone, that peony tattoo capping one shoulder, the straps of her black bra peeking over the white covers.
He tried to bring his gaze back to her face, but that was worse—something about her expression, so vulnerable and expectant, made him not want to walk away.
It made him want to take his own clothes off and crawl in right beside her, hold her while they both drifted into sleep.
“Get some rest,” he said gruffly. “And we can catch up more later.”