Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
For the first time, I wake up without the throbbing ache in my jaw.
It’s still sore, but it’s so much better than before.
The reduction of pain, coupled with the birds singing, damn near brings a tear to my eyes.
If the birds are singing, it means they’re safe.
Birds are singing, and no dogs are barking. So maybe I’m safe too.
I glance at the phone on the nightstand across from me, and my stomach flips.
Or maybe not. I turned it on yesterday, but I haven’t had the guts to look at any of Micah’s messages. What do I even say? Sorry I couldn’t play the game yesterday. I was too busy cowering at the dentist, but I’m back!
Oh yeah, that’s great. Killing it over here.
I groan, rubbing my eyes.
I can’t just…do nothing, though. This game is tiring, and I’ve had way too much time to think about the potential that Micah is actually being nice.
I feel nauseous at the thought that I could be stringing along an actual nice person.
And then, my gut cramps for a different reason. Oh god. What if he’s bored with me and he’s found someone else?
My stomach clenches. Oh my god. Arthur did this when I played the game too well.
Unexplainable, seething jealousy courses through me, and suddenly, my skin is on fire. Vaguely, I realize this is stupid because I have no claim on Micah, but the other part of me, the game-playing part of me, is on fire.
I won’t let him beat me at this game. I need to do something. A gesture. Something that says: thanks for letting me stay with you without being too weird or giving him too much.
I wrack my brain. I can’t really buy him anything. That screams relationship, and I’m pretty sure he’s already bought anything he might need anyway. I could clean the house.
Again, relationship. It stays pretty clean anyway. Then, another idea hits me. I could make him food. As soon as I think it, it feels right. Cooking. Everyone gives meals platonically without giving up vulnerability.
My stomach gurgles.
So I find myself getting ready and heading to the store. I had a bit of money saved up for Arthur, but I can make that back quickly. I need to get Micah on the losing side of the scoreboard so I can continue making money here, and then I can pay off Arthur fully and ditch Micah.
My stomach cramps.
I pick up some things and head back. I have a few hours before my shift with Mr. Parker today, so I should have time.
When I get back, I let the steak rest on the counter while I hand-cut fries and heat up the oil.
Getting back into the kitchen feels natural, like it’s where I belong, despite not knowing where Micah keeps his utensils.
That part makes a twinge of discomfort fill me.
What if he’s mad at me for using his stuff?
I put that thought out of my mind, cooking as quietly as I can. If he’s mad, he’ll just tip his hand.
I haven’t heard Micah come down yet, but he seems to be a night owl, so I’m sure he’s exhausted.
Exhausted from chasing men all night.
I cook faster, that rage back. I don’t want Micah to chase strange men. I don’t want him to chase me either, but I definitely don’t want him to chase strange men.
The thoughts make my hands shake. I almost bail, but stop myself. I’m being a goddamn coward. Whatever it is, I can do this. I can face this game. I played it in the big leagues, so why am I letting this little league shit stress me out?
I sear the steak and put it in the oven. Thirty minutes before I put the fries in the oil, I grab my phone and check my messages.
CUPCAKELOVER: *Gasp* Forgive me, good sir, the human accusation was a momentary lack of judgment based on your preference for *cough* a dry, flightless bird.
CUPCAKELOVER: Well, they’re flightless now with the way they’ve been bred. I feel bad for them, really.
CUPCAKELOVER: I hope everything goes well! I’m glad you’re taking care of yourself.
CUPCAKELOVER: Text me when you’re done!! Just to let me know the evil dentist hasn’t stolen your soul or something.
CUPCAKELOVER: You okay over there?
CUPCAKELOVER: My phone is being weird, so I’m sorry if I accidentally double-send anything.
That’s the last thing he sent; all of them delivered after I turned my phone back on. I feel my eyebrows drawing together. He didn’t take the bait. At least, he acts like he isn’t mad.
Maybe I underestimated him.
I pick up my phone.
Me: I made breakfast. Steak and fries. Even included the green fart veggies. It’ll be ready in 30
I let out a big breath and set my phone down. Even though I hate myself for participating, it also feels…empowering. Nothing bad is going to happen because I can play this right. I can take care of myself.
I throw the fries in the oil, waiting until they’re golden brown before pulling them out and putting them on the paper towel.
There’s a thump from upstairs that I recognize as Princess jumping down out of the bed. It makes me smile. He probably smells the food. I did make sure not to season the steak with garlic or onion yet, so I can cut a piece off for him.
Twenty minutes go by, and I check my messages to see if Micah’s responded.
Nothing.
I frown, my stomach tightening. Then, I shrug it off. This is just part of it, him making me wait.
I finish up the fries, then set the table.
He’s not playing. Why isn’t he playing?
I shake my head. Maybe he’s just not up yet. I take the steak out of the oven, but keep the tinfoil over it. I plate the broccoli so it doesn’t overcook, and leave the fries out on a plate. I can dump them back in the oil real quick before we eat.
I check my phone again. Still nothing. So I send a text.
Me: It’s ready!
I fidget with the table and the food until there’s nothing else to do. Five minutes feels like an hour. I keep checking my phone. Maybe he’s not awake yet?
Maybe he is, and you’ve just lost this round.
My stomach twists in knots. I stare out over the food, suddenly mortified. Oh my god, I did all of this just to embarrass myself.
The overwhelming urge to bury myself in a hole fills me. It’s been over an hour since my initial texts, and it’s mid-morning. I doubt Micah is still sleeping. He went to bed kinda early last night. Plus, I can hear Princess up.
Save this. Save it, don’t ruin this.
My heart is racing, and my fingers are a bit clammy. Quickly, I portion out the food and wrap the plates in tinfoil, sticking them in the fridge. Then, with the thoughts screaming in my head, I dart to my car even though I don’t need to leave for work yet, and peel out of the driveway.
It was a stupid idea to try to engage with Micah anyway. I know better than to get close to people, even if it’s fake. This was on me.
Good thing I grabbed a bottle of Southern Comfort at the store; I’m gonna need it.