Chapter 51. Micah
MICAH
I make it home from the gym with plenty of time to spare before I need to head out for my late breakfast with Aunt Max.
Dr. Val says a regular fitness routine will help get me out of my head and deal with stress better.
I have to admit, it did feel good to sweat again.
It was my first time back since seeing Brynn there, but I knew no one from the agency would show up during a workday, her included.
That didn’t stop me from thinking every raven-haired girl on the fitness floor was her, of course.
Switching my coffee to my left hand, I fish out my key and unlock my door. Some Shania Twain tune streams from inside. I drop my keys in the canoe-shaped wood bowl in the foyer and walk toward the living room.
A breeze hits my face from the open terrace doors leading to the garden. My dad’s hard to miss, standing there straight out of a movie—the one where the country singer stares up at the city’s tall buildings for the first time. Except this cowboy grew up here.
A familiar pang rises in my chest. My mouth goes dry. I set my coffee on the counter, no longer wanting it. The house smells like his aftershave and I’m a kid again, catching drips from his razor in my palm with him above me, stooped over the tour bus’s bathroom sink. “Dad . . .”
“There he is!” He rushes over.
I stretch my arms out wide.
He claps me on the shoulder and steps back, frowning.
I wince; the ache inside my chest doubles in size.
He makes his way to the Alexander the Great statue, still draped in the towels from my weekend with Brynn.
“About what I said on the phone . . .” My throat constricts.
He waves me off. “He fits this place, don’t you think?” He smiles, looking around the room. “Surprise.”
I’m unsure if he’s referring to the statue or himself.
He smacks his lips. “I loved growing up here.” He steps back onto the patio.
I don’t join him.
“A piece of heaven.” He sighs. “I learned to do a flip off the bars over there.” He checks that I’m watching him and points to the nearby swing set, his eyes eager.
I don’t say a thing.
His smile fades. He comes back inside.
I shake my head. “You used to say this place felt like a prison camp.”
“All true. Time and distance give one new eyes. I know I had a charmed upbringing, Harmonica. The old man was tough, though. One moment he’d be playing with me and the next he’d be yelling, expecting me to know fun time was over, even though I was just a kid.”
“Maybe because he’s bipolar.” I cross my arms over my chest.
He motions in disagreement. “Well, that wasn’t a thing back then.”
“Right. Then they called it manic depression. Same thing, though.”
“I suppose. Me and Aunt Maxi didn’t know those things. Mother didn’t either. We could have been closer.”
“What’s your excuse now?” I scoff.
“Cut it out,” he snaps. “I’m still your father.”
“Who shows up at his convenience. I don’t get it.
” I blink, fighting back tears. “I worshipped you—you were my Music Man. I never got tired of seeing you out there under the lights, pulling in the crowd with every song. Then you cut me out . . . took the music with you.” I exhale, clasping my hands behind my neck.
“I never told you this, but your granddad was the one who convinced me the road was no place for you. He called me selfish.” He shrugs. “I just wanted you with me. Then you caught that bad fever and I realized he was right—saw what I was putting you through.”
“I wanted to stay with you, not him.”
“I had to grow up and make the hardest decision of my life. I knew he’d provide you the stability I couldn’t. Give you all the check marks a growing kid’s supposed to have.”
“When did you ever follow a checklist?” I puff out a hard breath. “Guess it was easier than having to deal with your mentally deranged kid.”
“Shut your mouth. My son’s amazing.”
I clench my teeth. “Stop it. Open your eyes and see me for once.”
He stares at his black-heeled boots. “Should have taken better care of you. Maybe you wouldn’t have gotten sick, and this thing inside of you wouldn’t have taken a hold of you.”
“You think I’m possessed or something?”
“No—no! I just don’t have the right words.” He turns away from me, gripping his head in his hands. “I hate arguing with you.”
“You help so many people with your lyrics, and yet when it comes to your own son, you don’t have the words?”
“Oh, I write them. I just can’t sing them.
It cuts me deep, reliving that time.” He buzzes his lips like a motorboat, shoulders drop.
“Got me thinking the other day . . . after your mom recovered from the initial shock of being pregnant.” He laughs.
“She stopped eating those soft cheeses she loved. Quit drinking and smoking pot. She wore her Walkman headphones around her belly, playing classical music so you’d come out smart.
Sure worked.” He pauses, his eyes far away.
“Micah, what happened to her . . . it was nothing short of the devil’s hand. ”
He strides past me and picks up the small, framed photo of the Woman in Black from the side table, her long, sable-colored hair creating a cloak around her shoulders.
Dressed in a black camisole and cutoff shorts with a long-sleeve flannel shirt tied around her hips, she stands with her hands in her back pockets, her sea-colored eyes challenging the camera like a badass.
Grunge mom. The photo was taken the weekend they met.
“God, I miss her. Every song I sing is for her.”
My eyes sting. This guy has nothing in his heart for me and I hate him for it.
His eyes widen like he’s reading my thoughts. “Kiddo, that doesn’t mean . . . I don’t mean that. It came out wrong. Micah, you’re the song . . . the one I don’t know how to sing.”
He clamps a forceful hand on my shoulder, so hard it almost hurts.
We stand silent for what feels like several minutes.
I don’t dare meet his eyes or move.
He backs off his grip and pats my shoulder before walking back into the garden.