The Way This Feels

Chapter 25: Shoes

Micah shows up at my house after his shift the next day with my duffle bag of things thrown over his shoulder, which he promptly drops with a look of horror when he sees me. 

"What did you do?!" he demands. From the kitchen my mom who has the day off, as it's a holiday, yells,

"He didn't tell you?!"

I still feel angry. Micah moves to take my broken hand, but I wince, stepping back. Whether because I'm afraid for him to touch me again, or because of the pain, I'm not sure. I feel angrier still, and I take a deep breath.

"I uh... punched the wall."

"Why? Will!"

"I dunno ok, it just looked particularly punchable." I snap. Then smile. "I shoulda punched you."

"You might've done less damage."

"It's not that bad."

"He broke a finger and cracked a knuckle." My mom calls. "Come in here and help me cook."

To be honest, having an injury sort of pays off when there's a lot of commotion going on. I get to sit peacefully icing my hand and watching Micah help my mom mix marinades and boil shrimp and I don't have to lift a finger. Because of course, it's broken. Normally all the moving and cooking and promises of people flooding the street outside to watch booming fireworks would have me in a state. Not that that stuffs not fun but.... I'm an anxious wreck. But sitting, breathing, watching... I feel very calm. I've been gifted a brief reprieve. 

I mostly watch Micah. His eyes are overwhelming when they're reading mine, but fascinating as he takes in the room around him. The fridge, the cabinets, my moms hands as she shows him how to roll pie crust. I spot him more than once combing over the family photos pinned to the fridge. He catches my eye and winks at me, pointing at a baby picture of myself. I stick my tongue out.

I haven't thought much more about, well, about his confession. To be honest, I'm rationalizing, covering it up in all these thick layers of denial, and I'm very aware I'm doing it. So what he thought I was "cute" that day, that was a whole month ago. We're just friends now... I know I sound like an idiot, but what does anyone expect from me? I have a black eye, bruised ribs, two broken hands, tremendous grief, and I'm supposed to strike up a romance with this tall dude I never claimed to like before now? I don't think so. So I'm choosing to think he's not into me either. 

"Could you go to the garage and find that case of ginger ale?" My mom asks, "Take Will he's been sitting too long. Grandma's calling me." She adds, which tells me she's giving us a break. I get up off my chair and take Micah to the garage, and we stand just inside, leaned up against the wall. Abruptly, I want a cigarette. The pain isn't helping with my new resolution to quit them at all. I'm very aware of how broken I look, still stiff and purple from the bruises on my face, and now the awkward splint on my hand completing the look. I'd like a distraction, both from my self awareness, and the stinging injuries. 

"How are things?" Micah asks.

"Fine." 

He finds the ginger-ale case and props it by the door before striking me with one of his looks.

"Is there something you're wanting?" I ask.

"I want to know what happened after we dropped you off yesterday."

"I punched the wall." I scowl.

"You walked straight in, and immediately punched the wall." His voice faintly incredulous.

I think back. "Well, I took my shoes off first."

His lips twitch.

"My mom wanted me to ask you something." I say, intentionally shifting the subject. My moment of angry stupidity doesn't need to be picked apart.