Mikey and the Chickadee

Chapter 17 - Part 2

I didn't know what to say. Even the notion of discussing it terrified me.

"I hope I'm not letting my own feelings into this," he continued. "I'm trying to be objective. That's just how I see it. Objectively, at least."

"I appreciate that," I said in a very quiet voice. "And part of me..." I trailed off momentarily, quivering a little, then drew in a breath. "Part of me is worried that you're right."

I knew suddenly that I was going to cry. It would be brief and contained, but nonetheless it rushed, unyielding, to the surface. I leaned myself against him, making it clear what was happening. Already I shriveled with embarrassment.

"Hey." He set his feet down to the floor and put his arms around me. "Hold on, hold on," he said calmly, "you're okay." He held my head against his chest, running his hand over my hair. "You're okay," he said again. "Part-of-me-this, part-of-me-that. Man, you've got a lot of parts, you know that?"

I managed to laugh a little, still shuddering against him. "You don't even know."

"It's okay," he said. "Look, you don't have to make up your mind yet. You still have time."

I sat up and groaned, holding my head in my hands. "I'm so tired of not knowing what the hell is going on. I feel like I'm going crazy. Jesus, I'm the last person who should be making this decision, really. Can't you just decide for me?"

He laughed. "No. But if what you told me earlier—how you feel about your job—is true, then I can give you my objective opinion, which I did."

"I know. It's totally valid."

"So," he began slowly, after a pause, "is that really how you feel?"

I sat back and composed myself. "I think so."

One of Mikey's strongest assets, which I had gradually come to know, was his uncanny ability to shift the mood toward something lighter. He reached out, placed his thumb at the corner of my eye and wiped away the wet glaze from my skin. "You need good food," he said, and announced that he was taking me out. We were on our way out the door just a short time later. I slipped one shoe on and reached for the second, but he snatched it up and held it to his chest.

"Come and get it," he said.

I swore at him and wrestled him to the floor.

"No," he shouted, reaching up and anchoring himself to the handle of the front door, wrenching it open. We spilled out onto the murky emerald carpet of the fourth-floor hallway, our laugher bounding down its entire length.

Sunday evening came circling around once again, after what amounted to a weekend of simple activities, joy and detachment. As I texted my mom to confirm, Mikey pondered aspects of the evening which were unknown to him.

"Will anyone be dressed up?"

I laughed. "No. That's a good one."

"Isn't this your last dinner before the move? If it's a family thing then I—"

"They don't care. I promise. Come on, you said you would go this week. You'll have fun."

He gave in without any additional reluctance and we left in a hurry, as it was already almost six.

Completely out of character, my mom met us right at the door. "Come in, please," she said, introducing herself before I could open my mouth to speak.

Suddenly I understood why she had asked if Mikey was just a friend, and realized that my response should have been far less ambiguous. I had brought this upon myself.