That's What You Get

Chapter Twenty-Six: The Tipping Point

The kitchen was too quiet.

Pete stood at the sink, hands wet, the sponge limp between his fingers. The faucet dripped, steady, metronomic, and he stared at it like he could make it stop just by willing it.

Behind him, the coffee pot hissed. Mikey hadn't come down yet.

Mikey was sleeping later now. Or at least that's what he wanted Pete to think. He wasn't sure. He told himself it was okay. Mikey needed rest, needed time. But time was starting to feel like distance, and Pete didn't know what to do with the ache it left behind.

He wiped his hands on a towel. Folded it. Smoothed the edges. Re-folded it. He glanced at the fridge. Two sticky notes still clung stubbornly to the surface.

Progress, not perfection.

You are not your past.

He'd written those in his neatest handwriting. Blue ink. Smiley face on one.

There had been five.

Pete didn't ask where the others had gone.

He turned back to the counter and began lining things up. Spoon to the left of the mug. Creamer next. Sugar bowl. Napkin folded just so. The routine helped. Anchored him. It meant something. To do this right, to be good.

Because he was trying. Really trying.

He'd been sober seventy-two days. He kept track on his phone and in his head, a silent tally that echoed in the quiet parts of his mind.

But lately, it was getting harder to hold onto the good days. Harder to shake the feeling that he was walking on glass. Mikey was kind. Distant, but kind. He smiled sometimes, even laughed once when Pete made a dumb joke. But Pete could feel the space between them. Like Mikey had already started leaving, just hadn't told him yet.

That thought lived behind everything now. Quiet. Constant. Heavy.

He heard Mikey's footsteps overhead and straightened. Ran a hand through his hair. Checked his reflection in the microwave door. Smiled like it was easy.

Mikey came into the kitchen, hoodie hanging loose over his shoulders. Barefoot. Tired-eyed. Pete held out the coffee without a word.

"Thanks," Mikey murmured, voice thin.

Pete nodded. Watched him sip. Tried not to stare too long.

They sat at the table in silence. Pete pretended to scroll his phone. Mikey stared into his mug like he was reading something in it.

Pete's thumb hovered over his messages. Dani's name was still there, unsent. Just a blank screen. He wondered if she still hated him. Probably. Couldn't blame her.

The silence stretched.

"You sleep okay?" Pete asked.

Mikey shrugged. "Fine."

Another silence. Another drip from the faucet.

Pete swallowed hard. "I was thinking we could go out tonight. Just a walk. Maybe down by the lake."

Mikey looked at him, not quite suspicious, but it was guarded. Like he was holding something close.

"I don't know. Maybe."

That maybe sliced something open in Pete's chest. He nodded, too fast. "Sure. Of course. No pressure."

He reached out without thinking, just a hand on Mikey's wrist. Just a touch.

Mikey flinched.

It was tiny. A flicker. Barely there.

But Pete felt it like a slap.