Mimeomia

04 | digress

CHAPTER FOUR

DIGRESS

( — lose clarity or turn aside especially from the main subject of attention or course of argument in writing, thinking, or speaking. )

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:⠀ *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆

          LINCOLN TAKES HIS TIME WHILE BREWING TWO CUPS OF COFFEE. Michaela, on the other hand, can't ignore the incessant repetition of the bouncing rhythm of her legs as she taps her feet against the carpet while waiting for him to speak. She's also trying not to think about the time she threw up on the previous carpet in front of a bunch of guests, which was what sparked the first pregnancy rumors.

          It's never a good sign, she thinks, when he has to take a break before telling her something. There was a time they trusted each other blindly, respecting each other's privacy but still knowing they could count on each other, but Michaela feels like she doesn't know him anymore. Maybe there's nothing serious going on and he just needs some time for himself because her presence was certainly unexpected; hell, if the roles were reversed, she thinks she'd have to lock herself up in her room for, at least, fifteen minutes to get used to it.

          She doesn't dare touch anything. The paintings hung on the walls, the plants, and the glass objects scattered around the room are the same as when she left, but Michaela doubts it was purely out of respect for her. Lincoln doesn't have an eye for decorating and let her be in charge of it, flipping through IKEA catalogs and dragging him there, knowing it'd be no use to ask him for his opinion, but she liked their time alone.

          He kept the apartment exactly how it used to be because he couldn't be bothered with redecorating it. She had enough money to spare to find a new apartment and decorate it, so she didn't feel the need to come back and take everything she had bought, and, let's be honest, as petty as she might have been in high school, she wouldn't strip his apartment bare.

          When he returns, carrying the two mugs, Michaela isn't entirely convinced everything is okay. Maybe it's the way his hands shake—as if she had never warned him about the dangers of ingesting too much caffeine—or the too frequent glances towards his office—she had also warned him about staying locked up for too long and forgetting about the passing of time; once, he spent almost twenty-four hours locked in there, writing, and skipped an important meeting thanks to that—but she's not an idiot. A six-year-long relationship comes with its perks, with one of them being the ability to read each other, but Michaela doesn't know if she can trust her ability after two years of separation.

          "I'm sorry about this," he begins, handing her a red mug, the same color as her lipstick, and sitting down next to her once more. "Interviews still make me nervous."

          "And here I was, thinking I was the one making you nervous."

          The words roll out of her tongue before she can stop herself and he blinks, straightening his back, so she forces herself to sip the scorching hot drink to mask her embarrassment. She has to remind herself they're not together anymore and he, most likely, has moved on—though he's not a professional musician, an actor or a model, celebrities always find a way of meeting each other—so these snarky remarks shouldn't be encouraged.

          So, when his lips twist into a tiny smile, she sighs with relief, finding his sense of humor is still there and maybe he doesn't resent her as much as she thought he did. His life was a lot more than just his relationship with her, and she hated that she'd let herself forget about it after complaining the press and the fans did the same thing to her.