Mimeomia

11 | murphy's law

CHAPTER ELEVEN

MURPHY'S LAW

( — the facetious proposition that if something can go wrong, it will. )

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          MICHAELA RETURNS TO HER APARTMENT ON FRIDAY . . . BUT NOT FULLY. She goes back to shower, changes into fresh clothes—as cozy as Lincoln's hoodie might be, she desperately needs clean ones—and makes herself look a bit more presentable, even if she doesn't really have anywhere important to go. For some reason, she decided to tell Lincoln she'd come back to his apartment, as the streets aren't as flooded as they were yesterday, and it's slightly safer to drive.

        Though Michaela feels refreshed by knowing she can finally walk without her legs nearly giving up, it's still a bit awkward knowing Lincoln is waiting for her—perhaps in more ways than just the obvious one. She tries to take as long as possible, despite hating leaving people hanging and waiting for her, but she quickly runs out of things to do and backing out on her word is not an option.

          There's a thin gold bracelet wrapped around her right wrist that wasn't there two days ago. Lincoln has always had an eye for presents, but she definitely wasn't expecting him to get her anything this year, much like what happened the previous year and the one before that.

          She couldn't say no to a gift. It feels like too much, especially after the way she treated him, but he insisted she'd take it, even helping her put it on, with the tiny gold heart holding the strings together shimmering under the kitchen lights.

          "Keep it," he said, still holding her hand with both of his, and purposely avoided her eyes, choosing to stare down at the heart instead. "It's yours."

          "No," she replied, knowing damn well he wasn't talking about the bracelet—not entirely, at least, but he had always been a man of metaphors. He writes and lives them. "No, Lincoln."

          He sighed, in his old, discreet way of being condescending, which is something that has never failed to make her blood boil. "It's just a bracelet."

          "We both know it's not just a bracelet." He finally looked up and Michaela couldn't quite decipher what clouded his eyes when they met hers. She just knew she didn't like it. "I don't know what we're doing, but this can't go on. Not until we find a way of fixing it."

          "What do you want me to do, then?" He stood up to pace around the kitchen and she felt minuscule, like a child receiving a lecture, but that wasn't something she could answer—it wasn't as simple as he tried to make it out to be, it wasn't as simple as sitting down and having an honest conversation about all the ways they screwed up. "Just tell me what to do, Michaela."

          Michaela dropped her shaky hands, letting them fall limp over her lap. "It's been two years. Do you really think it's healthy for us to keep clinging to each other instead of . . . of trying to move on with our lives?" Truth be told, she had asked herself that question several times and so has her therapist; after hours and hours of musing, Michaela concluded she's still in it because she wants to and not because she's forcing herself to be. "I know where I stand, but I have no idea of how you feel or what you're thinking, and maybe it's best if we . . . stay apart. At least until we figure out exactly what we want from this."

          Lincoln, interlacing his fingers on the nape of his neck, finally turned around to face her, and she wondered how they had reached this point. If it had happened two years ago, maybe she would have understood, but now, after having spent so much time without one another, things should have changed.