The next day drags. It is difficult to focus on notes and lectures and presentations when boys with tight jeans and purple hair sprint through your mind like a marathon runner.
The thought of walking away from Michael now causes me physical pain, but I don't see any other options. It scared me how much I felt it when he left yesterday, without reason or explanation. I knew I was already in over my head, so I spent most of the night trying to decide what to about it. There are not a lot of options, and the most plausible one is to stop it before it really even begins.
That thought hurts, too. Everything hurts, and it's Michael's fault. Why must he be so mysterious, so enchanting? They tell you when you're young to avoid boys like that. And for a good reason.
The drive home from school seems to take twice as long as usual, but I know it's just a side effect of my mind going into overdrive. Tonight I have to work at the bar for the first time in a week, and I am dreading it. Everything is exhausted, my body and my mind, and if it continues this way I won't be able to keep the waitressing job. I already feel like I've spread myself too thin.
As I flop down rather unceremoniously on my couch, I can hear Michael moving around upstairs. It bothers me, the fact that he is this close. But he is so, so far, isn't he? That's the root of the problem.
I am up to my eyeballs in algebra homework when there is a knock at the door. My heart rate skyrockets. What do I do? What do I say to him? I can't do this. I shift my books off my lap and walk to the door, pulling it out of the way.
Michael looks apprehensive, and I know that my face holds the same expression.
"Hi," he says.
"Hey." My voice sounds too nonchalant, too forced. He can tell.
"Can I come in?" He asks.
"Maybe not," I choke out.
"Why?" His eyes are wide.
"Michael, I- I'm starting to think that maybe this isn't the best idea."
"Kate... what? Why?" He looks so afraid.
"I don't want..." How do I tell him that I don't want to become too invested, that I'm afraid he will leave the very moment that I do? "I don't think it will end well between you and I."
I can physically see the guard going back up in his eyes. "So you're scared," he says flatly.
"I'm not scared, I just-"
"Bullshit, Kate, you're afraid of feeling."
"No, Michael, I'm not! I'm afraid that you're going to keep leaving!" The words are out but I wish I could pull them back in. They make me seem weak.
Surprise flashes in Michael's eyes and it pisses me off. Did he think I didn't notice that he keeps running out at inconvenient times? We stand in the hallway, staring each other down for a moment before Michael sighs, running a hand through his hair.
"Didn't have you pegged for a coward, Kate," he says shortly before turning on his heel and walking away so quickly that my head spins.
I want to yell after him, shout out, tell him not to talk to me that way, but if I'm letting him go, then I have to let him go. I slam the door for good measure and the sink down against it, trying not to feel the cracks in my heart. This is for the best.
...
"Kate!" Someone shouts from the kitchen. "Table three needs you NOW!" I huff in frustration and down the last of my glass of water. It is extra packed tonight, for a Wednesday, and I don't have time for a real break. I'm already covering someone else's shift in addition to my own, a total of eight tables when on a normal night I can barely balance four. I push through the double doors back into the restaurant, mumbling about how illegal this all is.
The four men at table three all order beers, but they don't seem to be like some of the... interesting clientele I get here sometimes. I breathe a sigh of relief. Harassment was not on my schedule for today. As I walk to the bar to get their drinks, something catches my eye and I stop in my tracks for a moment.
Purple hair, plaid shirt, black boots.
Michael is here.
Michael is at the bar, his back to me, a few drinks lined up in front of him.
What do I do?
"Kate!" Ross, my manager, yells from behind the bar, gesturing frantically. I know that he is telling me to move, I don't have time to be standing around staring at anyone, no matter who they are.
Michael's head jerks up at the sound of my name and he turns around, appearing genuinely surprised to see me across the restaurant. I am about to force my brain to acknowledge him in some way, but he turns away from me bitterly, raising a glass to his lips.
I shake my head to clear it before realizing that I have to walk that way anyway. I breathe in deeply, my heart feeling unsteady in my chest. But I find it easy to ignore Michael as I walk behind the bar and begin pouring drinks, though I can feel his eyes on me.
It is eight thirty p.m. when I check my watch, and I let out a groan. We close at ten, which seems unbearably far away. But the time does pass. Between drink orders and refills, the time gets away from me. But Michael does not.
He stays at the bar, never once making eye contact with me. I can't tell if or what he is drinking, but soon enough the room is nearly empty. But Michael is still here.
"Kate," my manager says when I bring the dishes from my last table into the kitchen. "Kindly let our last guest know that we are closing." He rolls his eyes dramatically and I fake a laugh; he doesn't know the battle that he's just sent me into.
I take a deep breath before walking back into the restaurant and letting myself behind the bar. Michael is tilting his last glass to his mouth, emptying it in one gulp. He slams it down on the bar and I boldly stand directly across from him and begin rinsing out the glass with a rag.
"Gonna make me another one, Katherine?" He says slowly, a smile spreading across his face.
"No, Michael. We're closing."
"Ah," he nods his head. I look down at him and it becomes clear that he is drunk. Not wasted, but heavily intoxicated. His eyes are cloudy and I can tell by the way it is bobbling that his head feels heavy.
"You have to leave, Michael," I say gently.
"I don't need that," he snaps. I recoil a little at the harsh words. "I came here to get drunk, Kate. Not so that you could push me away again." He shoves away from the bar, stumbling a little as he stands. I want to tell him that I wouldn't have to push him away if he would stop running away.
"Then stay here," I sigh. "I'll walk you home. You're drunk."
"I don't need your judgment, Katherine." Michael's voice is colored with hatred and I almost flinch away from him, though the bar is separating us. "And I don't need your help. I can get home." He isn't stumbling when he walks away, and the apartment building is only a block away. I sigh, but I feel safe enough to let him find his own way home. I have to let him go. Let him go.
It doesn't take me long to wipe down the bar. Ross and I, along with one other waiter are out the door by eleven thirty, and I walk home alone. It's dark but the streetlamps are lit, illuminating the night. It is after dark in the middle of the week and still people linger on the streets, but if anything it makes me feel safer.
I keep my eyes peeled for Michael just in case, but he is nowhere to be seen and I can only hope that he made it home. My nerves over his whereabouts are slightly settled when I get to my apartment and the door is slightly ajar.
I know the irritation should surpass the relief, but I don't want to admit exactly how worried I was. I push the door open and walk into the kitchen, flicking on the light and expecting to see Michael in his chair.
But the kitchen is as empty as it's ever been.
I am about to turn around check the living room when two unfamiliar arms grab me from behind. A hand covers my mouth as I try to scream into it and a low voice speaks into my ear.
"Where is he?" It growls.
And right now, more than ever, I wish I knew.
