Page 88 of Robbin’ the Rich

I reached under the table and laced her fingers through Micah's. He smiled. Without looking away from whatever ridiculous argument Mel and Zella were having, he squeezed my hand.

The drive back to my apartment was quiet. We’d had such a nice night and there was no need to fill every second with conversation. Micah rested one hand on my thigh while some old rock song played softly through the speakers. Every now and then he would slide his hand up and squeeze my knee, and it was nice. God, I hate that word, but it was. It was all so lovely.

By the time we reached my apartment building, I did not want my time with him to end.

"Want to come up?" I asked.

Micah smiled. "I was hoping you'd ask."

A few minutes later we were curled together on her couch, my body tucked against his side with my legs draped over his lap. The television was on, though neither of them were paying attention to it. At some point I'd started tracing patterns across the back of his hand while he absentmindedly played with the ends of her hair.

I was sinking into a sentimental feeling that was completely foreign. Maybe it was the upcoming holidays, but it was probably because I was in love with Micah. It had happened slowly, somewhere between kicking his ass in video games and his kissing me under a sea of shooting stars. I had fallen hopelessly and irritatingly in love.

Micah seemed to sense the shift in my mood.

"You okay?"

I stared at their joined hands for a moment before answering. "Yeah."

Eventually I sighed. "I'm just not really looking forward to tomorrow."

"What does your family do for Thanksgiving?" he asked.

"The family dinner. Only this year my mom has decided she’s not cooking, and we are going out to eat. It’s weird."

Micah continued to run his hands through my hair. "Same. Although it’s not weird. We always go out to eat. My mom isn’t exactly the domestic type. If we had it at the house it would be catered, like every other family meal. But at least since we are going to a restaurant, I should be able to leave after with minimal guilt"

That earned a laugh from her. "That bad, huh?"

"My mother has already called three times to confirm I'm coming," he said with a shake of his head.

"Three?"

"Yup."

"That's excessive."

"I’ve been blowing off family stuff lately and she is just reminding me that is not going to happen tomorrow."

There was something behind his eyes I wasn’t sure about, but I didn’t push. I was dreading whatever my mother had up her sleeve as well.

"At least we're suffering together."

"We are."

For a few minutes we sat there. The television continued talking to itself while the November wind rattled faintly against the windows.

"You know," she said slowly, "the Reapers really liked you."

Micah laughed. "That’s good, I like them too."

"No. I mean really liked you."

He bent his head and kissed my hand. "That's good." His thumb brushed across her knuckles. "I liked hanging out with them."

"No, I mean..." I shook my head, frustrated by my own inability to articulate what I meant. "Thank you for… I don’t know… It just means a lot that you are interested in my life."

Why was it so hard to say I have feelings for you? I wanted to tell him, but I couldn’t seem to make the words come out. Is being vocally constipated a thing?