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He reaches for my hand, and as his strong fingers close around mine I have a feeling I’m in a world of trouble, yet I can’t help but smile back.
***
“Will you be all right on your own?” Micah asks me for the hundredth time. “I could stay.”
“I know.” It’s past midnight, and Seth had to puke once, but has been otherwise quiet, dozing on and off. I glance into his bedroom. “He’s asleep. I think he’s less nauseous now. He’ll be fine.”
“Sorry to take off like this, but I’ve got to get up real early tomorrow for this appointment.”
Something to do with the tattoo shop, apparently.
“It’s really fine, Micah.” I give him a nudge toward the door. “I’ve put the bucket by the bed, just in case, and I’ll read until morning. I’ll call if I need help. I promise.”
“Okay.” He stops at the door and salutes me. “I appreciate it. Zane’s way over his head right now with the expansion of the shop, Rafe, too, and they’ve probably forgotten we need to do this.”
I nod and push him all the way out, locking the door after him and leaning on it to catch my breath.
Don’t get me wrong, having Micah around was nice. He helped Seth to the toilet when the nausea got too much, half-carried him back to bed and undressed him and tucked him under the covers while I went to make him some tea and find some crackers.
While I tidied up the living room and the kitchen, Micah got Seth to take more Dramamine and painkillers, talked to him, and generally made sure he was okay.
I don’t even know why I want to be left alone with Seth. I mean, he’s asleep. All I can do is sit by his side and watch him sleep.
So that’s what I do, sinking quietly into the chair Micah placed beside the bed, taking in his room, his things.
Him.
The room is small and messy, the carpet stained. There’s a Batman mug and stacks of old paperbacks by the bed. Crime novels, sci-fi and… romance? What the heck? A pile of dirty clothes looms in one corner, two ten-pound hand weights and a towel sit in the other, and I itch to tidy up.
Not your room. Leave it be.
An old closet covered in stickers and scraps of posters, photos and drawings pinned to a cork board. A metal box set on the floor, a dying plant on the window sill.
And my gaze keeps returning to him.
He really isn’t my type. His forearms, lying over the covers, are so big the veins bulge over the thick muscles. The dark lines of his tattoos curl on the side of his neck. His skin is smooth and tanned, the stubble on his cheeks fine, darkening the line of his jaw, his chin, his upper lip. Those long lashes…
Jeez, Manon.
I get up and go to stretch my legs in the living room. When you get a concussion you may feel confused, unsteady. That’s what a brief Googling of the term on my cell phone told me before I arrived here.
Then why am I the one confused? Why do I feel like I’m drifting away from the shore?
It’s nothing. Just the late hour. The crazy yesterday. The stress of changing directions in my life and not knowing which way I’m going.
Wiping my sweaty palms on my thighs, I enter the tiny kitchen and pour myself a glass of water from the tap. The light from the living room cuts a square on the floor. Outside the small kitchen window, the city flickers.
Soon Seth will be better, and I’ll have no excuse putting off deciding what to do with myself. What I really want to do. Which way to turn, who to talk to.
Let it sink in.
Ballet dancing for me is over. What else could fill my life and give it meaning like dancing did? Is there something that could?
Without warning, tears fill my eyes. I put down the glass and press the heels of my palms into them to stop from crying. This is ridiculous. It’s not the end of the world, not like it was when I was seven and Mom left. When I thought I might die from sadness and heartbreak.
No, this is just a setback. I’m fine. I mean, just look how Seth deals with everything happening to him. That’s serious stuff, not a change in career. A career I didn’t even begin. A change in studies direction, that’s all.
I’ll survive. I’ll be fine.
