by Brandy Ayers
“I swear, I am not interested in anything having to do with who your family is or what they think of you. That isn’t what the article is about, and even if you hadn’t been here when she suggested it, I would have shot down the idea.”
“Funny, I didn’t hear you shoot down the idea. You actually stayed pretty quiet about the whole thing.”
“Yeah, because I was more worried about you than giving that ridiculous idea any credence. Francesca is just a little obsessed with that case and really wants to rake everyone involved over the coals. But I will let her know that it has no place in this piece.” The words don’t seem to be penetrating his thick head of steam he's worked up, and Micah just keeps pulling on his clothes as fast as he can. Trying to get away from me as fast as he can.
Once his shoes are in place, he stands to his full height and comes to tower over me. I’m still naked, having forgotten my own shirt search in favor of trying to convince him to stay and talk.
“And what about the rest of it. I didn’t realize my own sex life was going to be part of the story. It was supposed to be about the classes. About teaching men to think beyond their own dicks. Not about how much experience my dick may or may not have.” The accusation in his voice makes me want to shrivel on the spot. “When I told you that it wasn’t during the interview in the cafe. It was outside, that conversation was personal, not professional. You had no right to include that in your article.”
He’s right. I know he’s right, and I’ll admit to feeling horrible for putting that side comment in my notes this morning after calling in sick. I hadn’t meant for it to be part of the story, I was just waxing poetic about how remarkable it was that the man wasn’t the whore I had originally pegged him to be. But I should have known better than to send anything in my notes that I didn’t want explicitly included in the article.
“And for your information, I may have only slept with three women, but I had more experiences with them than most single people do with all the random hook-ups they find on fucking Tinder or bring home from cheesy ass clubs. You want to talk about all the things I’ve discovered about women and their bodies through the sex I’ve had with my exes?”
Just thinking about him doing anything with a woman besides me makes me nauseous, and I close my eyes against the sick roll of my stomach and the anger in his eyes. “No. I don’t want to hear it. And you’re right. I’m sorry. Please, just let me explain how the whole editorial process goes. I swear none of that is going to make it into the final story.”
“No. I’ve always trusted my gut. But this is the first time I can actually say it steered me wrong. Coming home with you last night, trusting that you weren’t really that bitch that showed up the first day was a mistake. This was a mistake.”
The harsh words hit their intended mark, sucking the breath right out of my lungs. For a moment, it looks as if Micah regrets them, wants to take them back. But instead, he strides toward the door and slams it shut, shaking the pictures hung along the wall. I go to run after him, because I’m not done fighting yet. Not when a man as large and as mine as Micah is at stake. But then I remember my complete nakedness, and I skid to a stop right before the door.
Frustration billows inside me, whooshing out in a yell and a fist to the door. Which immediately stings and brings tears to my eyes. For the second time in twenty-four hours, I’m crying over the same man. I’ve never cried over a man before. Never cared enough about one. But I do for Micah. And yeah, I’ve fucked up a lot since we met. But it turns out The O Doctor isn’t all perfect either. He can be a presumptuous ass who jumps to conclusions and doesn’t listen to reason.
But I’m a stubborn bitch who doesn’t let go of what I want. So, it is on.
***
“Marci.” Francesca sounds pissed. Even still, I keep typing like the possessed person I’ve turned into since Friday happened.
Pausing to read over what I just wrote, I rub at the ache building in my chest. It hasn’t gone away since Micah stormed out of my apartment four days ago. It only gets worse.
“Get in my office. Now.” Apparently, my boss doesn’t like being ignored. Something I never knew before since I’ve never dared ignore her before this moment. Not waiting for me to respond, she spins on her razor-sharp stilettos, her steps echoing through the totally silent bullpen.
With a resigned sigh, I save my work and follow my boss into her office. The blinds are drawn across her glass fishbowl of a space. Not a good sign.
“Explain to me why a lawyer for Micah Othon called to rescind his permission to write a story on his class?” Francesca stands behind her desk, arms crossed, foot tapping.
Words stick in my throat, and I flop down into one of the ridiculously expensive and uncomfortable chairs across from her. “Because I’m an idiot and fell in love with the man I was supposed to be profiling. Then he overheard our conversation on Friday, got pissed about me bringing his personal sexual history into the story, and about you requesting a quote from his father. He stormed off and refuses to talk to me, and now I think I’ve screwed up the best thing that has ever happened to me. But I’m writing an article that will fix things.”
My chest heaves up and down after the complete word vomit finally stops. Francesca gapes at me, which almost makes me laugh, because I’ve never seen this woman anything other than completely and totally composed.
“Well.” Is Francesca lost for words right now? Holy shit. “I admit, wanting to drag his family relationship into this was a mistake.” She circles her chair, sitting down and crossing her legs in one smooth motion. “I looked into the connection more, and it appears they don’t have a relationship, and that he was the result of Carmichael’s philandering ways. That bottom feeding scum bag has nothing to with this story. As for the information you gave us, I happen to think his sexual history does factor in. But I can understand how he would be upset.”
“Yeah, especially since that particular tidbit of information didn’t come during the interview, but after when he was explaining to me why he couldn’t get involved with me. At every turn, I’ve completely fucked up with this guy. And he gave me chance after chance. But I’m honestly not sure I can fix this.” My eyes burn as tears rush to spill out. I spent a better part of the weekend in my apartment crying my eyes out. I thought the tears had dried up. Apparently not.
“What is this article you have planned that you say will fix everything?”
“It’s my Hail Mary pass.”
Francesca rolls her eyes. "Ugh, don't use sports references in my office. Get out and finish the article. I want to see if before it goes anywhere."
Determination hardening inside me, I stand and trot back to my desk, wanting to get back into the flow of writing. But even as I write, I know that it might be the most beautiful article every written, and it could still not change a damn thing.
Chapter Twelve
Micah
“You mop that two-foot section of floor anymore, and this place might start being respectable.” Pete stalks past me, grabbing the mop from my hand without even pausing. “Stop it. Go apologize to the woman.”
“What do you mean go apologize? I didn’t do anything wrong.”
Despite his back facing me, I know Uncle Pete is rolling his eyes. “Micah, you are a brilliant, kind-hearted man.” He whipped the towel off his shoulder, slapping it onto the bar. “But sometimes, when it comes to people who care about you, you have a blind-spot.”
I scoffed, not trying to hide my own eye roll. The family joked about Pete being my inspiration for going into psychology all the time. He truly is the cliched bartender, doling out advice along with pints of beer.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about old man. Did you take your ginkgo biloba today?” Moving to the chairs, I take them down from their stack positions and reposition them on the floor. Sure, usually we leave them up all night to let the floor dry, but I need to do something with my hands.
The past week, I’ve been pushing my workouts h
arder, the muscles in my torso and arms becoming more defined than they have been in years. I also took up running. I fucking hate running, but the pain and misery of pushing through mile after mile kept my mind occupied. Off the woman haunting my every thought.
“Yeah, yeah. Old man has a shit memory, hardy har. I might be old, but I held the love of my life in my arms every single night for thirty years before that fucker named cancer took her from me.” As was his tradition, Pete spun around and kissed his fingers, laying them on the framed photo of Aunt Beth. I swore sometimes I caught him talking to that photo when he thought I wasn’t around.
“My angel looked past a lot, put up with a lot, to love me. My prison record, the gambling, the shit jobs I took at dive bars until you bought this place for me. My inability to give her a baby of her own.” Pete choked up, turning away so I wouldn’t see the tears threatening at the edge of his eyelids. “Through all that, she stuck by my side. And make no mistake, I stuck by her despite some big things too. Her family hated me. Ridiculed me every time we went to a dinner or party. But I still went, because they were her family and she loved them. Beth almost cheated on me once. Never got physical, but when I had my relapse, she got close to a man in her support group. Closer than a married woman and single man should be. But I got better. We forgave each other. Problems in a relationship are rarely one sided. And I can sure as shit tell you that you had a hand in whatever happened between you and Marci.”
The whole speech is more than I’ve heard Pete say in months. Not since Aunt Beth’s funeral. The reveals leave me stunned for a moment. I’ve always thought of Pete and Beth as the perfect couple. Even though as a couple’s counselor I should know better. There is no such thing. Hell, I know that problems are never as simple as the parties make them out to be too. But it’s a whole lot different when you’re the one going through it.
“We weren’t even in a relationship. Never went on a real date. We had one day together. Twenty-four hours.” Even as I said the words, I knew they didn’t ring true. Trivializing what Marci and I shared left a film on my skin, made me itchy and irritable.
“Bullshit.” Pete slammed his fist down on the bar. “I fell in love with Beth in one-minute flat. Swore my life to her after our first kiss. Time means nothing when it comes to love.”
“She was going to write about my father. My sex life. That first day, the woman that came in here with a higher-than-thou attitude and a bunch or pre-conceived notions about what I do. That was the real her. Not the relaxed fun woman she appeared to be after.” Sickness surged through my body, I had to sit down. Even saying that much about the woman I couldn’t stop picturing made my body rebel.
“Doesn’t feel so good to tell yourself lies does it? And writing about your dad? That doesn’t seem like something Marci would do, and I only talked to her for a few minutes. I read some of her writing after you told me about this little project. Seems she’s a fair and balanced journalist. As for your sex life, you teach about sex, Micah. Stop being such a fucking prude about your own pleasures.”
Another Pete speech got interrupted when the door swung open and a scruffy bike messenger clomped in.
“Closed. Get out.” Pete apparently didn’t like having his teaching moment cut short.
“Sorry, man. I got a delivery for Micah. You him.”
Pete pointed across the bar to me. “Nope, Micah is that dip-shit over there.”
Ignoring my uncle, I trained my eyes on the manila envelope tucked under the guy’s arm.
“Normally I don’t do deliveries this late. But the lady said she’d pay triple, and it wasn’t far, so what the hell, right?”
“Right.” Blindly, I signed for the package and took it from his hand. “Thanks.”
Everything around me fades; the smell of bleach and stale beer, Pete’s tirade picked up right where he left off, the door slamming shut after the messenger. It all just goes away. Nothing is written on the front of the envelope, but it doesn’t matter. I know who it's from. Simply holding it between my fingers has my heart racing and my dick growing heavy in my pants. No way I am opening this in front of Pete.
“See you tomorrow, Pete.”
He shouts after me, but I ignore him, shouting I love him over my shoulder on my way out the door. Never have the handful of blocks separating my apartment from the bar seemed longer. I grip the envelope tight with two hands, making sure it doesn’t fall to the ground or even get bent at the corners.
The building I live in isn’t anything fancy. A simple concrete structure with too many people shoved into too many floors, just like everyone else in New York City. I make a good living off my practice and the classes, but I’m also very aware how circumstances can change on a dime, and I never want to be in a spot where I can’t afford rent or to take care of the few family members who stuck by me all those years ago.
Thankfully, the elevator is already in the lobby, and I take it to my place on the third floor. Slamming into my apartment, I fall back against the closed door and slide to the ground. At first, all I can do is stare at the unassuming envelope. Do I really want to know what is in there?
Yeah. I really do.
Ripping open the seal, my heart thunders inside my chest, blood pumping so fast I'm afraid I might pass out. Good thing I’m on the floor already. I pull out a thin stack of papers, making sure to keep them in order. On top is a hand-written note on stationary with my fucking to-do list printed across the top. A smile stretches over my face, and I cover it with my hand, wanting to hide the pure happiness that seeing something that sits on Marci’s desk every day brings. Even if I'm only hiding from myself.
Micah,
This isn’t the article I originally set out to write. That would have been a smear piece on a douchebag trying to teach other men how to pick up women. It took me all of five minutes that first day to realize everything I thought about this assignment was way off base. But I’ve never been happier to be wrong about something. And I hate being wrong.
No, this article is something else entirely. It is honest. It is me. I’m not perfect, not by a long shot. I’m sometimes weak, wanting to please the people around me, even if it is at my own expense. But I can also be stubborn, sticking to a belief despite having evidence right in front of me. But also sticking up for what I believe in. For instance, I would have fought tooth and nail to make sure not a word of who your father is would appear in this article. It has no relevance. My boss agreed.
I’m learning new things about myself every day since I cut ties with Lacy. Since I met you. Or rather, I’m admitting things that I have always hidden about myself. I love being lazy and sitting on my couch watching movies. I used to lie to my friends and tell them I was sick just so I wouldn’t have to go to another damn art opening.
I like debating the merits of pancakes versus waffles while half naked with the man of my dreams. Oh, and I fucking love carbs. Apparently, I love the face you make as you pump your cum onto my skin. I love the ache that fills my body for days after a night with you, the soreness between my thighs, and the tenderness everywhere your beard rubbed.
The ache has faded now Micah. I want the ache back. I want you back.
Quite possibly love,
Marci
Fuck.
The letter makes me simultaneously hard and breathless. I want to go to her right away. To sweep her in my arms and apologize, and to forgive. Because Pete was right. I’m not totally innocent in this.
Flipping to the article, I read it word for word. It is insightful. Funny. Honest. She talks about my sex life, but only as it applies to the class, and how it wasn’t anything she expected. There are interviews with some of the students, whom she must have somehow tracked down this week since she didn’t show at either session. I’ll admit that my heart had sank both times when I realized she was staying away.
What surprises me most about the article is she talks about her feelings for me. About her initial attraction to me, even when she still thought I was a play
er teaching other men how to be players. She talks about being determined to win a second chance, and her outfit that second night specifically picked to lure me. She even talks about taking me home that night. But not any of the details, leaving it at a simple “I, for one, can vouch that this man knows what he is doing, both in and out of class.”
She doesn’t mention the argument, or me walking out. There are spots throughout the article where blank spaces are left with the words, “Art to come.” Those would be photos of me at a photoshoot we had planned on doing for the article. It was the one thing I didn’t want to do that the editor insisted on. And I gave in.
Below the last paragraph is another hand-written note from Marci.
I know this might not fix everything. That you might have doubts still. But, if you can forgive me, please come to the photoshoot as planned. Maybe we can grab lunch after. Maybe finish the twenty questions game.
If I forgive her? Fuck. Between Pete’s speech and this package, I’ve come to realize she doesn’t need to be forgiven. Or maybe we both do. We both have baggage. She’s still figuring herself out. I have trust issues that are a little deeper rooted than I thought. We’ll figure out how to lighten the load for each other, with each other.
But I can’t wait for the photoshoot. It's three days away. Fuck that. I need Marci in my arms tonight.
Jumping to my feet, I let the papers fall to the floor and rush out the door. The elevator is all the way up on the tenth floor, so I skip it and bound down the stairs two at a time. But come to a screeching halt in the lobby. Because right outside, pacing back and forth before the glass doors, is Marci. Her fingers weaved together, wringing themselves over and over. Her face pale and anxious. Her head bent looking at the sidewalk as she mumbles something to herself.
Everything falls into place. The knowledge that what we share won't be like anything else either of has have ever experienced. The absolute need to comfort her. To make her happy beyond measure. And yeah, the unleashed lust roaring through my system like a starving animal.