I snorted. As if anyone would get Adam to look away from Eden.
And then I remembered what Eden had said about the way Micah looked at me. And how he’d never brought a girl home. And how he’d never said he loved any of those girls.
My phone rang again. I reached into my pocketbook, hoping despite my misgivings that it would be Micah. But when I saw the incoming call was from my dad, I hit Ignore and threw the phone onto the coffee table. I couldn’t deal with a lecture from him on top of everything else. I couldn’t think of anything he could do but make me feel worse.
It pissed me off that just by calling, he’d already said everything to me. I knew he’d tell me to think of the shame I was bringing to him and to my family. He’d tell me to change my behavior and stop being seen with someone who disgraced me. And a small part of me wanted to pick up the phone and call him to tell him it was over with Micah so I could hear him say, “Nalla. Good,” as if I’d done something right for a change. And then maybe he’d be proud and accept me again.
But I was thirty-three, and he’d stopped pretending to be my dad half my life ago. He couldn’t tell me how to live my life or who I could love. I wasn’t about to make the same mistake as him.
Then I thought, maybe I knew what he’d say to me, but he needed to hear what I had to say to him. I grabbed my phone and hit the call button. As I listened to the weird ringing, I realized it must have been past ten p.m. his time. How was he even hearing this story already?
The phone clicked through. “Anushka, baby doll.” I hadn’t heard his voice in a couple of months, and it always took me by surprise. Even when he was angry with me, he always moderated his tone, sounding warm and comforting. The main problem with my dad wasn’t how he treated me. But it was easier to pretend he was a horrible person than to admit that I still hadn’t forgiven him for never being there.
“You called?”
“Yes. I am calling you to talk about what is happening with this boy.” His English had been nearly flawless, though accented, after his years living with my mom. He’d reverted to the heavier Indian accent, but it was evident he hadn’t spent much time thinking in English lately. His singsong intonation sounded more like his family than him. He’d fully assimilated into his home culture. What would he do with a daughter like me?
“There’s nothing to discuss. It’s a tabloid article. I’ve done nothing wrong.”
He said something in rapid Malayalam, and a woman’s voice nattered in the background. “Anika, people, they know you are a Namputiri. They read this article, and they will see it as a reflection on my family. I will hear about this tomorrow.”
I regretted calling. “Dad, you don’t get to have this both ways. You don’t get to make me a part of your family only when I’m bringing shame down on you. If you wanted me in your family, you had that choice years ago. And you left.”
Zion walked behind me and rubbed my shoulders. I was grateful for his presence in my life. Even though he was my age, he’d been more of a father to me than this man on the other end of the phone. He’d looked out for me, celebrating my victories and commiserating during my failures. He’d advised me and fed me and housed me and literally saved my life.
My dad started to speak again, but I didn’t need to hear anything he said. Even if he said he was wrong, that he’d made a mistake years ago or only today, I didn’t care. I didn’t need his recognition anymore. In a weird way, more than anything Zion had said, it was my dad’s disapproval that led me to conclude that I needed to give Micah a chance to fight his corner. I always did like to play devil’s advocate.
“Dad, I have to go. There’s someone I need to talk to.” I hung up and stood. “Zion, I’m going for a walk.”
I walked to the subway and took the G train south to Park Slope. I didn’t know if Micah would still be home, but I wanted to talk to him face-to-face. There was too much potential for misunderstanding.
When I turned up his street, I immediately spied a cameraman sitting on the lowest step in front of his door. Another reporter leaned against a tree across the street. I wheeled around before they saw me.
I doubled back to the coffee shop on the corner and ordered hot tea. At a table near the far wall, I stared at my phone, trying to decide who to contact first. Micah or Eden. Neither one had tried to reach me. The article had only been out a few hours. Maybe they hadn’t seen it. Or maybe they were trying to figure out what they were going to do about it.
The only thing in my notifications, besides a dozen calls from unknown numbers, had been a mention on Facebook. I opened that up to find that Marisa Bennet, Mom’s bitch of a neighbor, had dropped the article about Micah on my mom’s wall. Nice to see Josie Wilder is making the most of her time in NY.
I grimaced at her tackiness. Yeah, so my mom had proudly posted every single thing that my name ever appeared on for all the world to see, with the very blatant exception of this latest article. Marisa wasted no time attempting to slut shame my mom through me. But my mom had spent the better part of her life dealing with bitches like Marisa, and her response was possibly the greatest thing to happen since the whole debacle began. Come on, Marisa. You know you’d hit that if the opportunity presented itself.
If I’d had any temptation to defend myself, that mic drop allowed me my first solid laugh of the day. I was still chortling when the phone rang again. I didn’t recognize the number, but had a crazy, fleeting worry that Micah might be trying to reach me. I hit Answer, and the man’s mosquito voice droned on immediately about the money they’d pay me for an in-depth interview. All I had to do was sell them a slice of my life.
I hung up, and blew on my tea, wondering if I should wait out the reporters on Micah’s stoop or push through and knock on his door. Before I could make up my mind, Zion texted me a link to a competitor’s site with a video of Micah posted in a sea of targeted ads. This Williamsburg woman controlled her glucose with one weird trick.
The headline read “Fame-Whore Micah Sinclair Confirms He’s Dating Tabloid Photographer Jo Wilder.” My fingers shook as I fished my earbuds out of the side of my pocketbook and hit Play on the video.
Micah opened his front door, dressed in a pair of faded skinny jeans and a white T-shirt with a red Japanese sun on the front.
At least he hadn’t stepped out in his pajamas.
He approached the cameraman closest to him, offering his hand. My mouth dropped open at the unfolding shark attack, and I thought, Run, Micah, run! but he couldn’t hear me.
He tapped the cameraman on the shoulder when his handshake went ignored. “Hey. Sam, right? What’s going on?”
The cameraman shooting the video moved in closer and called out the question they’d been sent to ask. “Do you have any comments on the article posted in the Daily Feed today?”
A shadow of confusion passed across Micah’s face, but he controlled his features quickly. “I’m sorry. I’m not aware of any article. What do you wanna know?”
“Is it true you’re currently dating Jo Wilder?”
Micah’s smile broadened. “Is that what brings you here? Is that the news of the day?”
“She’s quoted saying you two are dating.”
Micah turned up the sidewalk and started walking. “If she’s saying that, it must be true, right?”
The first cameraman started walking backward shooting pictures or video. He asked, “Do you want to comment on it?”
If they’d rattled Micah, he didn’t show it. With his usual charm, he calmly told them, “If you don’t mind, I’d like to talk to her about all this before I comment.”
They tag-teamed the questions as they pursued him, pressing for the real scandal and hoping to get a reaction. “What about the other women in the article?”
He didn’t stop walking. If it had been me, I would have stopped. He just said, “As I said, I haven’t read the article you’re referring to.”
But then the reporter recording the video asked, “Are you sleeping with a tabloid journalist
to get more media coverage?” and Micah shot him a dirty look.
The other reporter alley-ooped with “Are you sure she didn’t sleep with you to get that insider photo?”
Micah picked up his pace and turned his back on them both, but the camera followed him to the end of the street until he opened a door and went into a coffee shop.
This coffee shop.
Chapter 24
Two cameramen hung around on the sidewalk outside the huge front window, pacing back and forth like prowling wolves. From where I sat, the entire barista island obscured my view of the door, so Micah could have come in while I was messing with my phone. A terrifying, wonderful thought crossed my mind: He could be sitting at a table on the other side of this very room.
And if he was, he’d probably be pulling up the article and learning how badly he’d been portrayed. As hurt as I was by that story, I could imagine he’d feel even worse—taken completely off guard and betrayed.
I stood and walked along the counter toward the front. I peered around the corner. Sure enough, he’d taken a seat in full view of the two cameramen and held his phone in front of him as he read. I glanced outside surprised those two hadn’t breached the entrance at my appearance. Andy would have expected any of his staff to take a seat at the next table with the video rolling—until the staff kicked us out or called the cops.
Micah lifted his eyes from his phone and saw me. “Josie.” The careful composure he’d held in front of the two inquisitors broke—his tight mouth melted into a frown, and his nostrils flared as he sucked in air. I couldn’t tell if he was relieved or pissed.
He stood and indicated the chair across from him.
“Hello, Micah.” I set my tea on the table and scooted in. The speech I’d memorized on the way over threatened to evaporate the longer I looked at him. And dear Lord, I could smell him. I swallowed hard. “Can I go first?”
He shifted in his seat slightly but didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
I’d intended to question him about all the girls straightaway, but after seeing what that article was doing to him—and all because of me—I knew I couldn’t grill him until I’d set the record straight about why that article had even published. I needed his absolution before I could even consider giving him mine.
“First, that picture of you on your sofa. I swear I didn’t know I’d taken that on my work camera. Zion accidentally sent it in with all my other pictures on Friday.”
His expression remained inscrutable. Did he hate me? I pressed on.
“And I had no idea Andy was writing this article. I did tell him we were dating—he already knew it anyway—and I knew he’d write something about it, but I didn’t know it would be so bad. I promise you, no matter what it looks like, I did not start seeing you with the intention to get some kind of inside story.”
He blinked twice. “Really? This article comes out, and you’re worried that I’m going to be mad at you?”
A weight lifted from my shoulders. “You’re not mad?”
He put his hand out, and I took it. “Josie, it was only a matter of time before the media figured this out. And you had to know when the story broke, it wasn’t going to flatter either of us.”
“Micah, even the reporters from other newspapers assume I infiltrated your family to exploit you from the inside.”
“Eden thought the same thing at first. You might hit a rough patch with her after all this, to be honest. But if you were going to exploit me or my friends, you’d think you’d go for juicy secrets. Why would you start a relationship and then report on that relationship? When you start printing things about my secret basement gym, we’ll have words.” He winked.
“Eden thought I was a spy?” I felt sick. The impending article about her pregnancy would only confirm her suspicions and fuel her hatred of me. For a heartbeat, I considered telling Micah everything, but then I remembered the whole reason Eden wanted to keep the secret was so she could be the first to tell her family. I’d only be making things worse if I blew her moment with her big brother. Plus, I had time to warn her still. Adam would be home soon, and Andy promised me a week.
Micah shrugged, completely oblivious to the land mines I was navigating. “You have to know how much she hates your boss and by extension everyone in your profession. But you must have done something to win her over. She thinks you’re great.”
“Not after this, I’m sure.”
“Josie, you didn’t share anything I wouldn’t have told them myself if they’d only asked me. But obviously, it wasn’t even interesting enough to them as a story on its own. Though I wish it had been.”
“Yeah.”
He retracted his hand and sat up like a schoolboy. “I suppose you have some questions for me.”
I sipped my tea, parsing through the long litany of questions I’d intended to press him with, but sitting here face-to-face with him, everything Zion had said echoed in my mind. I settled on something simple but important. “Did you ever tell any of those girls you were in love with them?”
He leaned toward me, elbows on the table. “No. And I wasn’t.”
“They all sounded like they believed you were. Or at least as though they thought you cared more than you did.”
“They’re romanticizing the past, Jo. They may believe what they’re saying, but none of it is exactly true.”
I pulled the article up on my phone and asked, “Did you abandon Annie in France?”
“No. I abandoned her in Spain.”
I flinched.
He frowned. “Sorry. Bad time to joke.” He shifted and threw a glance at the cameramen outside, but he didn’t seem to register they were there. He could have been watching the waitress pouring coffee a table over.
His eyes never lost that intense faraway look as he thought back. “I met Annie when I toured with Adam’s band. She wanted to ride with us for a few days. I wasn’t seeing anyone else at the time, and I’d grown bored of traveling with those guys, stir-crazy.” He scratched the scruff on his chin. “She was really nice—and there. And I really like sex. Okay?”
I winced even though none of this was new information. I’d always known his reputation, but there’d never been so many faces bringing his cartoon-like promiscuity to life. And Micah didn’t cast his eyes down or blush or show any signs of shame. His eyes locked on mine. “Look, I was twenty-nine, playing huge stadiums for the first time in my life, and I didn’t tell her not to follow us across the South of France to Barcelona. I wasn’t in love with her, and I never promised her anything.”
“So you left her there?”
He sipped his coffee as a couple passed by our table on their way to the door. Then he resumed. “Actually, I asked her to come with us to New York, but she had family in France. She chose to stay behind. We emailed for a little while, but we had nothing at all to talk about. We were never really together. If she says I was using her, I could say the same about her. It might not be a storybook romance to write home about, but she wasn’t upset when it ended.”
I processed that and accepted it. If I was going to judge anyone for a series of meaningless physical relationships, I’d need to sit Zion down and have a talk. I’d never judged anyone else for separating sex from romance, so I needed to grant the same forgiveness to Micah, no matter how it felt. “So what happened with . . . Martina? She said you were together for three months before you told her to stop calling.”
He pressed his lips together. “Yeah. So, not so much.”
“She’s lying?”
He exhaled through his nose, half laugh, half snort. “Martina showed up at some point at a show. She made it clear she was interested in coming to my room. I wasn’t seeing anyone else at that time. And did I mention I really like sex? I’m pretty sure I did.”
I clenched my fists together and relaxed them. “So you started to see her?”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “No. She started to see me.”
“What?”
“She was always there
at all the shows we played. I don’t know how long that went on. She says three months. It could have been. It wasn’t a consecutive three months. It was a night here and there. And after a while, we’d hang out some. We went out to eat or did something in town to blow off steam. But I never saw her between towns.
“And then during a hiatus, I started seeing Lauren—who isn’t interviewed in this article, you’ll notice. Things didn’t work out with Lauren either, but that’s another story. The next time Martina came to a show, I told her I was in a relationship and couldn’t hang out with her.”
“Did she keep trying?”
“I guess. I never thought she was looking for anything more than a hookup. She didn’t even have my phone number or email, so I wouldn’t have told her to stop calling. I might have told her she shouldn’t keep trying to hang out. I don’t mean to freak you out, but there are a lot of women like Martina at shows. They aren’t usually looking for a long-term relationship.”
“And you like sex.” I raised an eyebrow at him. “What about Victoria? She didn’t seem to be in it for the sex.”
He fell back in his chair. “You may not believe me, but I have no idea what Victoria is talking about. Maybe she thought they asked her about someone else. I’ve never had anything with her. Ever. Maybe she wanted to be featured in a story. I swear.” He held my gaze for a beat and said, “You’re going to have to decide if you trust me more than a quote in a tabloid article, Jo.”
A knock on the window caught my attention. A cameraman had pressed his lens up to the glass, pointed right at us. I sorely wanted to give the guy the finger, but all that would accomplish would be getting my picture in the paper looking like a jerk. Nobody would see it from my point of view. They’d never see that guy spying on us. On a sudden impulse, I lifted the strap off the back of my chair and grabbed my camera out. I pointed it right back at the paparazzo in the window and clicked a photo.
Micah laid his hands on the table and stared at his thumbnail as if it held magical properties. “Jo, are you going to want an explanation for all of these? I know it sounds terrible, but for the past couple of years, women have literally thrown themselves at me. I can’t change all of that. But it’s not like we spent a lot of time talking about our futures.”
A Crazy Kind of Love Page 24