I jab my finger at my phone. Delete, delete, delete.

I make a noise of frustration in the back of my throat. I don’t have the words yet. I think about reaching out a thousand times a day, but whenever I try, nothing seems right. Instead, I click off my phone and plug it into its charger. Then I turn off the light and crawl under the covers, falling into a fitful sleep.

8

Micah

I might have to marry Meg.

Like, it’s been years since my dad gave me the whole “Where do babies come from” talk, but I remember “Find a wife who bakes” being high on the Wifely Characteristics list, and these chocolate zucchini muffins are heaven in my mouth.

Also, it occurs to me now that I’ve been brainwashed. What the fuck kind of sex talk is that? They’re lucky I didn’t impregnate a girl by accident. Thank God for public school education.

(Kidding! I learned about sex from my dad’s trial transcripts.)

(Yeah, I do need therapy, thanks for noticing.)

I’m sitting in the coffee shop trying not to drool on the counter as Meg pulls out another muffin tin full of gooey deliciousness. Forget Em and her guys-who-aren’t-just-friends. Em who? My new kryptonite is small, dark-haired, and carrying baked goods that smell like the best thing to ever happen to anyone.

Actually, I reject the term kryptonite. Meg’s too sweet for something so cynical. Which is probably why I can’t make a move. I like her too much to fuck it up. She’s … so nice? And cute and smart and I’m in over my head because she needs help and I feel like maybe I could be that for her.

What if all the shit with my dad happened so that I could be the friend Meg needs?

That would be … too much for me to consider right now.

“Where is my muffin tester? I left her around here … somewhere…” Meg says in mock confusion. She starts looking in outrageously tiny places like a coffee canister and the cookie tin. Noel’s hysterical giggles ring out from the stool next to me.

“I’m right heeeeeere!”

Meg startles theatrically and peeks around the register. “Oh, there she is! Order up, Short Stack.” She cuts a muffin in half and lightly blows on it before passing it to the little girl. She holds up a hand to me.

“Easy, Muscles.”

“Just one more,” I beg.

“I don’t think this is allowed in your CrossFit diet.”

My eyes narrow. “I don’t do CrossFit.”

A single dark brow lifts. “Powerlifting, then.”

I huff out a laugh. “What?”

“Decathlons?”

“Definitely not.”

She gives me an exaggerated wink. “Give me time. I’ll figure it out.”

“You’re ridiculous,” I say, feeling a little warm.

“And you’re built like an archangel. What is that about?”