Falling From the Sky (16 page)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Micah leans back against my car when I walk out of the gym. I don’t see his truck and wonder if he rode with Zoey and needs a ride home. I pop the trunk open and toss everything inside. Micah looks at me when I slam it shut.

“Good game, Jump Shot,” he says.

“Thanks,” I say. “What’s up?” I reach around him to grab the driver’s side door handle, but he grabs my arm to stop me.

He scans the parking lot before speaking. “Will you stay with me tonight?”

I try once more to push him away from the driver’s side door so I can crank my car, but Micah doesn’t let me through.

“I always stay with you on Friday nights,” I remind him.

“I know,” he says. His voice usually isn’t so quiet or defeated. “But like, can you come earlier than usual?”

I dangle my keys in front of him and point at my car. He lets me through, and I lean inside to max out my A/C. The air feels too good to step back outside.

“Did you ride with Zoey?” I ask him without looking back.

“No,” he says. “I’m on the other end of the parking lot.”

I tell him to get in. He doesn’t say anything during the short venture from the gym to the other end of the lot. He’s not smiling or excited or anything that’s typical of Micah.

He opens his door before I even fully stop next to his truck. “Guess I’ll see you tonight, then?” he asks, looking at the pavement.

“You’ll see me this afternoon,” I say. “Let me run back to my room and pack a few things, and I’ll be over. I can shower at your place.”

“Thank you.” He closes the door but doesn’t get out of my car. He stares at the dashboard. He wants to say more, but he’s avoiding it.

I reach over and take his hand. “What is it, Micah?”

His fingers lock in between mine, and he squeezes my hand. “It’s supposed to storm tonight. I really hate being home alone during storms.”

He doesn’t look up even now. He’s embarrassed. I let go of his hand and push his hair back over his shoulder. He has the softest hair I’ve ever felt, even softer than Samantha’s when she uses those high-priced conditioners. I run my fingers through it, and he seems to somewhat relax.

“You won’t be alone tonight. You’ll have me. The sooner you get out of my car, the sooner I can go pack and meet you back at your house,” I tell him.

He smiles and leans across the console between my seats to kiss me.

“You’re the best,” he whispers before he presses his lips to mine.

I’m tempted to put my hands back through his hair, but we’ll be here all afternoon if I do, and the gym’s parking lot isn’t the safest place for a make out session. He pulls away and opens his door, flashing me one more smile before getting into his truck.

Aaron is in the shower when I get to the room. I was hoping to avoid him, but I’m pretty sure I can be in and out before he ever realizes I was here. He likes to ask about my nonexistent sex life with Zoey, and he jokes around about her kids walking in on us every Friday before I leave. It’s awkward enough for people to ask about your sex life when you have one, much less when you’re lying about having one.

The message light on our room’s phone blinks. It’s either Mom, Samantha, or someone for Aaron. I’ve ignored every phone call my cell phone has gotten lately aside from Micah and Terrence. I can’t really hear well through that damn flip phone’s speaker anyway. I tell myself it’s for Aaron to avoid returning a phone call and head to my dresser drawer. I’ve got this weekend packing deal down to under a minute.

Every light is on at Micah’s house when I arrive, and that’s a first. I grab my gym bag and make way to my trunk. The Finish Line bag remains in its final resting place, complete with my old Nikes. If it does storm tonight, the reservation will be a muddy disaster come morning, and I’d rather those shoes absorb the dirt than my new ones.

Micah’s front door slings open. He stands in the doorway watching me. A breeze catches his paper lanterns, and they sway wildly. I almost ask him if he should take them down before the storm, but I can’t imagine his house without them. They’re so Micah. He attacks me with a hug as soon as I step onto the porch.

“Micah, tell your hormones I’m sorry, but I seriously need a shower,” I say.

He lets go of me and waves me off with his hand. He’s already laid out towels in the bathroom for me. The hot water feels great, but I cut this shower short not only because of the impending storm but because I just want to spend time with Micah. How did I honestly get to this point where my life revolves around some guy?

Every light is still on when I finish drying my hair. Micah waits in the kitchen next to a closed pizza box.

“You’re such a great housewife. Towels already laid out and you’ve ordered supper so I don’t have to choke down your homemade meals,” I tell him.

His laugh is interrupted by a clap of thunder, and he jumps, looking around the room as if the thunder is going to creep up behind him and snatch him away.

I wrap my arms around him and kiss his cheek. “You’re okay,” I whisper into his ear. I feel his heart racing against my chest as I hug him close to me.

“I hate storms,” he says. He rests his head against my shoulder and wraps his arms tightly around my waist.

“I know. But you’re safe. I’ve got you,” I say. I run my hand over his hair and stand still, holding him until I feel his heartbeat begin to steady itself.

Lightning flashes through the window, even with all the lights on.

“Let’s turn some of these lights off,” I tell him.

I follow him throughout the house turning off all the unnecessary brightness. We walk back into the kitchen so I can finish eating. Micah has a flashlight in hand, but I don’t know if he can even think clearly enough to turn it on if the electricity goes out.

He leaves the fluorescent light above the kitchen sink on, but he shuts off the others as we walk through the house toward his bedroom. I’m exhausted, and we have a long day ahead of us tomorrow. The stormy weather should be gone by morning. Micah is overly excited about the festival, which he’s talked about in between thunder claps.

He settles into the crook of my arm, and I feel extremely comfortable in his bed despite the weather outside. His arm drapes over my stomach, and I watch it rise and fall as I breathe until I drift off to sleep.

A cold sweat envelops my body. I jolt up in Micah’s bed. My ears throb with the sound of my own heart pounding. I gasp for air. Micah flips on the lamp on his nightstand.

“Ridge? What’s wrong?” There’s panic in his voice. He reaches out and touches my shoulder. I’m drenched. He grabs a towel out of the floor, still damp from my shower earlier, and hands it to me.

I’m still grasping that it was just a nightmare while he runs the towel over my body. I want to cry, and I don’t know why. Maybe it’s a sense of relief. Maybe it’s because I’ve never had such a vivid dream about my dad’s death. Maybe I’m just scared. Or maybe it’s because I’m so grateful to have someone here with me…someone who is incredible and makes me feel safe.

“Is it the storm?” he asks, running his hand along the side of my face.

I shake my head.

“Nightmare?”

I nod. He already knows where this is going.

“I’m sorry, Ridge.”

“I’m okay,” I tell him. We both know it’s a lie. I close my eyes and warmth runs down my face. I taste the salty tears and haven’t even opened my mouth yet.

Micah pulls me close to him. I feel him cringe when the thunder echoes outside.

“I’m sorry, Micah,” I tell him. “I was supposed to be here for you tonight, not the other way around.”

He runs both hands through my semi-damp hair. I wish it wasn’t storming. I need another shower now.

“This is a two-way street,” he whispers. “I’ve got you.”

“It was about my dad,” I whisper back.

He nods, like he already knew.

“I could see the crash. There was so much fire, and I couldn’t save him. And it was raining, storming…but not enough to put out the fire,” I tell him. “I couldn’t save him.”

Micah pulls me against him and lets me cry until I’m out of tears. Samantha would never do this for me. She’d complain that I’m sweaty, and she wouldn’t want me sobbing on her. She’d bitch about my tears getting her shirt wet, and then she’d gripe about keeping her up all night.

But not Micah. He runs his hands through my sweaty hair and lets my tears drip down his chest and kisses my forehead and tells me he’s here for me. He turns off the lamp after I’ve calmed down, and we fall back asleep – this time with my head on his shoulder.

It’s not even an hour later when the storm wakes me again. I tell myself it’s the thunder that’s interrupting my sleep, but the real culprit would be visions of my dad falling into the rainforest and bursting into flames. Sometimes I still wish those childish theories of him building washers and dryers for the monkeys were possible.

I lie still, hoping not to wake Micah, and watch the droplets chase each other along the window pane until they all collide into one long river of raindrops. My back is damp, and my neck itches from the sweat. I turn onto my side and attempt to reach over Micah for that towel.

“You okay?” he asks in a half-sleep.

“Yeah,” I whisper. My throat feels dry.

Since Micah is already awake, I crawl halfway on top of him to reach down and grab the towel off the floor. I think every bit of liquid in me, aside from my blood, has leaked out of my pores because I’m soaked in sweat and dehydrated.

Micah squirms beneath me and reaches for his bedside lamp.

“You need anything?” he asks.

I try to swallow, but even my saliva glands have dried up. I shake my head, but he stares intently and knows I’m lying. He grabs his flashlight off the nightstand and leaves the room. He soon returns with a wet bath cloth and a bottle of Gatorade. I would thank him, but I’m already chugging the orange liquid like it’s the last thing I’ll ever drink.

Micah runs the cloth along my cheek and over my neck. “Better?” he asks.

I pull the bottle away from my mouth. “A lot.”

He twists the cap back on and sets the bottle on the nightstand. “I think it’s starting to clear up some. The weatherman said it’d stop in the early morning.”

I look over Micah’s shoulder at his alarm clock. 4:37 A.M. I nod my head and wipe the back of my neck with the cloth before handing it back to Micah. He drapes it over the Gatorade bottle and turns off his lamp.

“Hey Ridge?” he asks. “You know everything is going to be okay, right?”

“As long as I have you,” I whisper. I feel like such a cliché.

“You’ll always have me,” he says.

I believe him. I’ll always feel him. I just really want him to be more than the wind.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Colors flood over the street like someone threw up rainbows. There’s absolutely no way all these arts and crafts will sell. I follow Micah past a long string of vendors until he stops at a tiny booth hiding under a bright blue umbrella.

He grabs two plastic forks off the booth’s countertop and nudges my arm. “This is the place. It’s amazing.”

“I told you. I don’t really think I like blueberries,” I remind him.

“But you just
think
that. This will either prove or disprove your theory.” He’s too confident in that remark for me to even attempt a comeback.

We had this discussion when he introduced me to Festival Horse, which was decorated with what reminded me of woven blankets. Micah had asked me if the pattern reminded me of a blueberry pie. In a way it did, but what I remember most is how angry the horse looked.

He cradles the miniature pie in his arm, shielding it from the other festival goers, like they’re going to rip it away from him any second now. We stake out a spot on a curb in the shade. I glance behind me, over the sidewalk, and notice that the grass has been swallowed by mud. Last night’s storm left its mark here as well as in my mind.

“Okay, hold this,” Micah says, passing the pie over to me. “I’m going for drinks. Do not try it until I’m back.”

I don’t guard the pie with my life, but I hold it closely enough that Micah will be pleased. He hurries over to the next vendor, and I fight the urge to watch him the entire time he’s gone. Part of me actually hopes I’ve acquired a taste for blueberries and didn’t realize it because the last thing I want for today is to let him down.

“I hope you know that Gatorade is expensive,” Micah says. He eases down on to the curb next to me and hands me the bottle of blue liquid.

“I can pay you back,” I offer.

He smiles and shakes his head. Then he takes his prized blueberry pie from my hands and removes the plastic lid. He jabs a fork into the pan and devours the bite. “Oh. My. God.”

There he goes with the drama queen stuff again. He rams the fork back into the pie and then brings it up to my mouth. I want to tell him that I’m not a baby bird and can feed myself, and I don’t even want to begin imagining the expressions on the faces around us. But I take the bite anyway, for Micah, and oh my God is right. I could seriously send up a prayer to the taste bud gods for allowing me to enjoy this moment.

“You like?” He smiles with excitement and anticipation, and I want to tell him it’s amazing, but I’m still chewing and savoring, so I just nod my head and do my best to hum an “Mm-hmm” to him. I reach for the other plastic fork, and Micah laughs. This is the happiest I’ve seen him all summer.

“We’ll get a big one before we leave tonight. I didn’t think I could eat a full one alone if you hated it,” he says.

He won’t have to worry about that. Now I know why Festival Horse was so angry – no one let him have any blueberry pie.

Micah scrapes up the last bit of blueberries with his fork, making sure not to leave any precious crumbs behind. He drops the tin into a nearby trash can, and I follow him along the line of merchants. They sell everything here – blankets, jewelry, clothing, sunglasses, henna tattoos, cowboy hats, keychains, and paintings. I stop in front of a booth selling nothing but dreamcatchers. I think I need one to catch all the nightmares about the plane crash.