“Between you two. Did something happen?”
“Nope. We’re fine.” I’d always been a shit liar, and I’d done enough of it the last few weeks to last me a lifetime.“Then we carry on as we are. Nothing ever has to change. We’re all right, aren’t we?”Flushing, I turned away from Céleste and made a meal of topping-up-gin garnishes that were already fully stocked.
She snorted and moved off, but her painfully accurate observation stayed with me. Jesus. Was I that transparent? Could strangers tell that I was crazy about my roommate?
“Sam?”
I jumped. Micah was leaning over the bar, peering at me crouched down by the fridge. His dark eyes were brimming with anxiety. Alarmed, I scrambled to my feet and forced a smile. “What’s up?”
His frown remained. “I need to talk to you.”
“Now? Micah, I’m working.”
“I know. I meant later. Are you doing anything after work?”
The sum total of my plans had been to sink a few gins, then meander home in the hope that the mess I’d made of our friendship would’ve magically fixed itself. “I’m not doing anything. I’ll be home around seven.”
Micah nodded slowly. “Can we talk then?”
“What about?”
“About everything. This shit is driving me crazy.”
We’d talked already, round and round and round and round. I couldn’t see what he could possibly say that would bring anything new to the table. He’d made his feelings perfectly clear: he liked kissing me and he’d always wanted to, but he disliked himself too much to let us just...be. And I got it, I really did, but I didn’t like it, and hiding my unjustified resentment was exhausting.
Still, refusing him anything when he was looking at me the way he was right then was a task for a man far stronger than me. “Whatever you want. Just feed me, okay? I can’t do deep and meaningful on an empty stomach.”
For a moment, his gaze flared with mirth, like a dirty joke had flitted into his convoluted mind. Then the shutters came down again and he nodded. “I can do that.”
He returned to his table. Him and Freddie shared a plate of chicken salad with a side of chips, then they left without saying goodbye, leaving me to the mercy of Céleste’s twitching eyebrows and the six hours left on my shift.
Time passed like it was rooted in treacle. I began to miss the cigarettes I’d given up five years ago and seriously contemplated raiding Céleste’s. But the thought of returning home with the stench clinging to my skin and clothes stopped me. Just. Settling for checking my phone every ten minutes wasn’t any less ridiculous.
I left a Sam-shaped hole in the door when my shift finally ended, but outside, doubt and nerves hit home. Micah had never asked me for a serious conversation—when they happened, it was by accident. What if he wanted to move out? To run from the clusterfuck I’d created? The prospect of living without him made me sick to my stomach, but... maybe it was for the best. Forhim. I’d tried and tried to go back to normal and keep our home the sanctuary it had once been for him, but man, acting chill around a man whose kiss had set me on fire washard, in more ways than one. Something had to give, and perhaps Micah had decided it would be him.
It took me three minutes to get home. Despite my trepidation, agitation won out and I speed-walked the whole way to the front door.
I let myself in, bracing myself for silence—what if he already left?—but soft music greeted me and the scent of something so delicious I had to double-check I’d waltzed into the right flat.
Somehow, I had.
I ditched my coat and shoes and followed the smell to the kitchen. Micah was slumped over the counter, chest to the cheap laminate as he poked at his phone. He glanced up as I laid eyes on my nan’s cast iron pot simmering on the stove and the dish of garlic-flecked rice already prepared. “Did you have a lobotomy?”
“You’re not that lucky, but I figured you’d be hungry.”
“I’m always hungry. You’ve never cooked for me before.”
“I haven’t done a lot of things.”
The sentence was so loaded it almost distracted me from whatever was in the pot. Almost. Nothing was going to stop me lifting the lid and peeking inside. “What’s this?”
“Feijoada.My mum used to cook it every Sunday.”
“She doesn’t anymore?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
His tone was flat, devoid of bitterness and pain, but I knew better. I set the pan lid aside and stirred the dark mix of meat and beans around. “Whatever it is, it smells amazing. When can we eat it?”
