“I’m not moving out. Are you?”
“What?”
“Areyou?”Fuck it. I stepped into his personal space. Boxed him in against the front door. “You’ve been gone for days too. I thought you were gone for good. That you’d maybe moved in with Céleste. I remembered that you were going to before I came here.”
“That was because I couldn’t afford the mortgage on my own. I work in a pub, remember? I got the place cheap from my grandad, but this is still London, and I’m not a football player.”
“Do you hate me?”
Sam blinked. “Why would you ask me that?”
“Because I hurt you, and you’re looking at me like I still am.”
For a long moment, I feared he wouldn’t answer me, that he’d turn around and walk out of the door. Or worse, open it and tell me to get the fuck out.
Then he sighed, and his shoulders flattened. His hands uncurled and he sagged forwards.
I caught him and wrapped my arms around him so tight I couldn’t fathom how he was still breathing. His chest hit mine, his hips, his knees. My leg was worse right now than it had been in months, but the sensation of Sam so close soothed the tight nerves and sore muscles. I forgot about it. I forgot about everything save how it felt to have him in my arms again. “I’m sorry, Sam. I’m so fucking sorry.”
He still didn’t speak, but his face against my chest screamed forgiveness I didn’t deserve, no matter how many times he was going to tell me that my patchy mental health wasn’t my fault.
Iknewthat, as much as I knew anyone else’s struggles weren’t their own fault, but the sense of failure was difficult to hide from. I’d had one job—take the pills and show up to therapy—and I’d fucked it up.
“Micah.”
I opened my eyes. Sam was staring at me with an expression I recognised. Relief flooded me, though I got the distinct impression he was about to tell me off. “What?”
“Stop thinking up ways to punish yourself for whatever’s happened over the past few weeks, okay? None of it matters.”
“It does matter.”
“Do you love me?”
“Yes.”
“Do you believe I love you too?”
“Yes.” Of course I did. Perhaps I always had.
“Then it really doesn’t matter, Micah. Not any of it. We’re both here and breathing. Everything else can be fixed.”
I was missing something. I tilted my head, eyebrows raised, but Sam shook his head. “Let me in the door first, yeah? I’m half cut and fucking starving.”
“You smell like whisky.”
“Oops.” A ghost of a grin warmed his face. “Make me a sandwich then?”
As if I could refuse.
22
Sam
The sourdough bread and German ham hadn’t been in the flat when I’d left. Micah had been shopping. Either that or he’d had groceries delivered, which meant he’d set up a new account or hacked into my iPad, two things way too industrious for the Micah I knew. The man who only cooked dinner if he was absolutely sure I’d eat it with him. And the bread was from the hipster bakery two streets away, a hole in the wall he must’ve walked to, unless someone had paid him a visit.
Curiosity—and a childish hint of jealousy—burned my throat, but I swallowed it down. I was done being a weirdo about Micah’s relationships. He needed friends, and who the hell was I to get up in his business? We loved each other. I didn’t own him.
Micah made me a sandwich heavy on the mustard. I needed to clear the booze from my senses. He was limping pretty bad, but the agitation that had been so rife the last time I’d seen him was gone. His eyes were still heavy, his face lined with a weariness I’d truly come to understand in the last few days, but... I recognised him. This was my Micah.
