Everything isfine.
I’m fine.
I’m sitting in an old lawn chair, and Micah is on a wooden bench Jesse and I scavenged that first year after Impact. It doesn’t have a back, but it’s pushed against the side of the camper so he has something to lean back on.
His eyes are on me. I’m not looking, but I can feel them.
“What?” I demand at last.
“What, what?”
“You know what.” I use the same words he did earlieron purpose. “You’re staring at me and thinking a lot of things you aren’t saying.”
“You don’t want to hear what I’m thinking right now.”
“Why not?” Unable to resist, I turn to meet his eyes.
His expression is so hot I can identify it even in the flickering firelight. “Because I’m thinkin’ I’ve never met anyone as beautiful as you. Beautiful and fearless and tough and vibrant. Alive. And fragile underneath it in a way that makes me wanna be a goddamn hero.”
“Kind of clichéd and sappy,” I mutter to hide the wave of pleasure that slams into me. “I expected better of you.”
“That was your mistake.”
“What was my mistake?” I’m flustered by my response to his compliments, so I’m having trouble following his meaning.
“Thinking better of me. That’ll always be a mistake. Despite random, passing whims, I’m never gonna be a hero.”
He’s teasing. I know he is. His tone is dry and lazy. But he means it too. I wonder why.
“Well, I never for a moment believed you would be. You’re the one who brought up heroes. It’s been a really long time since I believed anyone could be a hero.” The thought makes me heavy, so I shift the conversation. “Anyway, I’m not fragile. I don’t know why you’d call me that.”
“You’re not fragile in any way that affects your strength. But there’s something—underneath everything. Something no one but me can see.”
I really shouldn’t like the words or his thick, fond tone, but I do.
I really do.
Maybe that’s the fragility he’s picked up on.
“You need to get over yourself.”
“Oh, I’m over myself. Believe me.”
Once again, there’s a faint, self-directed bitterness in his tone. It makes me ask, “Why are you over yourself?”
“What?” He blinks and turns his eyes from the fire back to my face. He’s lounging comfortably on the bench, leaning against the side of my camper.
“You said you were over yourself. I want to know why.”
“It’s not a worthwhile story.”
“I don’t care. I want to hear it anyway. Tell me how you got shot.”
I have no particular reason to assume that the reason he got shot is connected to his being over himself, but I know it for sure.
He opens his mouth and closes it again. Stares back at the flames in the firepit.
“Why won’t you tell me? Are you ashamed of something?”
