“I never exaggerate. I never soothe any man’s ego.”
“Well, that much is true, I guess.” His mouth lifts in a smile that fills my chest with an entirely unexpected warmth. “Thanks. I haven’t sung in a long time. Not since…”
Not since he lost Burgundy.
He doesn’t finish the sentence, but I know how it ends.
Feeling weird and emotional and uncomfortable, I manage to say, “Thank you for singing for me.” Then, to save both of us from the moment, I add in a different tone, “Do you need help with that turkey?”
“No! I’ve got it just fine. You need to finish primping.”
“Primping!” My reaction is instinctive. Only afterward do I notice his teasing expression. “Asshole.”
“Always.”
I’m not backto full strength yet, but I’m a lot closer. I’m able to stay out of bed for the entire day, with a rest in the lawn chair during the afternoon, and I’m even able to do some fishing and help roast the turkey for dinner.
It’s not a huge one, but there’s enough for a big meal tonight along with plenty of leftovers.
We do a good job cooking it, and it’s the best thing I’ve had to eat for a long, long time.
Micah and I sit around the firepit after we’re finished, and I enjoy the sense of finally feeling better and having a full belly.
I glance over at Micah and catch him gazing at me.
“What?” I ask.
“You seem better.”
“I am.” I glance away, suddenly embarrassed. “Thanks for helping out. And for… for taking care of me.”
“I was happy to,” he says lightly. “Only fair, after the way you took care of me.”
“I guess that’s right. Will you sing me another song?”
His eyebrows go up. “Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously. You’re really good, and it’s been a long time since I’ve heard any music except my own singing.”
“I’d do better if I had my guitar.”
“Well, you don’t. But I think you do just fine without it.”
“What song do you want?” It feels like he’s stalling, and I don’t know why.
“I don’t care. Just pick one of your favorites. Anything.”
He makes a face at me, but I give him a stern look in response, one that makes him cave.
He hems and haws and fiddles with the fire until he finally starts to sing.
It’s an old, upbeat country song about drowning one’s sorrows with beer. It makes me giggle and laugh, and my response causes him to ham it up. I enjoy it immensely and applaud when he’s done.
“That was my dad’s favorite,” he says. “He always asked me to sing it when he wasn’t totally drunk, and he got a kick out of it every time.”
“I can just imagine. What was your mom’s favorite song for you to sing?”
He thinks for a minute and then starts singing acheesy pop ballad. He hams this one up in a different way, making his voice romantic and swoony until I’m spilling over with giggles. I join in on the chorus, and we sound incredibly good together.
