“Of course you do. You were there when I was living there.”
“No. I moved in after you movedout. Well, Ximena said you died and your friends moved your furniture out, but when we were talking last night–”
“Last night? I haven’t spoken to you in years.”
Micah blinked, and something in his brain must have completely broken, because he stared through Cosmo, the flowers sagging in his grip. Cosmo hoped he didn’t end up this rattled once he passed on.
Royce pulled out his phone. “I’m calling the cops.”
“No, no. It’s okay.” Cosmo leaned toward Royce. “I’ll have to take a raincheck on the drink. I need to get him back where he belongs.”
“Is he schizophrenic?”
“Just very confused. See you tomorrow.”
Royce’s face creased. He glared at Micah, then strode toward the parking lot.
Cosmo took the bouquet from Micah and pressed his nose to the petals. “These are lovely. Let’s take a walk and figure this out.”
Micah nodded. They headed down the sidewalk in the direction of Cosmo’s old complex. He said, “I hate to tell you this, but you were assaulted in your studio. There are scars on your face–”
“I know that,” Micah snapped. His bottom lip pulled up, tendons jumping in his jaw. He pulled out his phone and opened a browser. After typing something in, he held it up to Cosmo. The headline screamed:MAN HOSPITALIZED AFTER ASSAULT IN LEMON DISCO’S ARTISTS’ DISTRICT. He scrolled down, revealing a blurred photo that saidgraphic content. When Cosmo clicked on it, it clarified, revealing Micah with a bruised and bloody face, gaping gashes spidering away from his swollen eye. Cosmo cringed.
“Look at the date,” Micah said.
“January of this year? But I moved out years ago. How could I have seen you with your scars three years ago if the assault only happened this year?”
“Exactly.”
Now Cosmo was probably the one who looked like his brain was broken. “You’re not dead.”
“Coffee helps.”
“Well!” Cosmo slapped his thighs. “I could use a drink or two or seven. Care to take a lady out for a good time?”
“I’d love to.” Micah rubbed the back of his neck. “How about dinner first?”
If this was a come-on, it was the most original Cosmo had ever received. “I’d love that. There’s a delightful bistro down the street. Have you been?”
“No.”
Trying to understand how an interaction that had happened last night for Micah was years ago for Cosmo made his head hurt, and he didn’t want to think about it all until he had a couple drinks in him. Instead, he turned his attention to Micah. There was something oddly cozy about him. He was slightly disheveled, his carob-colored hair a bit mussed and dried paint on his sweatshirt. He looked comforting, like a home-cooked meal, a favorite chair, the softest sweater.
Cosmo squinted at his face. “I thought your eyes were two different colors, one darker than the other, but they’re not. You have a dilated pupil.”
Micah shrank, tucking his hands in his pockets. “My iris is paralyzed. From the assault.”
“Like David Bowie.” It gave him a unique allure, like behind the comfy man who painted Kinkade-esque landscapes was someone with strange secrets.
Micah scoffed. “I look nothing like Bowie.”
“I’m giving you a compliment. Who wouldn’t want to be compared to such a bicon? I find it sexy.”
Blood rushed to Micah’s cheeks. Flustered seemed to be his default. He pulled off his sweatshirt, revealing a plain black tee; strong, veiny forearms; and an ass that perfectly filled out his jeans.
“Now that I know you aren’t a ghost, you’re far less frightening.” Cosmo’s gaze lingered on Micah’s forearms. “I’m sorry for screaming.”
“Last night, or, well, the last time we talked, you didn’t seem frightened. We promised each other we’d try to move on.”
