“I thought I might have freaked you out.”
“Did you mean it? Or was it just the sex?”
“It wasn’t just the sex. I mean, it was, but—”
“I don’t want to put you on the spot. You can take it back. You’ve probably said it so many times, and it slipped out.”
He took my hands and his big black bug eyes peered into mine. “I’ve never said that, except to my family, but you know, not like that.” He laughed nervously.
“But?”
“But I’ve said it in my head over and over again since I met you. I know. Love at first sight. It’s the worst cliché. I’ve fought to keep myself from saying anything like that to you. And then it slipped out. I’m sorry. It’s not really fair to you. I hoped you’d eventually catch up to me.”
I rubbed his hand. “Look. I hope you’ll take this the right way. I don’t believe in love at first sight. And believe me, if there was such a thing, I felt it, too. I knew it when you first knelt down on the sidewalk that day. But that’s not love. That’s attraction or chemistry maybe. Or infatuation. And getting to know you is as intoxicating as a drug. But love isn’t a feeling.”
“You’re infatuated with me?”
“Duh.”
“I’ll take that.” He grinned.
Admittedly, it was nice to hear those three reassuring words, but I wondered if he’d feel the same way in two weeks, after our first fight or after he’d gone on tour for a month away from me. I looked through the black plastic to where I knew his eyes hid in darkness. “I want to say the same.” I couldn’t read his reaction through the disguise, but his mouth tightened, so I offered all I could. “I have a good feeling if I ever do, you’ll be the one.”
He relaxed as though that were enough of a profession for now. But in my mind, I was picturing my dad. He told my mom he loved her, but he’d never made a promise to honor her, and when a stronger external pressure exerted its force on him, fighting for his American family proved too hard, and his flimsy feelings of so-called love caved right in. How could I trust in feelings? How could anyone prove that they exist? How could anyone promise they would last?
I believed physical attraction and love were temporal. Nobody went around making professions of eternal physical attraction. That would be ludicrous. Sure, some people got lucky and the span of their feelings for each other outlasted their natural lives.
But what I longed for was more akin to a long-lived friendship, something like what I had with Zion, but more intimate. I worried Micah would prefer a lightning-flash, short-lived passionate affair. I could have given him that if I hadn’t started to want more.
So much for taking things slowly. Now instead of feeling like we were tentatively working toward a steady relationship, I’d likely always brace for the inevitable end. Micah went so fast, sooner or later, he’d burn out and move on. I couldn’t think of a thing in the world that would convince me otherwise. I smiled anyway and hid all signs of internal waffling.
I suddenly became aware of the time. “Micah, I’m going to have to either find a snack soon or eat an early supper.”
He texted his driver while I texted Zion to let him know we were leaving. The driver dropped us at a Mexican restaurant around the corner from Micah’s townhouse. After a dinner of tacos, we ditched the town car and walked back. The evening sky had just begun to grow dim, and the afternoon heat hadn’t quite dissipated. We chatted as we strolled companionably though not hand in hand.
“I moved here after our first single took off.” His eyes scanned the buildings along his street. “I’d been living in a one bedroom in Crown Heights for a while.”
“Why’d you decide—” I stopped walking. A boy with mop hair and fish belly translucent skin leaned against Micah’s stoop rail, blotting his brow with the front of his shirt. As soon as he dropped the fabric, his eyes met mine. He heaved himself onto his feet and began down the sidewalk, fumbling for a camera that obviously hadn’t been prepared for this moment.
Micah never broke pace except to turn back and wait for me to catch up. By the time we reached the steps, the boy had taken control of his camera and shot several pictures. Micah reached out his hand. “Hello. What’s your name?”
The kid swallowed and shoved his hand into a small backpack, producing a bent notepad. “My name is Jim.” His hands shook as he poised a pen above the paper. “I contribute materials to FanBlogger.com. Have you heard of it?”
Both Micah and I shook our heads. Micah twisted his mouth. “Are you with the press?”
“We’re a kind of news organization driven on one-hundred-percent reader-submitted content. I wanted to ask you some questions.”
Micah relaxed and beamed the smile he gave the public. It was a beautiful smile, but I’d seen the real deal. This smile didn’t come close. “Sure. What would you like to know?”
Jim dug his phone out of his bag and brought it back to life. “By any chance, have you seen this article? It was uploaded to FanBlogger earlier today.”
“May I?” Micah reached out and took the phone. I leaned over to see what it said.
Micah Sinclair Blows Fans Off Outside Club.
Micah licked his lips. “Is this about Tuesday?” Jim nodded, and Micah handed the phone back. “I wasn’t at my best. You can certainly print that I appreciate my fans, and I’d like to apologize to those two girls. It was just a bad night.”
I stepped up. “It was my fault.”
