Page 102 of Robbin’ the Rich

A particularly unfortunate zombie exploded on screen. I felt marginally better.

The knock on the door arrived so unexpectedly that I nearly launched myself out of my chair.

For a second, I simply stared toward the hallway.

Every muscle in my body tightened, like maybe if I was still enough whoever was on the other side would go away.

Slowly, I stood.

The apartment felt unnaturally quiet as I crossed the living room. Whoever stood on the other side of the door knocked again before I reached it, and the sound echoed through the apartment.

I wasn't ready to talk to anyone, but there was a part of me that was simultaneously dreading and hoping that it was Micah. Part of me wanted to open the door and tell him exactly where he could shove his explanations. The other part of me just plain missed him.

Another knock echoed through the room as I stood there with my hand on the handle. I closed my eyes and took a slow breath.

When I opened the door, I saw him. Micah.

I wanted to yell and rant and rave but I couldn’t. He looked terrible. His hair was a mess, his glasses sat crooked on his nose, and there were dark circles beneath his eyes that hadn't been there yesterday. The button-down shirt from Thanksgiving had been replaced with a faded sweatshirt, but he still looked like he'd aged several years since I'd seen him in the restaurant parking lot.

I hated that my immediate reaction wasn't satisfaction. Some stubborn, traitorous part of me saw how miserable he looked and felt bad for him.

He lied. He'd let me build an entire relationship around an incomplete picture.

Micah stood in the doorway with his hands shoved awkwardly into his pockets while I held the door open and wondered if this was how hostage negotiators felt during particularly difficult situations. Eventually I stepped aside.

"Come in."

The words surprised both of us. I wasn't entirely sure why I said them, and judging by the surprised look on his face, he wasn’t either.

Micah entered with a questioning look that flickered for a moment with hope. I closed the door behind him and turned to find him standing awkwardly in the middle of my living room. The familiarity of it struck me. He'd been here dozens of times. We'd cooked together in that kitchen and fallen asleep on that couch. We’d spent entire evenings talking about everything, except for one very important detail.

Now it felt like we were strangers. The silence stretched.

Finally, Micah exhaled slowly and rubbed a hand across the back of his neck.

"I'm sorry."

The apology hung between us.

"I know that's not enough," he continued before I could respond. "But I am."

I folded my arms across my chest. "You lied to me." The words came out flatter than I expected.

"I know. And I will never forgive myself for hurting you."

I let out a little huff.

"I'd like to explain."

I shook my head immediately.

"Please, I just⁠—"

"No." I cut him off. "Seriously. Why would I believe anything you say right now?"

His mouth closed. Eventually he nodded again. “That’s fair.”

Something inside me snapped. The calm acceptance was somehow making everything worse.