Page 47 of Severance

Mikah breaks the silence. “I’m not trying to take sides. This isn’t easy for me.” He draws his hands away from his face. “I asked you for one thing—not to bring more shit into my life—and you keep dragging my brother into every conversation.” He sounds calm and reserved, but his eyes are fuming.

The lump in my throat grows bigger. “I’m sorry.” I swallow past the thickness, pushing it down to my chest. My gaze drops to my wet tee and I absentmindedly pluck at the fabric stretched over my bra.

Mikah goes to the cabinet and rummages through the shelves again.

“Here.” He turns around and hands me a t-shirt.

I stare at it for a few seconds, trying to figure out who it belongs to.

“It’s clean.” Mikah rolls his eyes impatiently.

“Are you sure?”

“Would you rather keep wearing liquor and someone else’s saliva?”

“You always do that.” I grab the shirt from him and smell it just to make sure.

“I always do what?”

“You always find a way to make me feel stupid.”

His brow arches in silent skepticism. “You’re not stupid.”

I bite the inside of my cheek and reevaluate what I just said. Maybe stupid isn’t the right word. More like irrelevant and unimportant, but my mind’s a bit of a mess right now. My hands are shaking and my heart’s racing. The liquor-stained t-shirt is unpleasantly itchy against my skin, and I want it off because the thought of Snow White’s saliva being on me is now burning a hole in my brain. Or maybe the weed is finally kicking in or I shouldn’t have drunk alcohol. The doctor said it’s a big no-no with my medication.

“I never said you were stupid,” Mikah repeats, his gaze lingering on mine. There’s a dash of annoyance in his tone.

“But you’re thinking it.” I feel another wave of anxiety rushing through me. I have to set the clean t-shirt on the counter before it slips from my trembling hands.

“How the fuck do you know what I’m thinking?”

“I just do.”

“How?” He stares at me as if I owe him a winning lottery ticket.

“It’s written all over your face,” I slur, tugging on the bottom of my tee.

“You’re making these assumptions based on what?”

“See, you’re doing it again.” I turn around and attempt to pull the dirty t-shirt over my head, but my hair gets in the way. Who would have thought weed could make you feel this disoriented? Or was it the drink he mixed for me before he took off with the evil bitch?

“A little help here?” I squeal through the wet fabric that’s stretched over my face. My elbows are stuck.

I feel goose bumps rising on my neck when Mikah’s fingers brush over my skin.

My shoulder jerks. “Ticklish.”

“Don’t move,” he growls, his hands going to my hair to untangle it.

“Can’t breathe.”

“Don’t fucking move,” he orders, rearranging my arms. “It’s not helping.”

“Okay. Thank you… Sorry.” My mouth won’t stay shut.

After some maneuvering and hair pulling—I’m convinced some of it definitely unnecessary—Mikah finally manages to free me of the dirty t-shirt. He tosses it in the sink and when he hands me one of the towels from the shelf, it appears that he’s fighting to avoid looking at me, which is so unlike him. He’s the challenge-accepted, I’ll-look-if-I-want kind of guy. Or at least he was five minutes ago. It doesn’t really hit me until after I’m finished cleaning the liquor residue off me that I’m not wearing anything except my bra.

I suppose this makes us even.I also suppose this should be awkward, and in a way, it is, but in another way, it’s not. My mind hasn’t decided yet how exactly I feel about it. For the most part, I’m just numb and mad. The anger’s still there, deep inside, simmering, and the questions are still needing answers.

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