Page 61 of Severance

“Are you going to just stand there?” Mikah calls after a while, wiping the sweat off his forehead with his forearm. “Can you put some more coins in?”

“Sure, but I don’t have any.”

He rolls his eyes and motions to the back pocket of his jeans like it’s the most obvious thing. Not in my world. My mother and father were very vocal about male body parts duringthe talk. The only man I’d ever touched was Dakota…until the night of the drunk kiss. My sneakers slurp against the wet asphalt as I walk over to grab the change. My hand hesitantly flutters near Mikah’s pocket and I slip my fingers into it, trying my best not to touch anything but the money.

His heat filters through me like oxygen, filling every cell with an unexpected buzz.

“Is it only quarters?” I draw my hand away from his behind and stare at the coins in my palm.

“Yes. Fill it up, Cupcake Queen.”

Ignoring the fever taking over me, I hurry to the pay station and add more time.

After Mikah’s finished polishing the Mustang, he rolls it into the parking lot and we take another cigarette break.

“You’re a fucking weirdo.” He looks at me long and hard, half-suspicion and half-amusement in his gaze. “I thought you said you knew how to wash a car. What is it with you and withholding the truth, huh?”

I like him like this—cocky and full of himself. His crooked one-sided grin makes my heart swell. If only I could be silly and clumsy for him every second of every day just to keep him smiling.

Before I can answer him, the purr of another engine echoes across the parking lot. I glance over my shoulder and watch as a white Corolla pulls into a spot on the opposite side of the lot. Disappointment hits me like a punch. I was hoping no one would show up here until we left. I liked just the two of us with no intruders.

The nicotine rushing through my veins is hard at work, battling the approaching anxiety, but I’m not sure it’s enough. I turn back to Mikah and stick the cigarette between my lips to finish the last of it.

Mikah’s t-shirt is soaking wet and his hair has fallen out of its band and lies messily across his shoulders.

“Hello. How are you?” a male voice calls from behind me. My guess is that it’s the Toyota driver. I spin toward the sound and see a man walking in our direction. He’s small and looks to be somewhere in his late thirties, and something tells me he’s not here to wash his car.

“Yeah?” Mikah tilts his head and taps his cigarette lightly to ash it.

“I’m C.J. Barnes.” The man slips his hand into the front pocket of his jacket, pulls out what looks like a business card, and hands it to Mikah. “I write forPortland Sunrise.” He pauses to give us a second to process the information. “I just wanted to say I’m very sorry about your loss. The magazine is putting together an editorial about the families of The Crystal Room victims, and I’m working on a story on your brother and was wondering if you were open to speak to me.”

From condolences to business in less than a second.

I see the life draining from Mikah’s face, along with his good mood. He tosses the cigarette on the ground and motions for me to get in the car. I do as he says, heading to the Mustang and quietly slipping into the passenger seat. My anxiety returns and starts to invade my mind.

The man continues, “I really am sorry and I understand how you feel, but if you could just hear me out…”

Mikah jerks the driver’s side door open. “Were you there?” His tone is void of emotion.

“No. I wasn’t,” the reporter responds.

“Then don’t tell me you understand what it’s like to see people you know die right in front of you and not be able to do anything about it.”

He gets into the car and slams the door shut. His anger fills the air.

I want to say something to make Mikah feel better, but the words in my head are all wrong and twisted, so instead, I just rest my hand on his wet shoulder.

He thrusts the key into the ignition and the engine roars to life.

Then we drive back to his place in silence.

* * *

I’m sitting at the kitchen table and on my second beer when Mikah comes out from the shower. He’s changed into a pair of jeans and a clean t-shirt and his mood has improved a little.

We order some Chinese takeout and I seriously consider asking him to let me sleep on his couch. Even if it means spending the night in a place where I shouldn’t be wanting to spend the night.

It’s partially the alcohol talking, but for the most part, it’s the need to change something in my life. There’s also my parents. They haven’t made these past two weeks easy.

---