Page 44 of Never Been Shipped

Micah used the woman’s Sharpie to scrawl her jagged signature on the plastic case, adding anXover herilike she always used to do. Her handwriting certainly hadn’t improved since she was a teenager. If anything, it had devolved.

“Could you get Ryder to sign it, too?” the woman asked.

“Tell you what,” Micah said, giving the woman a wink. “I can get you the whole band. Give me a second.”

It was a terrible idea, not least of which was because if Micah did this for one person there would soon be a whole crowd of people requesting the same thing. But she wanted to have an excuse to approach John, and she figured this was as good as any.

She went to Frankie and Steve first, since they were hanging out on the sidelines, chatting with a few members of the Silver Cuties who’d shown up. Then she went to Ryder, who was predictably annoyed to be interrupted in the middle of the game, even though as far as she could tell all he was doing was standing there watching discs slide toward him.

“You don’t have to do everything a fan asks you to,” Ryder muttered while he scribbled a hugeRthat took up most of the remaining empty space. “They’re called boundaries, Micah, you should look into them.”

“When I want to set a boundary,” she said, “I do.Youshould know that better than anyone.”

His gaze flickered up to hers, and for a second she saw—what was that? Guilt? Fear?

But no, she was projecting. Ryder was too self-centered to feel emotions that took other people into account. He thrust the CD case at her, turning back toward the game in a dismissal that made her feel likeshewas the fan trying for an autograph. Maybe she’d draw devil horns on his picture on the cover. For a laugh.

Then it was time for John. The shuffleboard court suddenly felt longer than it had seemed only a few moments before, andshe felt strangely exposed and self-conscious as she headed toward him. It felt like walking the plank.

No, that wasn’t right—it was an analogy that had occurred to her only because they were on a ship. It was more like when the teacher called on you in class and you had to head up to the board to work out a math problem in front of everyone, and you could feel all their eyes on you.

But that wasn’t right, either. She did feel like everyone was looking at her, but she found she didn’t care. The only person she cared about was John, who’d been in the middle of talking to Tatiana but broke off when he saw her heading toward him. Now he was watching her, an expression on his face that looked almost…

It felt like walking down the aisle.

Sailing had been much smoother since that first night, thankfully, but Micah still stumbled a little as she approached them, and John’s hand shot out to steady her.

“You good?” It was a variation of the same thing he’d asked immediately after they’d hooked up earlier—Are we good?She was starting to think that an honest answer to that question might be the scariest thing of all.

“Yeah,” she said. “Sorry. I was just—”

It seemed so silly now, coming all this way so he could sign a CD. Shedidfeel like the fan, putting herself out there. She was also conscious of Tatiana standing nearby, and even if she might’ve entertained a very tiny, she-didn’t-want-anyone-to-get-hurt-actually fantasy of the beautiful actress somehow falling overboard only a few minutes before, she wasn’t about to be rude.

“Hi,” she said. “I’m Micah, from ElectricOh!.”

“I know who you are,” Tatiana said. “It’s so good to meet you.”

And then she did the most surprising thing. She ignored Micah’s outstretched hand and gave her a big hug instead, squeezing her like they were long-lost friends. It was the only thing that got John to drop his own hand, which had still been clutching the back of Micah’s elbow.

Fuck. Tatiana was supernice. Micah didn’t know exactly what she’d planned when she’d approached them—as much as a primal part of her had wanted to stake her claim on John somehow, she knew she couldn’t do that. Any public display of affection was too public, and anyway, what claim? And whatever her private feelings, she wasn’t about to be snarky toward some woman just for having the gall to enjoy John’s company.

But Tatiana was so beautiful, and so fucking nice, if it weren’t for the fact that Micah felt impossibly depressed by the thought, she’d almost ship them herself.

“Let’s get the three of you together,” a voice said from behind them, and Micah turned to see one of the official cruise photographers, gesturing for them to get closer for a picture. Micah tried to let Tatiana take the middle, because she figured that was how the photographer would want it, but Tatiana ducked around so that Micah was in the middle instead. She barely had time to register John’s hand at the small of her back, a flash of a camera, and then the moment was over.

John had always hated taking pictures, but at some point there was no getting out of it. She had so many photos with him from when they were younger, an almost incalculable amount—promo shots, press coverage, a few candid ones that meant more to her than any of the posed ones. She thought suddenly of the creased photograph she still had stuck in the pages of a book in her apartment, of the two of them sitting outside the band roomin high school, Micah cross-legged in the grass and in the middle of saying something, John leaning back on his hands with his legs stretched out, laughing.

“You wanted me to sign that?” he asked, pointing to the CD case in her hand.

“Oh,” she said. “Yes. Sorry, I’m holding up the game.”

She handed the CD to John, who started trying to sign it with the shuffleboard cue still in his hand, then crouched, bringing his knee up to give himself some support.

“Here,” Micah said, reaching out to grab the stick, then turning around to present her back to John. “Use me.”

There was a pause before he lifted her braid, setting it over her shoulder. She felt the whisper of his hand over the back of her neck, like he was pushing stray tendrils of hair out of his way, but she knew he hadn’t had to do that. And then she felt the pressure of the CD case against her shoulder blades, heard the squeak of the marker as he must’ve signed his name. He’d always signedJohn P., which she found cute for some reason—why the last initial? There was no other John in the band. He also carefully wrote out every individual letter, which was more than anyone else did. It really didn’t look like a rock star’s autograph. It kind of looked like how you might sign a polite note to your neighbor.

When he was done, she turned around. He was holding out the Sharpie and the signed CD, but his gaze slid from the askew neckline of her T-shirt to her mouth before he finally smiled at her. “There you go.”

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