Page 50 of Discover Me
Micah points at another item, not even attempting to say the name. The waiter nods and disappears, taking our menus with him.
We sit there in uncomfortable silence, surrounded by watching eyes and barely concealed cameras. This is nothing like the easy comfort of eating at my apartment, laughing over cooking disasters and feeding each other fruit. This is a performance, every moment choreographed and observed.
The wine arrives first, poured with ceremony that feels ridiculous. Then plates appear, artfully arranged with tiny portions that look like abstract art. I stare down at what I ordered and my stomach drops.
"Kellan." Micah's voice is strangled. "What did you order?"
I look at his plate, then mine, seeing the same thing. Small shells arranged in a spiral, butter sauce pooled around them. I pull out my phone and quickly search the menu item I butchered.
"Fuck." I look up at Micah. "I ordered the snails. We both ordered snails."
Micah stares at me for a beat, then starts laughing. Not polite restrained laughter, but genuine uncontrolled laughter that makes other diners turn to look. His whole body shakes with it, his good hand pressed to his chest.
"You ordered fucking snails!" He gasps out between laughs. "At a fancy restaurant where everyone is watching and taking photos!"
I can't help but laugh too, the absurdity of the situation breaking through my frustration. "In my defense, I couldn't read the menu!"
"Neither could I!" Micah wipes tears from his eyes. "This is going to end up all over the internet."
"Probably." I pick up my fork, examining one of the snails. "Should we try it? We paid for it."
"When else are we going to eat snails?" Micah picks up his own fork.
We try them at the same time. The texture is rubbery and weird, the butter sauce doing nothing to improve the situation. We both grimace simultaneously, struggling to swallow without gagging.
"You know that this shit is going to end up online," I say, setting my fork down. "Us making faces at expensive French food."
"I don't care." Micah pushes his plate away. "This is gross. How long do we have to stay here?"
"Not a second longer than necessary." I signal the waiter, pulling out my wallet. "Check please."
The waiter looks scandalized that we're leaving after barely touching our food, but I don't care. I throw down enough cash to cover the meal and a generous tip, then grab Micah's hand. We practically run out of the restaurant, ignoring the stares and whispers.
Outside, a few fans approach asking for signatures. I sign quickly while Micah stands close, his presence grounding me. The fans ask questions about our relationship and I give vague positive answers, just wanting to escape.
"Let me put in an order real quick." I pull out my phone once the fans disperse. "There's this greasy burger place across from my apartment. Best fries in the city, burgers that actually tastelike food. Real portions, none of that tiny artistic arrangement bullshit."
"I'm one hundred percent for that." Micah leans against me, exhausted from the performance we just gave. "Fuck, do people really eat snails? Like, by choice?"
"More often than you'd be aware of, apparently." I finish placing our order, requesting delivery to my apartment. "Tom's probably going to curse me out for leaving the restaurant early, but I don't care. This was supposed to be a date, not a photo op."
"As long as this evening ends in greasy food and your bed, I don't care what Tom says." Micah's voice is firm.
"I can definitely do that." I pull him closer, pressing a kiss to his temple.
Kellan
The next morning, Micah comes with me to the practice rooms. I'm not scheduled with the band today, choosing instead to do independent practice and work on some personal projects Tom doesn't need to know about. The small practice rooms are quieter than the main space, more intimate, perfect for working through ideas without an audience.
I grab one of the guitars from the rack, this beautiful acoustic that rarely gets used since we're primarily an electric band. The wood is warm under my hands, familiar and comforting. I'vebeen working on a melody for about a year now, something softer and more vulnerable than anything Lunar Ransom would ever record. Something that's just mine.
I start playing, fingers finding the chords automatically. Then I hum along, letting the melody guide my voice. It's rough, unpracticed since I don't usually sing. But it feels good to use my voice like this, to create something complete rather than just providing the rhythm section.
"I had no idea you could sing." Micah's voice startles me and I look up to find him watching with an expression of wonder.
I shrug, slightly embarrassed at being caught. "I told you I did a little bit of everything before the band. Vocals, piano, guitar, drums. Jack of all trades, master of none. I haven't been in this room for a while though. It's easier to just focus on drums and not think about what else I could be doing."
Micah moves to the piano in the corner, an old upright that's probably been here since the building opened. He sits down and plays a simple tune, just four notes repeated. "I know that and that's it. My dad tried to teach me when I was a kid but I never had the patience for it."
