Page 30 of Micah
“So what, you want to…marry me?” She stutters over the word marry. I get it. Her experience of marriage was worse than shit.
“I’d give you my name in a heartbeat.”
Her mouth drops open and her eyes dart over my face. She licks her lips, and tension settles into her shoulders. “I don’t like sex. I don’t think I want a relationship. It’s…they…I don’t want that.”
I shrug again, not at all surprised at her vehemence. “Ok…friends.” I say with a nod. “Want to play a game? I stocked up on board games.”
She freezes, her face stunned at my easy agreement. I hop to my feet, taking a few steps away before turning back to her. “Holly,” I say, infusing her name with all the heat, all the want, I feel. “What you had with Brent was not a marriage. If I were your man, you would never touch a mop again. I would eat fried worms if you went to the effort of cooking them for me. And in bed, baby? I would make you feel so good, you’d order me to put my mouth on you every chance you got. I’d never make you beg. Because serving you? Giving you what you need? That’s what I live for now.”
I take a minute to admire her flushed cheeks, wide eyes and the heaving chest bouncing Minnie up and down, before turning away to find the games. And if I’m walking a little funny, well, it’s a price I’m fucking happy to pay.
15
HOLLY
How can he be this calm?
He dropped a huge bomb in between us, then just asked me to play games like it’s no big deal. My mind is spinning and I can’t seem to focus on anything. And the touches. My God, just when I got used to having him carry me, now he’s constantly touching me. Little caresses on my foot, tucking pillows under my leg, brushing my hair back, all day long.
It’s maddening. I should hate it. It should scare me. But heaven help me, it doesn’t. I think I’m actually starting to…crave them, maybe? I’ve never craved before, but I imagine this is what it would feel like, the tugging in my belly, the restlessness.
“C4,” Micah rumbles, snapping my attention back to our game. He’s on the floor again, smiling up at me as he announces his move. He’s got me and he knows it.
“Hit,” I mutter, hiding my smile as I put a red peg in my aircraft carrier. I haven’t sat and played like this in so long. “We didn’t have games at home. I haven’t played Battleship in twenty years.”
“You didn’t play games with your family?”
“No,” I say “My parents are very…religious. They didn’t approve of idleness.”
Or joy. Or laughter. Or free will.
“Game…idle?” He says with a frown.
“That’s what they said. My time was better spent in prayer or doing chores. We spent most days at the church. It was…strict.”
“Where I grew up, we always had this TV show image of how regular families grew up. Sunday dinners, moms helping with homework, and kisses on the forehead at bedtime. No hitting, no going to bed hungry, no roaches.”He pauses, studying me with a wry smile. “I guess TV families are easier.”
“I used to watch those shows at friends houses sometimes and wish I had a family like that, too. My parents are…hard people. They’re strict and cold and impossible to please.”
“Do you speak to them much? Did they help you with Brent?”
My mouth tightens, an unconscious echo of the way they always looked at me. Like I was wrong. Not good enough. “I haven’t spoken to them in years. By high school, I was avoiding being home as much as possible. I would go to the library at night to read or do schoolwork so I got pretty good grades. I got a partial scholarship to go to college, and took it. I thought it would be harder to leave, but I felt…free, finally.”
“Free?” He asks. “Because you were away from them?”
I nod. “They controlled every aspect of my life. They approved my clothes, what classes I took, who I hung out with. I didn’t get to make any decisions.”
“They really fucking hated you leaving for school then, didn’t they?”
“Oh yeah,” I breathe with a sad laugh. “They were so angry with me when I told them I was going. They weren’t going to support me in any way. When I told them I had a scholarship and would pay for everything myself, well, then they froze me out.” I let the old sadness flow through me. “They didn’t speak to me the whole summer. Not one word. They wouldn’t even make eye contact. My Mom wouldn’t even set a place for me at supper.” I felt like a ghost in my own home. It would have been better to be yelled at, or punished.
At least then I would have felt seen.
“Assholes,” Micah mutters. His eyes are blazing again, but it’s clear it’s anger for me, not directed towards me. It feels…good. Like I might have someone on my side. “How do you treat your own child like that? That’s not family.”
“It was horrible. I felt like I was invisible. F8.” I think I’ve got him now.
He shoots me a cocky smile. “Miss.How did you cope that summer? With your parents being dicks?”
