Page 62 of Micah
The dining room smells faintly of lemon cleaner and barbecue sauce as I line freshly polished pint glasses along the shelves behind the bar.
One.
Two.
Three.
The rhythm usually calms me.
Tonight?
Not so much.
Because every time the front door jingles, my stupid heart hopes it'll be him.
It isn't.
By the fourth false alarm, I roll my eyes at myself.
Get a grip.
The man changed your air filter and stole a kiss.
He didn't propose.
The back door slams hard enough to rattle the liquor bottles.
I jump.
Patrick stumbles inside.
Immediately something feels wrong.
Off.
He reeks.
Not just of beer.
Whiskey too.
Strong enough that I can smell it from fifteen feet away.
His eyes are bloodshot.
Not tired.
Wild.
His pupils are blown wide despite the bright lights overhead.
His movements are jerky.
Too fast.
Too sharp.
Like he's vibrating beneath his own skin.
