Dropping the Ball

24. Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty

Kaitlyn

“I wasn’t lying, you know.” Micah’s voice is mellow. Quiet.

“Lying about what?”

He doesn’t answer at first, instead combing several strands of my hair through his fingers at once, causing another shiver, sending more heat down my spine.

“This. Your hair. I always thought it was pretty.” He winds a lock of it around his finger.

“Thanks to two hours in a salon chair every eight weeks.” I try to sound dry. I sound breathless instead.

“It was pretty before. I had a lot of time in ninth grade to notice, since I sat behind you in Chinese the whole year. It was shiny. Like polished sugar pine.”

I make sure my voice is steadier this time. “That’s the nicest way anyone has ever said dishwater blonde.”

His arm tightens around me, like he’s putting me in check. “Who is the artist here? I know what I meant. I always thought it looked so soft.” He twirls a different strand around his finger. “It is.”

I take the compliment, relaxing even more against him, something I didn’t think possible when I was already boneless.

We fall quiet, and it’s a loaded silence. It’s the kind of silence before the tension bubble at the top of an overfull cup breaks. I could live in it forever. I will die if it doesn’t end now .

I make the quarter turn.

Micah’s hand freezes, but he doesn’t loosen the curl. “Kaitlyn?”

I understand the question. “Yes.”

He understands the answer.

His lips brush mine, featherlight, and a sigh escapes me. As if that’s the final sign he needs, he kisses me again, his lips firm this time, his hand sliding from my hair as he moves it to my side and turns me so we are face-to-face.

If that first touch of our lips was another question, this kiss is an exploration with an edge of urgency, like this has been building since the day I bumped into him in his store.

His heart beats faster, matching mine. I affect him. This is not just me. His hands frame my ribcage, shifting me up, his lips dragging against mine to press a kiss against their corner, trailing more kisses to my jawline.

My sighs become more thready with each touch of his mouth, heat blazing along the path it takes, but I’m greedy and drag his lips back to mine, our breath mingling. He makes a soft sound in his throat and kisses me harder. When his tongue brushes mine, the dopamine rush is so intense, I push against his chest on reflex.

He immediately releases me, and I leverage myself to stare down at him, trying to sort through my racing thoughts.

That was amazing.

And stupid.

And better than I ever imagined it could be back when I didn’t know what kissing was.

It’s also the worst timing.

That’s the thought that wins out as I back away.

“This isn’t what I want.” Zero chance I can hold my voice steady. All the breathlessness is back, and I sound dazed.

His answer is a lifted eyebrow.

“This isn’t what I want right now,” I clarify.

He pushes himself up, drawing in the leg that had been keeping mine company against the sofa back and tucking it beneath him, situating himself for this talk.

Because it’s going to be a talk. I can feel it. The weight of things that need to be said.

“I don’t believe you,” he says. “Try again.”

The words should make me angry, but his tone is mild. Almost curious. Still, I can’t let him get away with that.

“Did you just kiss-splain me?” I demand.

“Yeah. I did.”

“You’re supposed to be concerned and ask if I’m okay.”

He crosses his arms. “Are you woman-splaining me?”

“No, that’s called communicating .” Ha. Hillview didn’t have a debate team, but I would have won, obviously.

“You could have said anything else except ‘I don’t want this right now’ and I would say it was communicating. But that was fire, Katie. Are you trying to communicate something different?”

I draw my legs up crisscross style, subtly adjusting my posture to give wise woman vibes. “I didn’t say I didn’t like it.”

“Then say you did.” His face is calm, but his eyes snap.

“Are you daring me?” I ask. “This isn’t high school.”

He leans forward, stopping short of where I would feel the need to scoot back. “Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe this is exactly what we would have done back then if I’d had the guts.”

Whoa. My eyes widen.

“Don’t act like you didn’t know,” he says. “You and your stupid soft-looking hair.” His mouth twitches, and I can’t fight a smile entirely.

“I did use good conditioner,” I concede. The tension is ratcheting down. This is okay. He’s not mad that I broke off our kiss. He’s got an issue with the way I explained it.

“Katie with the good hair,” he murmurs, more of his smile escaping.

“That Beyoncé album was the soundtrack of senior year.”

“It was the best of years, it was the worst of years.”

I tilt my head. “Are you going to quote every book we read or song we heard in high school?”

“No, because that would let you wiggle out of this conversation.” His smile fades and his watchful expression returns. “Tell me what just happened.”

But he’s opened the door, as we say in cross-examinations, and I’m not walking away. “I will if you tell me why it didn’t happen in high school.”

He rubs his lips together, and my pulse ticks up because now I know how they feel.

“Deal,” he says. “But you first.”

I should have an answer for this given how many talks I’ve given myself about why I can’t get distracted right now. But I’d never planned for a conversation about it, and I don’t have the words neatly organized.

“We kissed,” I start. Then I falter because I don’t know how to explain why I stopped the kiss. I take a deep breath. “I feel like every answer I give here makes a lot of assumptions.”

“I won’t hold it against you.”

I rub my hands over my face. “It wasn’t the kiss, because that was . . .”

“Fire,” he supplies.

“Fire,” I agree. “It’s what’s after the kiss. Here come the assumptions. I’m not looking for a relationship right now. I’m not saying you are. Or that if you were, it would be with me. But the way I’m wired, I don’t do casual. And I don’t do complicated. I’ve had one long-term relationship, and it made sense.”

Something flickers through his eyes. Something that says he doesn’t love this answer, but I don’t know how to decode it.

“You think we don’t make sense?” he asks.

“We’d be complicated,” I say. “My last relationship was in law school. Similar schedules, similar goals. Same workload. We didn’t have a problem making time when we could, didn’t have issues when we couldn’t.”

“Sounds hot.”

“Micah . . .”

He shrugs. “I’ve got a relationship in my past too. College. It was opposite of yours. It was intense and made no sense at all.”

Another burst of hot prickles surges in my chest, but it has an acidic edge. Note to self: Google emotional acid reflux.

“It’s a strange feeling to be hungry for someone all the time,” he continues, his tone almost distracted, like he’s gone inside a memory. “To lose sleep or an entire day because you’re so wrapped up in them.”

I hate her. I give him my politely interested face. “Why aren’t you with her?”

He blinks and focuses on me. “Figured some stuff out. Story for another time. Maybe you and I both got it wrong, but if I had to pick, I’d still take wild over ‘making sense.’”

Me too, and that’s the problem. That is what the energy feels like between Micah and me. Despite his gentle teasing and low-key invitations to dance or trick-or-treat, despite his ability to read and meet a need with breakfast burritos and gift shop sweats, the truth came roaring out in that kiss.

“Fire,” I say aloud. “It shouldn’t mean good when it’s almost always a bad thing. I don’t have time to burn my life down right now. I’m barely holding it together”—failing utterly—“getting this gala delivered for Madison. And when I’m not there, I’m in my study, falling asleep on that sofa every night. And as soon as I pass the Texas bar, I have to study for the California bar because we do so much business out there.”

Micah rubs his hand over his hair, mussing it as he studies me. I feel see-through again, like the day his friend shouted at me from the soccer pitch about how I liked Micah. Except this time, I told on myself.

I shift on the sofa cushion, trying to get more comfortable. “I’m not saying you want a—”

“Don’t.” He says it quietly. “You assumed right about what I want. But you’re wrong that we don’t make sense.”

“We don’t.”

“Kaitlyn.” He looks me dead in the eye. “I can prove you’re wrong.”

I have never felt such an equal and opposite internal reaction. Roller coaster covers it, only it’s the giddy stomach drop feeling of the plunge and the terrified head feeling of the climb at the same time . I spent my entire senior year fighting this feeling.

Failing to fight this feeling.

Being older and wiser now doesn’t mean anything when the feeling is even stronger. When I want to believe that Micah can make a case for us. And I can’t stop myself from reaching for the chance.