Michael's Arc

Chapter 4 of 9

Michael carried the book to the register with the address folded in his pocket. He paid, took the bag, and turned for the door. A hand caught his elbow before he reached it. "That's a thick one," she said. He knew the voice before he saw her. Six months since the last fight in her kitchen. Her hair was shorter now. She still stood too close. "Hi," he said. "You're reading again." She smiled like the breakup hadn't happened. "That's new." "It's for a thing." "What thing?" He shifted the bag to his other hand. "Just a thing." She tilted her head. "I was going to text you. My sister's engagement dinner is Saturday. My mom keeps asking where you went." "Tell her I went." "Come with me. One dinner. You always liked her." The old pull was there. Say yes, be easy, keep the peace, lose the week. He thought about the address in his pocket. Wednesday, seven. Four hundred pages. He had already burned one day standing in her kitchen six months ago pretending the fight was his fault. "No," he said. She blinked. "No?" "No to the dinner. No to texting. I'm not doing this again." "Michael." "I mean it. Don't call me. Don't tell your mom I said hi. We're done." Her face changed. The smile went first. "You're being dramatic." "I'm being clear." He stepped around her. "Take care." He pushed through the door before she could answer. Outside he pulled his phone out and blocked her number on the sidewalk. His hands were steady. That surprised him. He went home and read until two in the morning. The next five days folded into pages. He read on his lunch break. He read at the kitchen counter with cold coffee. He skipped the Friday bar and read on the couch while Jake called twice and stopped calling. He finished the last chapter Tuesday night with his eyes burning. Wednesday at ten to seven he stood outside the place she had described. Wooden counter under a low awning. Two lanterns on iron hooks. A carved sign above that read BAR in worn letters. Two stools at the counter, both empty. He checked the paper again. Right address. He took the left stool and set the book on the wood between them. The spine was creased in a dozen places now. A receipt stuck out near the end as a marker. His phone buzzed. Not her. He'd blocked her. He checked it anyway. Unknown number. One line. Running five minutes late. Order me something dark. He put the phone face down. He asked the man behind the counter for two of whatever was darkest. Then he opened the book to the first page and waited for her to arrive.