Page 59 of The Roads We Follow

His words knock hard against my chest. “That’s not what’s happening here, Micah.” I disconnect my gaze from this intense staring match, only to realize our hands are still entwined. “I know my family. News like this will throw everyone into chaos.” I gesture again to Hattie. “It will be best if I have a prepared solution at the ready when I tell them. I need to be certain.”

“Is that the same logic you apply to Tav—that you need to be certain before you discuss your relationship?”

He must anticipate my reaction because he loosens his grip a second before I pull my hand away.

“That’s ... that’s not the same thing at all.”

“Okay,” he says simply.Toosimply.

“What do you mean byokay?”

“Exactly what it sounds like.” He smiles annoyingly. “If you say it’s not the same, then it’s not.”

I study him suspiciously, and he leans back, planting his palms on the mattress behind him while his biceps put on a show that is not appropriate for the moment. “You think I’m avoiding a conversation with him because I don’t know how I feel?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think. What do you think?”

“For not working as a therapist right now, that sounds like a verytherapistything for you to ask. For your information, I was the one who ended things between us.”

Something indecipherable crosses over his face. “And yet you’re the one who said things are still complicated between the two of you.”

“Aren’t all breakups complicated at some level?” I ask in earnest. “I’ve known Tav all my life; I can’t just flip a switch and pretend all the history we’ve shared doesn’t matter or that I don’t care about his future. I’m not that kind of person.”

“You’re right,” Micah says. “You’re not that kind of person. I do know that.” There’s a dull ache in my lower belly when he looks away from me. “I’ll make sure you get the privacy you need for that phone call tomorrow with Chip.”

I’m not sure what I’ve done wrong, but I want things to go back to how they were five minutes ago. “Thank you,” I say, my throat suddenly tight. “I appreciate that.”

I scramble to think of a way to get us back to a better place and reach for his mother’s journals when—

“What’s that?”

He captures my left arm mid-reach, and I silently chastise myself for killing the atmosphere even further with the ugly hive vine that is still present despite my half dose of medicine. I open my mouth to dismiss his concern when he strokes his finger from the underside of my wrist to the middle of my forearm. His eyes narrow with concern. I try to pull my arm back. Only, this time, his hold tightens.

“It’s nothing, it’s just—”

“Hives,” he says knowingly. “What are you allergic to?”

“Stress.” I try to say this with casual indifference, but somehow it makes the crease between his eyebrows intensify. “Believe it or not, they actually look better now than they did earlier. I only took a half dose of my antihistamines since I wasn’t sure how Hattie was going to do tonight. They usually take a couple of hours to disappear.”

“How long has this been happening? How often?” he asks in a decidedly doctoral tone.

“A few years. The first time was in the months following my dad’s heart attack.”

Without warning, he releases my arm, stands from the bed, and walks to the bathroom sink. He’s back an instant later with a washcloth. There are no words exchanged as he settles beside me againand presses the cool, damp cloth to my sensitive skin. Technically, I’m the baby in my family, yet given our unique dynamics, I’m rarely the one being looked after in a physical sense.

“Should I call you Dr. Davenport now?” The tease in my voice is thicker than I intend, and though I want to blame it on the antihistamines floating in my bloodstream, I know not even a medically induced coma could mimic the way I feel every time Micah comes close.

“My brother, Garrett, is actually our resident family doctor,” he says, while applying pressure to my arm. “A dermatologist. Any medical tips or tricks I’ve managed to pick up over the years are from him.”

“Are you saying I owe your brother a thank you for his past advice?”

Micah’s gaze pierces me. “Depends on which advice, I suppose. If I’d taken his most recent advice, I never would have met you.”

I wrinkle my eyebrows. “He didn’t support you coming here?”

“He worries I’m becoming too impulsive.”

My breathing shallows as I contemplate the possibility of never having met Micah, and there’s no doubt in my mind how not-a-fan I am of that equation. “I’m glad you didn’t listen to him. You were meant to be here. With us. With me.”

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