Page 62 of Pucked Up

"Then I'll come too."

My jaw dropped. I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

He kept going. "We'll find a place. Near the big lake."

Lake Superior. He'd chosen to mention it deliberately. It was a body of water big enough to hold the noise inside his head.

"Okay," I said, my voice catching around the word.

Micah nodded once, like he'd just committed to something that might wreck him. Or save him. Maybe both.

***

We didn't make a list and didn't check the weather. We just started moving, like if we waited too long, the decision might dissolve under us.

Micah opened the closet first—his closet. I'd shoved my things into the bottom drawer weeks ago, too unsure to ask for more space.

I half-expected him to toss a bag in my direction and stay out of the process. Instead, he crouched beside me on the bedroom floor and started folding.

He held up one of his worn blue flannels I'd been living in. "You're taking this one." It still held the faintest trace of him. "You've stretched the shoulders out anyway."

I laughed softly but didn't argue. I folded it carefully like it might break.

Micah didn't pack fast. Every item had to be vetted before it crossed the cabin's threshold. A small tin of balm went in. He also tossed in a tattered paperback missing its cover. There was a backup roll of tape for my shoulder, even though I said I'd pick some up in Marquette.

"I don't want you to get there and realize you forgot the shit that matters." His tone was firm.

We packed the skates I'd borrowed on our excursion to the lake, but I knew I'd need to purchase new ones if my tryout was promising. "I probably don't remember what half of what matters even is."

Micah glanced at me. "That's why I'm coming."

There wasn't a trace of hesitation in his voice. His decision to go wasn't performative. Neither was it a promise made in the heat of the moment. It was a fact. His version of loyalty didn't come with poetry—only follow-through.

I opened my duffel and layered clothes, rolling them tight to save space. When I got to the hoodie I'd stolen off him the second week—the one with the torn cuff and the faded tournament logo—I hesitated. I held it up with both hands.

Micah looked over and nodded once. "That, too."

He walked to the windowsill. There, he picked up the wolf carving. Without saying a word, he brought it over and knelt beside me again. I froze.

He placed it gently into the zippered side pocket of my duffel. His hand lingered on it for half a breath.

"That's not for luck. It's a reminder."

"Of what?"

"That you came back."

My heart fluttered in my chest while he zipped the pocket and stood.

***

That night, Micah fell asleep fast. Maybe he always did after big decisions. Perhaps he could shut it all down once he'd landed on something. Unplug.

I wasn't built that way.

I lay on my side, curled toward him, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest. His arm had draped over my waist without ceremony, heavy and warm.

It was familiar now. That was the strangest part—how used to him I'd become. The weight of his body against mine no longer registered as foreign. I expected it.

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