“Yeah. I’m not.” His face said otherwise.
“You’re always amazing with fans. It’s not like they’ll all turn on you overnight because some people are telling stories on some remote blog.” When that didn’t seem to reach him, I added, “I can promise you it’s nothing Andy would ever want to pursue. Small potatoes.” But in all honesty, if Micah’s agent had found the story, Andy would have, too. And during a slow news week, he could very well milk a story that made Micah appear like an ungrateful brat. And he’d probably expect me to back it up.
Micah wrapped his arms around me. “Seriously. It’s no big deal.” But the air sparked with nervous energy, and we rode in silence for a while.
When his phone rang again, he sat up and spoke in monosyllabic answers.
“Yes.”
“Six.”
“No.”
“Fine.”
This time, he hung up smiling.
“What was that?”
“You have to wait and see.” The mischievous tone returned to his voice. He asked the driver to turn on the radio and started singing along with a Steve Miller Band song, ignoring my interrogating eyes. I leaned my head against him and felt his shoulders relax.
When we got to his place, he practically giggled as he unlocked the front door. Heavenly smells floated from inside his apartment, and he dragged me to his kitchen.
I followed confused. “What’s going on?”
A stranger stood in the kitchen wearing a white chef coat and chopping an onion. “Good evening, ma’am,” he said to me. “Sir.”
Micah’s glee exploded all over his face. “Josie, this is Pratosh. He’s going to cook for us.”
“Pratosh?” I tested out the rusted hinges on a gate that had closed years before and asked, “Nia Malayi kunnu?” Are you Malayali?
Without glancing up from the counter, he asked, “Nia Malaya sansarikkumea?”
I tried to come up with the response, but it had been too long. “No, I can’t anymore.” Time had eaten away at another connection to half my identity and stolen another piece of my dad away from me.
Micah’s eyebrows pressed together as he tried to make sense of the conversation, so I filled him in. “He asked if I speak Malayalam. You hired a Malayali chef?”
“I thought I’d surprise you with something completely different.”
I shook off the unwanted emotional intrusion. “I haven’t spoken Malayalam since—” My traitorous voice made me sound upset when I wasn’t.
Micah looked horrified. “Oh. I’m sorry. I figured—”
“No, it’s fine. It’s a lovely reminder. I haven’t had Kerala cuisine since I was a kid.”
I scanned the foods lining the counter, surprised that it all looked like something I could eat. After the afternoon at Micah’s mom’s, I’d worried I was always going to be rummaging through cabinets for leftovers and accidentally edible extras. “Pratosh, this all looks wonderful. Thank you.”
Pratosh placed a bowl in front of Micah. “I’m mixing together ginger, green chilies, turmeric, and coconut milk.” He stirred the mixture and handed the bowl to Micah.
I tilted my head as Micah began to whisk the ingredients. His ebullient grin returned. “Pratosh is going to teach me to cook.”
It wasn’t lost on me that what Pratosh was teaching Micah to cook was healthy food. Pratosh emptied a plastic bag of shrimp into another bowl. “Ma’am, do you eat shrimp?”
“Yes, Pratosh. I love shrimp.”
He rinsed the shrimp and passed them to Micah. “Drop these into the sauce to coat.”
They worked together cooking the shrimp, tossing the salad, plating the meal, and serving it onto the table.
Micah set out glasses. “What do we have to drink, Pratosh?”
“Strawberry-lemon-infused water, sir.”
Pratosh set a pitcher of pink water on the table, and Micah poured me a glass.
I took a sip. “Wow. This is amazing, Pratosh. Do you know how much sugar is in this?”
“Three grams per glass, ma’am.”
“Unbelievable.” It tasted sweet and so cold and delicious.
Micah couldn’t contain his happiness. “You like it?”
I leaned over the corner of the table and met him for a kiss. “I can’t believe you did this. It’s incredible.”
“Pratosh, what’s for breakfast?”
“It’s a surprise, sir.”
Breakfast? “Pratosh, are you staying here?”
“No, ma’am.”
Micah explained. “Pratosh specializes in tailored menus. I hired him to come cook us dinner, but also teach me to fish, so to speak. I don’t want you to have to dig up peanut butter and crackers ever again.”
“I don’t know what to say. Thank you. I’m blown away.”
“Oh, and Pratosh, did you do the other thing?”
“Yes, sir.” Pratosh opened the fridge and displayed a stack of plastic restaurant-like boxes. He pulled one out. Inside, he’d packed an assortment of small foods. It looked like an elaborate snack box. The one he showed me had a small sandwich of some variety made with wheat bread, a couple of carrot sticks, a small box of milk, and almonds.
Micah said, “So you don’t go hypo.”
“Go hypo?” I cracked up. “Have you been researching?”
“I wanted to understand what you’re dealing with. I don’t know how you do it, Josie. I’d lose my mind. But you just deal with it. You’re incredible.”
“You are. I am overwhelmed.”
“Well, let’s eat. The shrimp is getting cold.” He looked over at our chef. “Pratosh, how do you say shrimp in Mala—” He made a face at me.
I helped him out. “Malayalam.”
Pratosh said, “Cem’mn.”
Pratosh and I exchanged an amused glance when Micah tried to repeat it. Undaunted, he asked, “How do you say, ‘You have beautiful eyes.’”
“Nia maneaharamaya kaukau.”
Micah’s face dropped. “What about just ‘beautiful.’”
“Maneaharamaya.”
Micah repeated it, kind of. Close enough anyway.
I said, “Nandi. It means ‘thank you.’”
“Why do you get the easy one?”
I ran my finger across his cheek. “Micah, you are maneahara-maya. And not bad looking either.”
As we ate, I told him more about my trip to Kerala as a child. “I was only there for a week, but those memories are more vivid to me than most of my memories of high school.”
“We should go there.”
“I’d love to go there with you.” I pictured myself introducing Micah to my dad and wondered if we’d end up in the same shouting match Dad had had with his father. It’s funny who we let influence our lives.
I thanked Pratosh for the wonderful meal and said to Micah, “It was sweet of you to do all this. Thank you for going to all the trouble.”
“You asked.” He poured himself another glass of the strawberry-lemon drink.
“What?”
“The first night you stayed here. Or that morning. You asked me to have more food.”
“I did?”
“You scared the hell out of me that morning. This is something I can do, Josie. This doesn’t have to be so hard. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“I want to make you happy. And healthy. And just . . . here.”
After we burned off the calories from supper and spent ourselves so thoroughly Micah fell asleep even before me, I snuggled against him and processed everything I’d experienced during the day. Micah’s family proved that he’d been raised with an example of a long-term stable relationship, and yet so far in his life, he’d chosen to pursue short-lived shallow affairs that meant nothing. Why had he singled me out for his first attempt at something real?
Meanwhile, I was the offspring of a broken home, always on high alert to stay away from anyone who might turn out to be like my dad. So why had I gone straight for the one guy who’d burned through probably dozens of women, pro
ving time and time again that he couldn’t be counted on to make a failing romance work?
More importantly, why was I letting him lure me in?
It troubled me that I wasn’t troubled. Despite all the historical evidence against him, I wanted to trust Micah. But I couldn’t figure out for sure whether my desire to trust him was blinding me to any warning signs. Was it all wishful thinking?
If I told him I’d had fun, but now I wanted to move on, would he let me go like he had with so many others? Or would he fight for me?
He made a snuffling sound and threw his arm up over his head—something I’d noticed he only did when he was here in his own bed, safe and content.
Tomorrow after work, I’d talk to him about how I was feeling. I closed my eyes and lay awake for another hour, already rehearsing every word.
Chapter 22
In the morning, I nearly cried when Micah set a plate of pancakes on the table before me. Pratosh had shown him how to make them with whole wheat flour, pears, and ginger. He’d jumped out of bed before I woke up and brought me my glucose meter. By the time I’d showered and dressed, he had half the batter sizzling on some kind of state-of-the-art griddle.
He kissed me on the forehead before he joined me with his own plate. “You once told me you hadn’t had pancakes in fifteen years.”
As we ate the decadent and only slightly burned food he’d created (mostly) with his own hands, we had the most wonderfully banal conversation.
I took a bite and moaned with pleasure, and then asked, “What are you going to do today?”
“I plan to burn off this breakfast in my gym, then work on a song I’m writing. Aaaaaaand then I’m going to take a long afternoon nap.” He stretched as if he was going to go to bed the second I left.
I got the impression he threw in the mention of a nap to keep me from interrogating him about the song, so I asked, “What about this song?” His cheeks rose in the first signs of an underground smile, and I knew he was up to something.
Once we were done eating, he sent me off to work—with my snack box and a kiss.
As the driver whisked me away from Micah’s form, receding on the sidewalk, I took stock of my incredible luck—like I’d won the lottery without ever buying a ticket. Could there be a better person in the entire world than Micah? I didn’t think so.
I entered the office for the first time in nearly a week, feeling like I’d been on vacation. I hadn’t seen Zion since Saturday. He gave me a funny look when I passed him, so I grabbed him by the elbow. “I need coffee. Come with me.”
We walked together up to Washington Square Park. He peppered me with questions about Micah all the way, and I told him about driving out to New Jersey and about Pratosh. By the time we got into the park, Zion had all but named our children.
We settled on a park bench to watch people walk their dogs. Zion bumped my shoulder. “Sounds like you’re really happy. Micah’s quite the catch, huh?”
“Yeah, he is. But what’s going on with you and Adrianna?”
He stretched his arms across the back of the bench, one foot crossed over his knee, pleased, downright cocky. “All right. So you know how she followed me on Twitter?”
“Yeah.”
“We started flirting. A lot. It veered off into a very not gray, very not euphemistic, very, very hot conversation. She said she wanted to meet up with me.”
“When was this?”
“Last Friday. I got nervous though and told her the truth. I explained that I’d never been with a woman before, but that I was willing to give it a try. I wanted her to be prepared in case there was an epic failure to connect.”
“So what happened?”
“Friday night, I agreed to meet her at a bar. When she showed, I didn’t even recognize her at first. You’ve seen her now. She changes like a chameleon. We found one of those round booths where we could talk. I scooted beside her, and next thing I knew, she kissed me.”
I elbowed him. “How was it?”
His eyelashes fluttered. “If she’d been dressed in her pop diva magnificence, it would have made me question my identity. But as it was, it felt right. It felt natural. And I knew then.”
“That she’s . . . ?”
“One hundred percent boy.”
“I knew it!” I’d seen her perform her reverse Madame Butterfly in our apartment, so I wasn’t surprised, but still. I felt a stab of remorse for my curiosity. “Oh, my Lord, Zion. I’m sorry for being so nosy. It’s none of my business.”
“Have you ever noticed you only ask the invasive questions when you have no intention of publicizing them? You’re the worst reporter.”
I knocked him with my shoulder. “Takes one to know one.” Zion was sitting on top of a powder keg.
“Ha, yeah. I reckon I’m a spectacular failure in this regard.”
The fact that two tabloid reporters knew her secret raised an important question. “How does that work, exactly? She’s a very public figure.”
He shrugged. “I mean, there have always been rumors, but I figured if they were at all true, she would have gotten caught a long time ago. Can you imagine how many people have to work with her on wardrobe for a single concert?”
“And you have no desire to make a fortune off this information?”
“No way. She’s savvy. She’s prepared for the story to come out eventually. And she’ll share it herself when the time is right. But it would disrupt her career and totally kill her ability to drop into public incognito. And that would kill my chances of having a semi-normal relationship with her. So no. I won’t print this story. And I’m trusting you won’t either.”
“Nope. But why is she trusting us with such a huge secret?”
He leaned his elbows on his knees, hands clasped around his coffee cup, and turned his head up toward me, squinting against the bright sunlight. “Adrianna trusts you because Micah trusts you. Simple as that.”
“And why does she trust you?”
“She doesn’t have much choice, does she? Unless she wants to spend her life locked away, sending text messages. From what she told me, she’s tried it that way, and she’s willing to take calculated risks. I’ve given her my word. I told her I didn’t care one way or the other what was going on with her, but she could tell me. Either way, I want to be with her. And she’s told me everything.”
I arched an eyebrow. “Everything?”
“Yeah. Her whole story.”
We sat in silence while a million questions processed through my brain. None of them seemed appropriate. But this was Zion. “Can I ask you something?”
“Ask me whatever.”
“Is she interested in changing?”
“Doesn’t seem to be. She joked that she’s a heterosexual girl trapped in a gay man’s body.”
I snorted.
“She’s really funny.” He didn’t laugh. Instead, he stared at his fingernails. “Turns out I must be part heterosexual guy because I like her exactly the way she is.” He must have felt as conflicted in the past week as I ever did, but he’d kept it hidden.
“And so she’s, uh—” I blew through my lips, trying to find the right way to ask it.
But Zion read my mind. “Does she identify as female?”
“Is that a terrible question?”
“She’d tell you herself if she were here. Sometimes she identifies as female. Not always.”
“Am I going to have to figure it out? Like should I refer to her with different pronouns?”
Zion laid a hand on mine and rubbed my thumb. “You don’t need to worry about anything. She’ll appreciate that you care enough to want to respect her, but she’s easygoing. People make worse mistakes than grammar.” He shook his head. “And I always thought I had things hard. I can’t even imagine dealing with that. But she just does.”
His comment reminded me of Micah’s reaction to my own burdens. And that brought home just how important this was to Zion. I could get the nuances of Adrianna straight in time. Only one thing matt
ered right now. “You really like her?”
“Yeah. I don’t know how strongly she feels about me, but I figure she’s taking a pretty big risk if she’s not interested in giving things a chance.”
I processed all that, shaking my head at how complicated and simple everything could be at once. “You make it look so easy, Z.” My current drama paled in comparison to what he’d been dealing with.
“Why borrow heartache?” Zion shrugged and tossed his coffee cup into the trash.
His honesty encouraged me, so I dug the snack box out of my backpack and showed it to Zion. “Would you look at this?” It was such a tiny thing. Micah hadn’t even packed it himself. Pratosh had done all the work. But it filled me with happiness.
Zion popped the lid and smiled at the finger sandwiches and cut vegetables. “He really seems to care about you.”
I debated whether or not to confess, but this was Zion, so I blurted it out. “He told me he loves me.”
Zion handed back the snack box with an inscrutable expression. “And?”
“I’ve been thinking about it a lot.” I swallowed down a lump. I’d been resisting the idea that anyone could fall in love so quickly. And Micah had been careful not to say it again, except when it slipped out in those moments of transcendence. “I mean, what does love even mean if you can feel that way in a matter of days?”
I poked around at the contents of the snack box and nibbled on a square cheese sandwich, something my mom would have made me when I was in school. I realized I was crying. And not just a wistful moistening of my eyes. Tears rolled in heavy drops down my cheeks.
Zion reached over and wiped away a tear. “Honey, do the words really matter? You’re holding evidence that you’re important to him, that he’s conscious of what you need. Isn’t that something worth considering?”
A laugh burst out because this one ridiculous thought passed through my mind. “Are you saying, the snack box is love?”
He took my hand. “Jo, I’m like you. I don’t put much faith in professions, but I put a lot of faith into actions—and so do you. I think Micah’s trying to show you what the words mean to him. He’s trying to show you he can be there for you. Do you trust that?”
I wanted to think I could trust him, but that would have to come in time. “I think he’s sincere.” I took a shaky breath. “And I think I feel the same way, too. Is that crazy?”
A Crazy Kind of Love Page 22
