Chapter 18 Regrets
Several minutes slip by in silence before Michael tilts his head, studying me like I’ve gone slightly out of focus.
“You’re awfully quiet,” he says.
I huff out a breath. “I always am. If you’re looking for lively banter, you might want to keep shopping.”
It’s meant to be deflection, a neat little wall. It doesn’t work. He shakes his head once, bites into his burger, chews thoughtfully. Then his gaze comes back to me, steady and unamused.
“No,” he says. “Something’s up.”
There’s a certainty in his tone that lands harder than I expect. Not accusatory. Not invasive, just.... sure. I feel seen in a way that makes something in me go very still, like an exposed nerve deciding whether it hurts or not.
I shrug, because that’s what I do when I don’t want to open my mouth and let everything spill out. “I’m conserving my energy.”
“For what?”
“For surviving tomorrow.”
He nods solemnly, like I’ve just revealed a battle plan. “A noble cause.”
I tell myself this is where we’ll go quiet again. That silence is safer. But part of me doesn’t want him to stop talking. And apparently, he senses that too. After a moment, he says, almost casually, “You don’t seem like the type who survives his days.”
I turn my head, brow arching. “Yeah? What do I seem like, then?”
He shrugs, like the answer costs him nothing. “The type who lives them.”
The words land and don’t move. They sit there, heavy and invasive, like they’ve found something sensitive I didn’t realize was exposed, pressing straight into it. The rawness surprises me....too close, too accurate. He breathes out slowly, the sound edged with dry amusement and something scraped bare underneath. “Survival’s more my lane.”
I look at him then. At the way he holds himself like momentum is the only thing keeping him upright. Like stopping would mean collapse.
“Is that why you’re planning on resigning?” I ask. “Because you’re on survival mode?”
He chuckles quietly, like the sound surprised him too. Before I can parse it, he reaches over and takes the drink from my hand, right after I’ve sipped it, and drinks from it himself. Then he sets it down in the narrow space between us on the bench. I absolutely refuse to think about the intimacy of it.
A few seconds pass, then he speaks again.
“Cat or dog?”
I blink, confused, and turn to him, narrowing my eyes. “Excuse me?”
He shakes his head slowly, “Please don’t tell me you’re one of those people who keeps, I don’t know....hedgehogs or racoons as pets.”
I stare at him. “What?”
Before I can even finish asking, he reaches out, fingers threading into my hair. I freeze. My breath catches somewhere low in my chest, like it got stuck on its way out. His hands are warm, combing back the strands at my forehead and along my scalp. It’s simple, mundane even, but there’s a depth in the motion, a quiet insistence that makes my pulse sharpen.
“Better,” he murmurs after a beat, voice low, still letting his hands linger. Then slowly, he lets go, as if teasing me with the memory of his touch. His fingers gesture down toward my suit jacket. “You’re covered in fur.”
I glance down, frowning for a beat before the thought clicks. “Oh.” A small smile tugs at my lips. “Cat. Her name's Ember. She’s orange, likes to cling to me whenever she's not knocking over everything I care about.” I find myself smiling properly now, talking about her as if she’s light enough to hold in words.
When I look up, Michael is smiling at me too. His eyes dart across my face, lingering in a way that makes me blink, but I don’t look away. There’s relief there, I think. Subtle....like a quiet release, like he’s finally able to breathe again, letting his shoulders drop into something like ease without making a show of it. I realize this is the first time in ages I’ve said Ember's name out loud to someone who actually seems interested. The thought is bitter-sweet.
I almost pull out my phone to show him pictures of her.....this ridiculous, impulsive urge to prove she exists.
Michael laughs softly, leaning back slightly. “Damn lucky cat,” he says, eyes tracing mine again, like he’s marking how alive I get when I talk about her. “Can I meet her sometime? I’d like to get some pointers from her.”
“On what?”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “How to win you over.”
I shrug, a practiced motion, but there’s a hitch in it, an awareness. I know what he’s doing. I know I’m letting him. After a moment, I say, “Maybe.”
He nods, like that’s enough. Like he’s already filed it somewhere important. Then, with a faint smile that’s all confidence, he adds, “I’m good with maybes, I've survived worse odds.”
He closes his box, wipes his fingers on a paper towel, and sets everything neatly aside. Then, too casually, he asks why I ran off earlier. At the coffee shop.
I lift the Diet Coke, pause mid-sip. My eyes flick to him without my head following.
“I didn’t,” I say defensively, and then I drink.
Michael inhales slowly through his nose. “You did.”
I turn. He’s tilted his head, studying me like a puzzle he’s already enjoying not solving. “Do I by any chance remind you of a toxic ex?”
“I don’t have a toxic ex.”
“Everyone has a toxic ex.”
“I don’t.”
“Then,” he says gently, almost fond, “....statistically speaking, you were the toxic ex.”
I scoff, shake my head. A beat passes, and something in me settles just enough to speak honestly-adjacent. “I told you. I’ve got a lot going on.”
“For instance?”
“It’s personal.”
He hums. “That either means you’re incredibly emotionally layered,”...he gestures vaguely“....or you’re a serial killer. No in-between.”
His eyes widen like a thought has just clicked into place. He looks around the empty park, at the shadows, then lowers his voice. “Is that why you invited me out here? Secluded. Dark. Scenic. Is this where you bury the bodies?”
“I didn’t invite you,” I point out. “You invited yourself.”
He considers that, nods once. “Classic deflection,” he murmurs. “They always say that.”
“By they, you mean all the other serial killers you've met?”
“Naturally.”
“So, I'm not your first?....ouch.”
His mouth twitches, I fight mine. Our eyes lock in a silent standoff, neither willing to break. I can’t hold it for long. There's heat crawling up my neck, and I break first....an awkward, guilty smile slipping out. His eyes are too focused, too penetrating. I look away, caught off guard by the intensity, the way they seem to measure everything he’s not saying, every pause he tries to hide.
I can feel his gaze, like heat pressing against my skin. I’m too much of a coward in this moment to meet it again, so I stare at the bench, at the empty space beside me, anything but him.
Finally, he speaks, cutting through the quiet. “Do you ever feel like you missed a version of yourself?” he asks. “Like there was another path you almost took. And now you’re stuck wondering if that guy would’ve been happier.”