Page 25 of Possessed By Shadows

Chapter 7

We walked home in silence. It wasn’t far, but I was slow, trying to clear my head and not bring the heavy emotions home.

The streets this far from the Quarter and the bars were empty. I was tired. Not enough sleep the prior night and too much family to deal with. “Must be nice having family across the globe instead of in your business all the time,” I grumbled.

Micah laughed as he opened the gate, tugging me down the path. “It is sometimes, and my parents are great.” He paused. “Most of the time. When my dad isn’t being disappointed that I’m not a teacher.”

“You are a teacher, just not that kind. And they are pretty great,” I agreed. “I still need to build a new shelf to fit all those history books your dad sent.” In four different languages too, Chinese, Japanese, English of course, and French. How had I not known Micah spoke French? He claimed he didn’t, but he could read it just fine. He claimed his Korean was better spoken than his French, but both needed work. I promised we’d practice the French at some point, since it was one of the handful of languages I’d mastered in my military career.

“I’ll add it to your honey-do list,” he teased. He unlocked the door and we were greeted by Jet, singing happiness at our arrival. I booped the cat’s nose and gave him some rough side scritches we affectionately called the ‘kitty carwash.’ After a minute he headed to Micah for more attention. Jet was a bit of an attention whore.

There was no sign of Precious, the ghost cat, and I turned on the lights, heading into the kitchen. “Let me make you a sandwich.”

“I can cook for myself,” Micah said.

But I needed to be busy. “Please?” A thousand questions unspoken, and of course Micah seemed to understand them all.

“Sure,” he agreed. He hung our bags up by the door and found his way to the craft end of the room, pulling out the sewing machine as I set about creating a sandwich for him. “Make two,” he instructed.

And I did. Without question. People might look at Micah and I together, him small, pretty, and half Asian, and me tall, a bit broad, and half Black, and think I was the dominant of the two. I could handle a dozen different guns and follow orders, but it was Micah I submitted to. Part of it was comfort level. He’d never hurt me. He always had my best interests at heart, even if sometimes it was hard. He could be very matter of fact if necessary, or just as flighty as me. And I sort of loved him for that.

Heat filled my cheeks as I thought about him issuing orders as I made sandwiches and warmed them in the press we’d been sent by his mother. “I love you,” I said, not sure he would hear, as he was moving around, opening up the table, plugging things in, and setting out cutting mats and tools.

“I love you too,” he said. The words came a lot easier to both of us than they had months ago, but it wasn’t much about words anymore. It was the little things, like the fact that he watched everything I did, and tried to understand, offer support, and right now distraction, as I suspected we would be sewing. “Who did you make the soldier wallet for?”

It took a few seconds to process his question as I was focused on pulling the first sandwich out of the press without burning myself on the fake cheese. “Lukas. I’m sorry if that makes you mad. I can pay for the fabric. I know it was expensive.”

My worry had translated to making something for my brother. He had never declined something we made for him, and even used some of the stuff, but I didn’t think he had the glowing opinion of any of it that Micah’s parents had. The American mindset was an odd thing, handmade equaled low quality for some reason, despite taking four times the work of something made on an assembly line. “He probably won’t even care for it anyway.”

Micah wrapped his arms around me from behind, kissing the back of my neck. “I’m not mad. Don’t worry about the fabric.” His embrace was warm, arms firm, and strong. People underestimated him all the time. They saw small, and pretty, and thought weak. They were stupid. Micah was incredible, and I was so happy he was mine.

I turned in his arms to hold him, and hug him tight. “Your sandwich is done,” I said into his hair, breathing in the scent of him. The second sandwich was cooking.

“Thank you. Did you put real cheese on the second sandwich?”

And I had, without thinking, I’d made one for him and one for me, just like I always did. “I’m sorry, did you want the second one? I wasn’t thinking.”

He grinned and kissed me lightly on the lips. “No, it was meant to be for you. Can you eat now? I know you didn’t eat much at the shop.”

And I was hungry. Finally. The weight in my gut lessened and the world began to turn back to normal. We were home in our space, not in some war zone. My father was not a battle to survive, even if it felt that way sometimes.

“I could use a banana,” I said, half teasing.

“You can have my banana after dinner,” Micah promised as the press beeped.

“I thought we were going to sew?” I let him go reluctantly so I could take out the second sandwich. He cut his into four triangles. I cut mine in half on the diagonal.

“Maybe. But food first, yeah?”

“I could eat,” I said, following him to our tiny dining table, his hand grasped in mine. No matter how scattered I got, Micah remained my one focal point, like a buoy in the ocean keeping me on course.

The sandwich was good. The company was better. Micah sitting across from me talking about a plan for an upcoming quilt-along class, and Jet in my lap. I ate slowly, absorbed in them, even if I was only half hearing everything he said. He turned his phone to show me a picture. It was of a quilt that looked really complicated, but beautiful.

“It looks hard.”

“It’s just different size HST blocks.”

I smiled because it was the language. Almost foreign as it was broken down into acronyms and terminology most never heard. But I was good at languages, and I’d learned a lot about a dozen different crafts from my very creative boyfriend. “Half square triangles.”