Better to Ask Forgiveness

Nimüe woke up on the couch. Her mouth tasted like ass, but considering how much she’d had to drink, she felt good. Micah was slumped on the floor, half-hidden under the coffee table. Nimüe tried to step over him to get to the kitchen, but he woke up and knocked her over. She landed hard on her elbows. “Ow.”

“Oh, jeeze, sorry.” Micah rubbed his forehead. “Why do I feel like I got hit by a truck?”

“We ran out of wine,” said Nimüe, “so you thought it would be a good idea to break in to my bourbon. It is never a good idea to break in to my bourbon, by the way.”

“Got that now.” Micah rubbed his forehead. “So what are you going to do?” Nimüe looked at him blankly. “About Carolyn. Unless you want her to keep running like a scared little rabbit.”

Nimüe squinted her eyes shut. “It is too early to talk about this. And my mouth tastes like junk.” She pushed herself to her feet and walked into the kitchen, running the water until it was freezing. She took two glasses of water back to the living room and squatted next to Micah.

He took one glass. “It’s never too early. Take her out to breakfast or something. Spell out ‘sorry I was a jerk’ with syrup. A little rom-com goes a long way.”

Nimüe gave Micah the evil eye over her glass, but she didn’t speak until she had finished her drink. Now her mouth tasted like watered-down ass, but it was better than nothing. “You realize that I know you are only pushing this so hard so I will not ask questions about why you got a tattoo related to the person who cut you out of their life.”

Micah looked away. “Can you blame me?” he muttered. “I hate the way you look at me sometimes. I told you. It’s okay.”

Nimüe watched him for a moment, and then she sighed. “Whatever. I just… don’t want to push this.”

“Trust me when I say you cannot let shit like this fester. And you know I have experience with it, so don’t say a word.” He leaned back on his elbows. “If you go and do it now, you can make it into a joke—something you guys can laugh about when everything’s back to normal and you’re teaching her about the value of Q or whatever.”

“Q isn’t a fixed constant,” said Nimüe faintly.

Micah shot her a dirty look. Nimüe pretended to look abashed.

Micah turned to face her, putting his arms on his knees. “Look. Life is a lot simpler when you ditch politeness for honesty.”

Nimüe knew exactly who told Micah that, but she said nothing. It didn’t invalidate his argument, after all. Good advice was good advice, even if it came from someone who broke his heart.

“She’ll appreciate it. Trust me.”

Nimüe bit her lip. “…What if I just fuck it up more?”

“Then you keep apologizing ‘til you get it right. She knows you’re trying. That counts for—for a lot.” He closed his eyes for a moment; one hand came up to scratch the fresh tattoo on his bicep.

“Stop that. You’ll make it scar.”