26. Mickey

CHAPTER 26

MICKEY

Mickey tried not to let the fact that things were going good bother him, but his skin itched with unease. He had an apartment of his own. His bills, few though they might be, were paid. He had food in his fridge, he was finally done painting, and he had Ethan. Ethan, who had come out to his kids with no hiccups. Of course they were happy for him, he'd raised them well.

Mickey tried not to think of his blessings as curses, as things to lose, but he couldn't help the creepy-crawly sensation in the pit of his stomach that something was wrong. Realistically, he knew he was being silly. It was hard to trust good things; that was all this was. He knew that. But knowing it in your head was different from knowing it in your heart.

Mickey envied Ethan sometimes. If things ended between them tomorrow, he'd have the support of his kids. Of the town, really. And Mickey would be alone. It was stupid of him to let his brain wander down the road of doom and gloom, but Mickey had tried to picture how things would look between them if they were good. He saw a future he wanted so bad he couldn't even think of it because it felt like a thousand knives in his chest. It was easier to plan for his despair than it was to think of that simple little dream.

Mickey stuck his hand in his front pocket and traced the hard plastic edge of the guitar pick that Ethan had given him. It had become a touchstone for him. Something small and solid he could cling to when he needed some reassurance. Something real he could hold on to when he wasn't around Ethan and his doubts came creeping in, nipping at the edges of his happiness the way they did now.

With his shift about to start, Mickey had no more time to brood and fret and generally tie himself up in knots. He slipped in the back door that Cyrus propped open sometimes when he was feeling too warm. Mickey tied an apron around his waist and barely resisted the urge to touch the guitar pick again.

Since starting his job at The Anchor, Shane had been the one training him and Mickey rather liked the man. He was slightly older than Mickey, but only by a few years. If Mickey thought about it too much, he'd end up comparing himself to Shane and there was no way he'd come out of that feeling good about himself. Instead, he set about making Shane proud and trying his best to do everything exactly the way Shane had told him.

Despite his good intentions, sometimes Mickey still made mistakes. Like the way he'd mixed that last drink. He knew it was wrong, that he'd gotten the steps mixed up or the measurements or something. But it was all tangled in his head today. He almost wondered if his brain was creating something to be dramatic about.

Shane frowned and gently took the drink from him. He dumped it out and shot Mickey a concerned look.

"How about we try this one again? I'll walk you through it."

Mickey's head felt stuffed full of cotton, but he managed to listen to the instructions Shane gave him. Even though he didn't need them. He knew how to make this drink. It was one of the popular ones, but his brain wouldn't cooperate. He barely made it through pouring the drink.

"Mickey, are you okay?" Shane looked bewildered. Mickey nodded, mute, unable to form words. He felt a lot like he had when he'd made mistakes around Lance. Except Lance would get angry and mean and cut Mickey down. He tensed, his body preparing for an assault that he knew wasn't coming. Bracing himself for words that would never come. Not from Shane.

Mickey tried to speak, but to his horror, no words would come. He nodded again instead. Though he wasn't fine. He knew he'd been through some shit, but it was in the past now and Mickey wanted to move on. He stuffed his hand in his pocket and felt the smooth edges of the guitar pick.

Forcing a breath into his lungs, then another, his ability to speak returned to him.

"Sorry. I—" How was Mickey supposed to explain his weird panic? He wasn't sure he wanted to. Not now anyway. Not here.

"Sorry," he said instead of any explanation. For now an apology would have to do. Even though the shadow of panic still nipped at Mickey's heels, he was determined to ignore it.

Shane put a hand on his shoulder and Mickey reeled a little at the friendly gesture. He still wasn't used to people touching him in a strictly friendly way. Lance's touches had always been sexual, or that one step below violent. The simmering aggression that was meant only to intimidate Mickey into doing what he wanted. And then no one had wanted to touch him at all and that was better than suffering through Lance's bullshit, so he didn't mind at first.

But Shane's hand on his shoulder was steady and strong. His grip was firm without being painful or any shade of aggressive. Shane cared about him, if not as a friend then as an employee. It was enough to quell the fear that quivered inside him, rabbit- scared and small. Not all the way, but enough that he managed a small smile.

"I'm okay," Mickey promised.

"You sure?" Shane asked, not moving his hand. Not yet.

Mickey nodded.

"You can take a break if you need to collect yourself."

"Ethan's stopping by at eight for dinner." Mickey felt his face heat. He'd wanted to lay claim to Ethan, but didn't know if Ethan was going to come out to everyone or just his kids.

Shane smiled at Mickey and nodded. He removed his hand from Mickey's shoulder, leaving him feeling untethered and cold.

"So long as you're sure you're okay."

"I'm mostly okay."

Shane poured a beer for one of the regulars and passed it over with minimal small talk. The regular in question wasn't a man of many words. He came in every few nights, had a couple of beers, and sometimes he ordered dinner. He never talked to anyone more than absolutely necessary before he was gone again.

"I know I'm your boss, Mickey, but I'd also like to be your friend. I know you went through some shit before you landed here. If you ever want or need someone to talk to, I'm pretty good at listening."

Mickey busied himself by polishing glasses that didn't need to be polished just so his hands had something to do. "I'm okay. It just sneaks up on me sometimes. My ex-boyfriend, he was… a piece of shit."

Shane let out a startled laugh before shooting Mickey an apologetic look. "Sorry. That wasn't appropriate."

"Neither was Lance." Mickey let out a breath, a little stunned to notice it was steadier than he'd expected. "He was your bargain basement abusive boyfriend. He didn't knock me around or anything—I had to stay pretty for the cameras, after all. But he was hypercritical of everything I did. And sometimes when I make a mistake, it's like I can still hear him berating me."

"Then I'll just have to say nice things to you when you make mistakes until the voice in your head changes its tune."

Mickey must have looked as confused as he felt because Shane smiled at him, a soft, sad kind of smile that you gave someone who'd clearly been through shit, but maybe they didn't realize how bad their shit was because they were in it and couldn't see how deep it went. But things always looked different from the outside.

"Mistakes are normal, Mickey. No one is perfect and you'll never be thought less of for fucking something up, whether it be something as small as a drink or something way bigger."

"Logically, I know all that." Mickey set down the glass before he polished a hole in the side. He couldn't make himself look at Shane anymore, though.

"Then we'll just have to work on it until you know it illogically too."

Mickey furrowed his brow. "That doesn't even make sense."

"Does it have to?"

He pondered Shane's question for a second before answering. "I don't think so, no."

"Glad we're on the same page." Shane motioned to the other end of the bar where a customer was just sliding onto a stool. "That one's yours."

Mickey fell into the rhythm of serving customers. Of talking and chatting and doing his best to give them an avid listener to share their problems with. The more people shared with him, the less bad he felt about the mistakes he'd made in his own life. By the time eight came around and Ethan stepped foot into the bar, Mickey was in a brilliant mood.

He wanted to launch himself across the bar and drag Ethan into a toe-curling kiss, but settled instead for telling Shane he was taking his break. Sometimes when Ethan came in, he'd sit up at the bar and talk to Shane and Mickey both and he'd order a side of fries and share them with Mickey. But today Mickey wanted Ethan all to himself, so he stepped out from behind the bar and motioned to an empty booth.

"You look good," Mickey told him when they arrived at the table.

"So do you." Ethan smiled and slid into his seat. Mickey took the spot across from him. Their eyes met over the table and Ethan's smile widened.

"You told your kids." Mickey blurted. It was a huge deal to him. Bigger than he'd thought it might be. Mickey had never intended to fall for someone who wasn't out. He'd never intended to fall for anyone at all. But there was something about Ethan that he couldn't resist.

Ethan slid his hand across the table and brushed the back of Mickey's hand with the tips of his fingers. "I want to tell the world."

Ethan's gaze slid up from where he gently touched Mickey's hand until their eyes met.

"I'm just happy they know. And that they weren't mad."

"I don't even think they're all that surprised, to be honest." Ethan pulled his phone out and showed Mickey the slew of messages in the family group chat. Colby used far too many emojis to be coherent, but it was clear he was happy about the news.

The barrage of acceptance untwisted Mickey's insides. They knew Ethan was bi and that he was with Mickey. And more than not caring, they did care. They cared that their dad was happy. It was more than Mickey could deal with, more than he could process. He didn't know how long he sat there not saying a word, but Ethan waited there, infinitely patient. He tucked his phone away and reached out across the table to take Mickey's hand.

Mickey let his stare linger on their joined hands before dragging it up and looking Ethan in the eyes. Words didn't exist to describe the ways that Ethan and his family had just healed tiny broken pieces of Mickey. Little fractures that love smoothed over and fused back together.

He felt more for Ethan than he ever had for Lance. Or maybe, if he'd loved Lance once, it had been so overshadowed in the end by how much he'd given him. How much had been taken from him by Lance. His sense of self. His autonomy. His worth. Things that he had started to snatch back bits of here and there. He was rebuilding himself and he wasn't doing it alone. Ethan was there, had been for a while now. Even before Mickey knew healing was possible, Ethan had stood by, steady and patient. It wasn't a wonder that Mickey had fallen for him.

He didn't know how to tell him, though. The words were locked down inside Mickey. He felt them. Could run his fingers over the shape of them and know them to be true, but speaking them into existence was different. Harder. He'd given those words away once before and had been repaid by Lance using them as weapons, cutting Mickey down with the gift he gave.

Mickey wanted to give those words to Ethan, but not here. Not now. Not at work surrounded by the smell of barley and hamburgers and whatever cologne Ethan was wearing. Mickey didn't want that memory to be tarnished by the strange wobbly sensation that something was still wrong somehow.

For now, he gave Ethan a smile and turned his hand over so their palms could press against one another. They both ordered hamburgers, one of them getting fries, while the other ordered onion rings so they could eat off each other's plates. And slowly those words Mickey buried down inside himself surfaced, held back in the lump in his throat.

"Can I come over after work?" Mickey asked. "I'll get a cab."

Mickey still had the keys Ethan gave him, but he'd never just waltzed into someone else's house unannounced before.

"I'll wait up."

Mickey shook his head. "You don't need to do that. I just want to be close to you."

His confession made his cheeks flame and he glanced back down at the table.

Ethan gripped Mickey's hand a little tighter. "Okay, Mickey. Have it your way."

It wasn't quite the exchange of heartfelt sentiments that Mickey really wanted to have happen, but for now, for where they currently were, it was close enough.