Clyde was not mad at Micah. He was mad at himself. The storm that twisted inside his chest had nothing to do with the boy's stiff, awkward reaction; it was his own weakness that stirred it. He shouldn't have done that in the car. Pinching Micah's ear as though teasing him, kneading the nape of his neck in what had seemed like a harmless gesture, and gently brushing his cheek with his fingertips, all of it had been reckless indulgence, selfish touches that only served to satisfy his own weakness.
Yeah. Those touches were just torture for him and a scare to Micah. Look at how the boy reacted afterwards. He wanted to soothe, to tease, perhaps even to claim some closeness. Instead, he had frightened the boy.
Clyde replayed the scene in his head with self-loathing. The way Micah had shrunk back, the way his body stiffened, the way even the simple unbuttoning had startled him. It was too clear. He had been a fool to pretend otherwise.
