The Prelude of Ella and Micha, Page 2

  He smiles then leans over and gives me a quick kiss on the head. Then we continue our journey down the sidewalk in comfortable silence. When we arrive at the desolate playground, we hike across the dry grass to the rusty swing set in the middle. We each sit down in our own seat and then run back and pump our legs, swinging high toward the tip of the nearby trees.

  “Do you ever wonder what life would be like on the other side of the mountains?” I ask as I stare at the rolling hills that encompass the town.

  “Of course I do.” He kicks his legs, ascending higher as he tips his head back toward the grey sky.

  “Do you think we’ll ever get to find out?” I grasp the chains as I soar. “Do you ever think we’ll get out of here?”

  “Of course we will,” he says. “There’s no way we can stay here in this stupid town forever.”

  “Yeah, but I’m not sure if I’ll ever be able to leave my mother behind,” I mutter. “I mean, who will take care of her if I’m not around? My dad’s not capable of doing so, and Dean’s not ever going to.” Dean is my older brother who is probably home about twice a week, only coming back to change his clothes. I have no idea where he stays during the rest of the week.

  “So what? They can figure that out.” Micha’s jaw is set tight, and his blue eyes burn fiercely. “You’re not staying here. You’re leaving with me.”

  “We’ll see,” I sigh. “At eighteen, we might not even be friends anymore. I’ve heard high school is rough.”

  He’s silent for a while, contemplating what I’ve said. It’s not like I really believe high school will ruin our friendship. I just don’t believe I’ll ever be able to leave Star Grove. It’s just hope, and I’ve hoped for a lot of things I’ve never gotten.

  Micha abruptly plants his feet into the dirt below us and skids to a halt. Without uttering a word, he reaches over and grabs the chain of my swing, causing me to jerk to a stop, spin around, and crash straight into him.

  “Holy crap,” I say breathlessly as I clutch onto the chains. “What the heck did you do that for?”

  “Because I want you to understand something,” he says intensely. “You and I are going to leave this town. Together.” He pauses when I stare at him with doubt. Then he thoughtfully adds, “In fact, we’re going to make a pact on it. Right here. Right now.”

  “Haven’t we made a ton of those already?”

  “So what’s one more?”

  “Good point.” Still, I’m a pessimist when it comes to ever escaping this town. Most people born and raised here never leave. But I’ll try anything to boost the odds from not being a statistic. Plus, the future he’s proposed doesn’t sound all that bad. In fact, it sounds nice. “All right, let’s make a pact.”

  He grins then spits into his palm before extending his hand toward me. “Ready?”

  “You know, we really need to come up with a less disgusting way to make these pacts.” But I still spit into my palm and place my hand in his.

  “So who’s going to say it this time?” he asks. “You or me?”

  “I’ll do the honors.” I consider my word choice. “Okay, so here’s the deal. As soon as we turn eighteen, we rummage all our money together and get the hell out of here. No questions asked.”

  “And where will we live?” he asks amusedly.

  I shrug. “How about by the ocean? We’ve never seen it before. It might be cool.”

  “The ocean sounds nice.” He muses over something. “Sounds good to me. Leave, go to the ocean. You can become a famous artist, and I’ll become a musician.”

  “And we’ll make sure we have better lives,” I add. “Ones we’re happy with.”

  “Agreed,” he says and then we shake on it. “Although, I have to say that I’m not sad about everything in my life right now.”

  Unlike me, Micha has a stable parent—his mother who I sometimes like to pretend is my own mother when I’m having a rough day. Still, things haven’t always been easy for him. His father walked out on Micha and his mom about eight years ago, and it was both financially and emotionally hard on them.

  “I’m talking about you,” Micha adds, letting go of my hand.

  I blink my attention back to him. “What?”

  He winks at me before walking back with his fingers wrapped around the chains. “You, Ella May, are the creation of my happiness.” He lifts his legs and shoots forward.

  I roll my eyes as I back up. “You are so stinking cheesy sometimes. No other fourteen-year-old boy talks the way you do.”

  “How do you know that?” he questions as he swings back and forth. “Are their more fourteen-year-old guys in your life that I don’t know about?”

  I shrug as I launch forward. “Ethan. And he doesn’t talk like that.”

  “He might.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Hey, he’s my best friend,” he teases as we level out and swing harmoniously together. “For all you know, he could talk like that when you’re not around.”

  I jut out my lip, pouting. “Hey, I thought I was your best friend.”

  “No way,” he says in all seriousness. “You’re way more than that.”

  I flop my head back, gagging. “God, stop with the cheesy pickup lines. It’s making me nauseous.”

  “Fine, but only if you play truth with me.”

  “Fine, but only if I get to ask the first question.”

  He smiles. “Be my guest.”

  I contemplate. “So, Micha Scott, just how many girls have you kissed now?”

  He suspiciously glances at me from the corner of his eye. “You already know the answer to that since you asked me the same question the last time we played this.”

  “Yeah, but it’s been a few weeks since then.” I lift my shoulder and give a half shrug. “And I heard a rumor yesterday.”

  “About what?”

  “That you and Kessa kissed behind the school during third period.”

  He shoots me a dirty look. “Fuck no. I would never kiss Kessa Finlany. Who told you that?”

  “Kessa.”

  He frowns, staring ahead at the playground. “Well, that never happened. And it will never happen.”

  “Noted.” I swing higher, and he matches my move, stretching his legs toward the sky. “So the number is still three?”

  “Yep, still three.” He grows silent, his face contorting in deep thought as he debates his question for me. When he arrives at his conclusion, a slow grin expands across his face, and I know I’m in big trouble. “So, Ella May, just how many boys have you kissed?”

  The chilly breeze stings at my warm cheeks. “That’s not a fair question.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “Because you already know the answer to that.”

  “And how do you figure that? I mean, for all I know, something could have changed since the last time I asked you.”

  “You know it hasn’t,” I say, feeling stupid. “I pretty much don’t hang out with anyone but you.”

  His brow cocks and amusement dances in his eyes. “So the number’s still zero?”

  I grip the chains, annoyed. “See, you already knew the answer, so that wasn’t a fair question.”

  “Why? It’s my wasted turn.” He sticks his feet to the ground again and this time grinds to a slow halt. Then he just sits there motionlessly as he watches me swing back and forth.

  “What are you doing?” I wonder as I kick my feet higher. Strands of my auburn hair slip lose from my ponytail and surround my face. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  He muses over something, rubbing his jawline. “I have a proposition for you.”

  “No way,” I instantly respond. “I know better than to agree to your propositions.”

  “Just hear me out first,” he says, using the voice again. “Then you can make your decision.”

  Sighing, I plant my feet in the dirt to stop beside him, knowing he won’t give up until I at least agree to hear whatever it is he’s thinking. “Fine, what’s your proposit
ion?”

  “I propose,” he starts, seeming the slightest bit uneasy, which is weird for him, “that I be your first kiss.”

  I snort a big, old, pig laugh. “Ha, very funny. For a moment, I thought you were going to be serious.”

  “I am being serious.” His expression matches his words.

  And my expression plummets. “W-what? Why would you ever ask me that? Or want to do that?”

  He shrugs. “You have to get your first kiss over sometime, so why not do it with me?”

  I scrunch up my nose. “Because you’re … you.” I don’t mean for it to come out so rude. Luckily, Micha knows me well enough not to take it personally.

  His lips quirk. “And what’s wrong with me? Am I too hideous for you?”

  “No,” I sputter quickly, and he laughs. “That’s not it at all. I’m just …”

  “You’re just what, waiting around for the perfect guy to show up? Like Grantford Davis?”

  “Ew.” I swat his arm, and his laughter increases. “No way. I would never, ever use my first kiss on him. He’s so weird and gross.”

  “A lot of the guys our age are weird and gross. Except me.”

  “That’s not entirely true,” I say then pause. “But I guess, out of all the guys at our school, you are the least gross.”

  “Okay, then,” he states like this solves the problem. “Let’s do this.”

  Do what?

  Kiss Micha?

  God, I’ve barely even hugged anyone, let alone kissed anyone.

  I should protest more—I know I should—but a part of me is curious as to why the hell kissing is such a big deal.

  “You promise you won’t make fun of me or anything?”

  He gives me a really look. “Do I ever make fun of you?”

  I throw back the look he just gave me. “All the time.”

  “But that’s just for fun.” He waves me off. “I don’t mean any of it.”

  “Just promise me you won’t tease me, and I’ll do it. In fact, you have to promise not to ever bring it up.” I spit into my hand. “Make a pact on it.”

  He considers my proposal for about a half a second then spits into his palm and shakes on it. “Deal.”

  As we pull our hands away, I grow nervous because now I have to actually kiss him. And not just kiss him, but kiss my first guy ever.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” I double check, wiping my palm on my jeans. “Because I don’t know what I’m doing.”

  “I’ll show you.” He’s already leaning in, his intense aqua eyes zeroed in on my lips.

  My heart dances like a crazy person in my chest, and I feel like I’m going to throw up. “Micha, I …” I trail off, sucking in a huge breath as his lips touch mine. My fingers tense around the chains and my whole body stiffens while I try to figure out what on earth I’m supposed to be doing. Clearly not just sitting here, frozen.

  “Relax,” Micha whispers, putting a small bit of space between our lips.

  Thinking the kiss is over, I let out a quiet, relieved breath. But the relief is short lived because, a microsecond later, his head dips forward and his lips brush against mine again. Only, this time, it’s different. This time, he slips his tongue into my mouth.

  Oh, my God, his tongue is in my mouth.

  Micha Scott’s tongue is in my mouth.

  And I just touched my tongue to his.

  Before I can even register what’s happening, we’re kissing. And I mean full on French-kissing. It goes on for what feels like minutes, our knees knocking against each other as Micha plays with my hair and continues to kiss me. Unfamiliar feelings prickle inside me, ones I’m pretty sure I’ve never felt before, and that terrifies the living daylights out of me. They make me feel so...

  Out of control.

  And Micha is supposed to be my stability.

  I’m about to pull away because I can’t take the terror hounding inside me anymore when a loud crash echoes from nearby and we both jerk apart, wide-eyed and gasping for air. My cheeks start to burn and even Micha appears embarrassed, which has never happened before—at least, from what I’ve seen.

  Seconds later, reality crashes over me.

  Oh, my God, I just kissed my best friend.

  The silence that follows is painful, and I worry that everything is going to change. Be ruined. He won’t want to be my friend anymore, and if I don’t have him, I have no one.

  I wish I never kissed him.

  “Well, that was interesting,” Micha remarks, touching his fingers to his lips as he chuckles.

  “Interesting, as in bad?” I ask, nervous for unclear reasons.

  He swiftly shakes his head. “No way. Not bad at all.” That’s all he says before he runs back and starts swinging again. “So, did you hear that Ethan and Jane are going out?”

  Confused by the abrupt subject change, I slowly let the swing crawl forward. “No.”

  “Yeah, he told me the other day.” He starts chatting about who’s going out with who, updating me on the latest middle school gossip, but I zone out, my thoughts floating back to the kiss.

  It felt so right yet so wrong. So good yet so terrifying. Are things going to change after this? Do I look as awkward as I feel on the inside? What is happening to me? Micha usually calms me down, but right now, being close to him is freaking me out. Although, in a good way, a way I don’t know how to handle.

  As my thoughts and emotions start to jumble together, I feel like a huge mess. Finally, I arrive at a conclusion: never again. Never will I kiss Micha again.

  Never, ever will I risk our friendship and our beautiful future together again.

  Chapter 2

  16 years old…

  Micha

  There’s a certain moment in my life that changed my future forever. It blindsided me, but if I really had been looking to begin with, I would have seen it coming. It started with a simple surfacing of emotion.

  My emotions for Ella have gotten way stronger. The thought comes out of nowhere while I sit in the waiting room, waiting for Ella to come out from the emergency area. She fell off the roof only hours earlier and blacked out. For a second, I thought she was dead thanks to my drunk friend Ethan yelling that she was. I seriously about had a fucking heart attack, and in that moment, something changed between us. I thought she was dead and realized I can’t live without her.

  I can never lose her. God, it hurts to even think about it.

  When she finally walks out into the waiting room with a cast on her arm, another thought strikes me out of nowhere.

  My emotions for Ella have gotten so strong I can hardly think straight when I’m near her.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, quickly standing as she reaches me. My heart is slamming inside my chest while I scan her entire body for any more injuries.

  She tiredly nods. “Yeah, I just broke my arm”—she elevates her arm that’s covered in a cast—“nothing too serious.”

  I stare at her, probably for too long. Then I wrap my arms around and pull her in for a too tight hug. “Don’t ever do that shit again.” My voice is hoarse, but I’m too exhausted and worried to give a shit.

  She tensely puts her good arm around me and pats me on the back. “Micha, it’s not that big of a deal. I’ve snowboarded off a roof before.” She starts to draw back, but my arms constrict around her.

  “I don’t care,” I whisper in her hair. “Promise me you’ll be more careful from now on. And stay off roofs.”

  She sighs, relaxing into me. “Yes, voice of reason.”

  I pull back enough to look down at her. “Voice of reason?”

  She shrugs. “That’s what I call you sometimes when you’re trying to take care of me.”

  “I’m always trying to take care of you.” I turn for the door and slip an arm around her back, refusing to let her go. Ever. “Now, come on. Let’s get you home and take care of you some more.”

  I was hoping by the next morning my feelings would go back to normal, that Ella and I would go ba
ck to normal. But, if anything, it’s gotten worse.

  Nothing is ever going to be normal again. At least, not with me.

  The revelation comes to me abruptly while I’m writing lyrics in my bedroom. At sixteen years old, the words pouring out of me are soul bearing, defining, and fucking startling, like a lightning bolt to the heart. And, the thing is, it’s not the first time I’ve written about Ella like this. My very first song was about her, too. At the time, it didn’t mean anything, but now I have to question what the cause is behind my emotional words dedicated to her.

  The entire time I pen, all I’m thinking about is how I felt when I thought Ella had died. My hand actually begins to tremble, and my nerves only amplify when I reread my poetry. Where did these lyrics stem from? How the hell did I go from scribbling about desolation to writing about the person who means the world to me?

  I’m so fucking scared.

  And kind of excited.

  “Are you okay?” Ella asks with concern from across the room.

  It’s not like anything has visibly changed between us since last night. She still slept in the bed with me, fully dressed with a bit of space between our bodies, even though every one of my limbs craved to eliminate any amount of air between us. We woke up and had breakfast, chatted with my mother, then went back to my room to draw and write lyrics.

  Her sketchbook is open on her lap while I strum my guitar and pencil down the rest of the mind-blowing lyrics. But the words only carry half my attention. The other half is on her, watching her uninjured hand move wildly across the paper, even as she stares at me with those big, beautiful green eyes of hers.

  When did I realize her eyes are so beautiful? And how lean and long her legs are? How smooth her skin looks? How much I want to touch her smooth skin … kiss her lips … bite her flesh … watch her hand trace across my body …

  Suddenly, that hand of hers stops, and she sets the pencil down. “Micha, what’s up?” She sits up in the beanbag chair. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  I blink my attention from my dirty fantasies, my fingers halting on the guitar strings. “What?” Her concern is severely distracting to the point that I can barely focus. That’s the thing with Ella: she always cares about me enough to check on me, and when she’s staring at me with concern, like she is now, it’s difficult to even breathe.