The Ever After of Ella and Micha (The Secret 4)

I’m about to knock on the door when I hear someone crying from inside the garage. The door is open and Micha’s dad’s Challenger isn’t inside and it’s always parked in there, so it’s weird. Micha’s dad is always working on it and getting mad at it. When I get inside the garage, I find Micha sitting where the car used to be parked, with his back turned to me. It sounds like he’s the one crying, which makes no sense. Usually I’m the one crying and Micha is the one smiling.

“Micha,” I say and the crying stops.

“I can’t play today, Ella,” he says quietly and it looks like he’s trying to wipe tears away.

I walk around in front of him, but he won’t look up at me, so I sit down on the floor. He tucks his arms onto his lap and I can only see the top of his head, because he’s looking down at the ground.

“Micha, what happened?” I ask, the Popsicles cold in my hand.

He shakes his head and then his shoulders begin to shake as he starts crying again. “My dad took the car and left.”

“I’m sure he’ll be back soon,” I tell him, not understanding why that’s making him cry. My dad leaves in his car all the time.

He shakes his head and looks up at me. Micha’s eyes are this really pretty blue color that I saw on these beads once that I used to make a bracelet in school. His eyes are really wide and shiny right now like the beads and he looks so sad. It kinda makes me feel like crying, too.

“No, he’s not coming back,” he tells me and tears roll down his cheeks and fall onto the ground. “Ever. My mom said he ran away and he’s never coming home.”

I don’t know what to say to him. My dad ran away once, too, at least that’s what my mom told me, but then he came home that night and my mom said it must have been because he couldn’t find anywhere else to go. But sometimes she tells stories that I don’t think are true.

I scoot closer to Micha, not sure what to say to him, so instead I hold out a Popsicle. He keeps crying as he looks at it and then he finally takes it from my hand. He peels the wrapper off and I peel mine off and then I sit there with him while he cries because it always makes me feel better when he sits with me when I’m upset. Eventually his tears stop, long after the Popsicles are melted in our bellies and Micha finally gets up and wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. I get to my feet, too, and I search for something to say.

“Do you want to do something?” I ask.

He glances at me, still sad, but then he nods. “Yeah, what do you want to do?”

I smile and take his hand. “Whatever you want to do,” I say. He’s usually doing stuff for me, but today it should be about making him happy.

He considers something and then there’s the slightest sparkle in his eyes. “How about hide-and-go seek?”

I nod and then we play until the sun goes down, turning a sad day into a decent one because we’re together.

Chapter 6

Micha

Later that day, I rap my hand on the doorway as I walk into my bedroom. Ella is lying on the bed on her stomach with the journal opened in front of her. I really wish she’d stop reading that thing. As much as I know it’s good for her to have something that belonged to her mom, I can see in her eyes that whatever’s in there is bringing her down. She hasn’t been on her medication for a while and hasn’t talked to a therapist in a few months, at least that I know of. She’s been doing fine and I want her to stay that way, but I also don’t want to be the a**hole who tells her to quit reading her dead mother’s journal.

So I keep my mouth shut and instead check her out. She’s beautiful, her auburn hair pinned behind her head, wavy curls framing her face, and she’s wearing a black-and-red dress that hugs her body and black stilettos on her feet.

“God, you’re so f**king hot,” I say, adjusting myself as the urge to slam the door and take her from behind tries to overpower me. But people have started to arrive at my house for the party, so I control myself.

Ethan is letting everyone in but he wasn’t too happy about the party to begin with, although I have no idea why because he used to enjoy parties back when we were younger. It was our thing and we probably threw more at my house then we actually went out to, since my mother never cared just as long as we cleaned up afterward. I had to laugh at Ethan when we were driving and chatting about what’s been going on in our lives for the last six months or so. I guess when he and Lila go back to Vegas they’re packing their stuff and hitting the road to try and live out his dream of being a mountain man. It’s strange because Lila doesn’t seem like the type, at least when I first met her, but now she seems different. She seems less preppy and I hate to say it but at first I thought she came off as a spoiled rich brat. But she’s not though. She’s actually really nice.

Ella glances up through her long eyelashes, her gaze skimming over my black jeans, my studded belt, and my Pink Floyd T-shirt, and then she bites her lip. “You look good, too.” She closes the journal and sits up. “Trying to impress anyone in particular?”

I roll my eyes and kick a shirt out of the way as I stroll into my room. “Only you.”

“Yeah, I might know that.” She looks down at her hand as she flexes her fingers in front of her and the diamonds and black stone of her engagement ring sparkle. “But unlike me, you don’t have a ring on your finger branding you as taken.”

“You could always give me my ring,” I tell her. “I’ll wear it.”

She shakes her head, climbs off the bed, and tugs the bottom of her dress down, a dress that looks a lot shorter now that she’s standing. “No way. You’re not going to see that until the wedding.” She pauses, putting her hands on her hips. “It doesn’t matter anyway. If any girl hits on you, I’ll just kick her ass.”

“That’s my feisty girl.” I give her a deep kiss and then hold up a finger as I get an idea. “I got it.” I back toward the door. “You go out and start having fun and I’ll take care of the ring problem.”

She looks perplexed but follows me out of the room. She joins the small group gathered in the living room as I head to the door. I slip on my jacket as I step out onto the porch and into the snow. Christmas lights flash from the house across the street and I can hear the thumping of music from somewhere down the street. I trot down the stairs and hurry into the garage, flipping the light on. I pull a box down from the top shelf and set it on the counter. As I’m sifting through the car parts, my phone rings from my pocket. When I take it out, my producer’s name, Mike Anderly, flashes across the glowing screen. I press talk and put the phone up to my ear.

“It’s a little late to be calling,” I tell him, balancing the phone against my ear as I rummage through the box.

“I know, but I couldn’t wait until morning to call you and tell you the news,” he says, sounding way happier than he normally does. Usually, he’s all business and kind of cranky.

“What news?” I pick up the metal ring from the box, smiling at my clever idea.

“That you got on the tour.”

I nearly drop the ring. “The Rocking Slam Tour?” I ask. It’s the tour I’ve been trying to get on for months, the one that has a ton of my favorite bands, musicians I idolize. The one where I’ll have to be on the road for three straight months.

“That would be the one,” he says cheerfully. “So get your ass over here so we can celebrate.”

My mouth turns downward. “I can’t. I’m in Wyoming, getting ready to get married. I told you this last night.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot.” He sighs. “Well, hurry and get that taken care of so you can get back here and celebrate. You leave in just a few weeks anyway and we have to finish recording.”

Shit. “Yeah… I’m not sure I can go.”

“What the hell do you mean, you’re not sure you can go!” he exclaims. “We’ve been trying to get you on this tour for months.”

“I know that,” I tell him. “But I didn’t really think it was going to happen, and now I’ve got stuff going on.”

“Well, it did and you’re going,” Mike says sternly.

“Look, I’m not saying I won’t. I’m just saying that I need to talk to Ella first. She needs to be okay with my being gone for that long.”

“And what if she says she’s not?” he asks, astounded. “Then what?”

“Then I won’t go.” It hurts to say it, but it’s the truth. She’s more important to me than anything, and if she doesn’t want me to be gone during our first few months of marriage then I won’t. It’s that simple.

Music starts playing from inside the house and I quickly slip the metal ring on my ring finger, which will hopefully alleviate some of Ella’s worry. “Look, I gotta go. I’ll call you in a week when I get back in town.”

“You better not say no,” he grumbles and I hang up the phone before he starts ranting, something he does a lot.

Tucking my phone into my back pocket, I go back inside the house, wondering how Ella is going to react to the news. I can see her pretending like she’s okay with it but deep down not really wanting me to go. She hides her feelings well so if I’m going to do this I need to make sure she’s completely and utterly okay with it. Any doubt and I’ll stay. Besides, as much fun as the tour would be, our little life in San Diego is good and why ruin a good thing?

Because being part of this tour is my dream.

Frowning at the thought, I shut the back door behind me as I step inside the kitchen. Ethan is sitting on the table, drinking from a red plastic cup and Lila is laughing at something he says while she pours herself a drink over at the counter. There’s another couple chatting in front of the kitchen sink. I used to go to school with them, but I can’t remember their names. I wave to them when they say “what’s up” and then I head for the living room.

“Bottoms up.” Ethan lifts his cup as I pass by him, toasting to something, and then he throws his head back and guzzles the drink.

“Are you wasted already?” I ask. “Because you’re supposed to play the drums in, like, ten minutes or so.”

“Nah,” he says, but his bloodshot eyes suggest otherwise. “I’ve got this. Besides, I can play the drums when I’m drunk perfectly fine.”

“Micha, do you want me to make you a drink or pour you a shot?” Lila calls out with a bottle of orange juice in her hand.

“No, thanks,” I tell her, scooping up a beer from the cooler near the doorway. “I have to stick to beer.”

She nods knowingly as she sets the juice down on the counter beside the row of vodka, tequila, and Bacardi bottles and a stack of plastic cups. Ever since Ella called me out on my a**hole drunken behavior about a year ago, I take it easier on getting trashed, usually sticking to only a few beers. It was hard at first, but now it’s comfortable.

I pop the top off as I stroll into the cigarette-smoke-filled living room, letting the wonderfully potent smoke settle in my lungs. Even a couple of years after kicking the habit, minus a few slipups, it still gets my mouth watering.