The Secret of Ella and Micha (The Secret 1)

Lila adjusts her purse on her shoulder and gives him a small smile. "Thank you."

"Alright, if it's okay with the both of you, then I guess I'll see you later." I hike across the parking lot, toward the street. It's getting late, and the odds of Lila's car being fixed by the end of the day are pretty f**king low. I take out my cell phone and text Ella.

Me: Just wantin to make sure ur ok?

I walk down the sidewalk fenced by houses and dried out lawns. There is a drug exchange going on at the corner between a group of kids that still look young enough to be in high school. This side of town is pretty crappy, which I'm okay with now, but when Ella and I were kids, it was harder to deal with.

Ella was always so curious about stuff. There were many times we got chased down for sticking our noses where they didn't belong and I got my ass kicked defending Ella quite a few times.

But I'd do it again in a heartbeat because when it all comes down to it, it's just me and her against the world. Always has been.

My phone buzzes inside my pocket and I check the message, surprised to see Ella's name on the screen.

Ella: No, I don't think I am.

Without a second thought, I run as fast as I can toward her house.

Chapter 7

Ella

Dean's got his music blasting upstairs at full volume and it's rattling the ceiling. I start picking up the garbage in the kitchen, avoiding the confrontation of seeing him again. Propping the trash can against my hip, I drag my arm along the counter, pushing a line of bottles into it.

I pull out the bag and tie the string shut, holding it far away from me. "God, that stinks."

"Still cleaning up after dad, I see." Dean enters the kitchen. He's dressed in slacks and a button down shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His dark brown hair is cut short and it shows off the scar on the top of his forehead, where I accidently hit him during a freak accident while we were playing baseball with a tent pole and a basketball. "Nothing changes around here, even when you leave for a year." He opens the fridge and steals a beer. "Although, you do look different. Did you finally clean up your act?"

"Do you really care if I did?" I drag the garbage bag toward the back door. "I think you made it perfectly clear the last time you were here that you don't give a shit what happens to me."

He pops the cap off the bottle. "Are you still on that?"

"You told me I killed our mother," I say quietly. "How could I be over that?"

He sips his beer and shrugs. "I thought you left so you could move on with your life."

I summon a deep breath. "I didn't move on. I bailed just like you did."

"I ran away for the same reason you ran away because staying here means dealing with the past and our pasts are the kind that need to be locked away and never revisited."

"You mean dealing with mom's death. And the fact that it was my fault she's dead. Or that I'm responsible for her death."

He peels at the beer bottle label. "Why do you always have to be so blunt about everything? It makes people uncomfortable."

I'm changing back into my old ways and I need to collect myself. Opening the back door, I toss the garbage bag onto the back steps. "Do you want to go get some dinner or something? We could go out to Alpine where no one really knows us."

He shakes his head, gulps down the rest of the beer, and then tosses the empty bottle into the trash. "The only reason I came back here was to get the rest of my stuff. Then I'm out. I got stuff to go back to that's more important than family drama and alcoholic fathers."

He leaves me in the kitchen and a few seconds later, the music is turned up louder. It's an upbeat rhythm and it drives me crazy, so I crank on the kitchen radio, blasting "Shameful Metaphors" by Chevelle.

I start sweeping up the kitchen, blocking out my brother's words. He always liked to nitpick me apart, which was fine, but at the funeral, he crossed a line we can never come back from.

The back door swings open and the wind rushes in as my dad stumbles into the kitchen. His shoes are untied, his jeans are torn, and his red shirt is stained with dirt and grease. His hand is wrapped with an old rag that's soaked in blood.

Dropping the broom to the floor, I rush to him. "Oh my God, are you okay?"

He flinches from me and nods his head, staggering to the sink. "Just cut myself on the job. No biggie."

I turn down the music. "Dad, you weren't drinking at work, were you?"

He turns the faucet on and his head slumps over. "The guys and I had a couple of shots during lunch break, but I'm not drunk." He removes the rag and sticks his hand under the water, letting out a relieved sigh as the water mixes with his blood. "Is your brother home? I thought I saw his car in the driveway."

I grab a paper towel and clean up the blood he got on the counter and on the floor. "He's upstairs packing up some stuff or something."

He dabs his hand with a paper towel, wincing. "Well, that's good I guess."

I lean over to examine his hand. "Do I need to take you to the doctor? That looks like it might need stitches?"

"I'll be fine." He grabs a bottle of vodka, takes a swig, and then douses his hand with it.

"Dad, what are you doing?" I reach for the first aid kit above the sink. "Use the rubbing alcohol from the first aid kit."

Breathing through clenched teeth, he wraps up his hand with a paper towel. "See, good as new."

"It can still get infected." I take out the kit and set it on the counter. "You should really let me take you to a doctor."

He stares at me for a moment with his eyes full of agony. "God, you look so much like her, it's just crazy... "He drags his feet as he walks out the doorway and into the living room. Seconds later, I hear the television click on and the air fills with smoke.

Suppressed feelings surface as I put the first aid kit back into the cupboard. Cranking up the music, I drowning out my pain and busy myself with the dishes. My phone vibrates in my pocket and I wipe my hands off on a towel before checking my messages. There's the voicemail from Micha from yesterday that I still haven't listened to and a new text message from him.

The text message seems like the less dangerous of the two. My hand trembles as I read it over and over again, then finally respond. I toss the phone on the counter and focus on cleaning because it's simple. And simple is just what I want.

Micha

I barge into Ella's house. Something bad happened, probably because of her douche bag brother. Ella is scrubbing down the counters with the same amount of energy as a drummer. Her hair is pulled up, but pieces hang loose in her face. She has the music on, so she doesn't hear me come in. I walk up behind her, wanting to touch her, but instead I turn the music down.