The Forever of Ella and Micha

much anymore. You don’t even talk to her on the phone all the time like you used to.”
    “That’s because I’m trying to sort through some stuff.” I give her a pat on the back because I can tell she’s about to cry. The whole situation is awkward. “Are you going to be okay?”
    She jerks her shoulder upward and shrugs off my hand before running into the bathroom. The door bangs shut and rattles the thin walls.
    I collect my guitar from the floor and flop down on the bed, playing my favorite song. Eight months ago, I would have been all over her invitation, but not anymore. It was more of a turnoff than anything.
    That’s when I realize the thing I’ve been wondering about for the last week.
    Ella is it for me. The way I feel about her is never going to change. I will love her forever, but I need her closer to me, not thousands of miles away.
    How am I supposed to tell her, though, that I’m ready to begin her future, when I know she has no clue what her future is yet?

Chapter 4
Ella
    I’m starting to wonder if this is going to be my life forever, if I’ll always end up back in Star Grove at the house that clutches my childhood.
    The house looks the same: a broken rain gutter, garbage bags piling up on the side of the house, and the Cutlass still balanced on the cinderblocks in front of the garage. The house’s siding is peeling and some of the branches have fallen from the tree beside the window.
    Ethan’s truck is parked in the driveway and he’s sitting on the back steps playing around on his phone. I get out of the rental car that looks like the kind of vehicle clowns stuff themselves into.
    Ethan looks up and he arches his eyebrows at the car. “What the fuck is that thing?”
    “It was the cheapest one at the rental place.” I sit down on the steps next to him and stretch out my legs in front of me. “Is he inside?”
    “Yeah, he passed out on the couch as soon as I got him home.” He puts his phone away and rolls up the sleeves of his gray Henley, revealing his extensive tattoos.
    “You got a new one.” I point to a tattoo of a quote written in Latin.
    Nodding, he touches the lines with his finger. “A couple weeks ago.”
    Staring at Micha’s house next door, I ask, “How bad was he to get out of the bar?”
    He tips his head forward, looking down at the ground, and his black hair falls into his face. “He was kind of a pain in the ass to get here. He took a swing at Denny when we were taking him out to the car.”
    I slump back, resting my elbows on the step behind me. “I’m sorry you had to go get him. I just couldn’t think of anyone else to call.”
    “I’m not mad that I had to. I’m mad that you had to come all the way here to take care of him.” He sounds uncomfortable.
    “What?” Confusion swarms my brain.
    He fiddles with a frayed area on the knee of his jeans. “I think it’s bullshit when the kids have to act like the parents.”
    “Are we talking about me still?” I ask, eyeing him over. “Or is there something else you’d like to share… like something that’s going on with you.”
    “I’m good.” He nudges me with his shoulder. “It’s a story for another time.”
    “But you never share your stories,” I remind him.
    “Neither do you,” he retorts. “Except for with Micha.”
    “Yeah, I guess,” I unintentionally say aloud and he shoots me a funny look. “Never mind. I’m going to go check on my dad and then maybe we could go get something to eat. My treat for your having to come deal with this crap.”
    “Is that really a treat?” he jokes with a sarcastic smirk. “Eating dinner with you?”
    I make a face and walk into the kitchen, and the screen door slams shut behind me. Particles of dust float in the air and I fan my hand in front of my face. “God, it smells like a dead animal in here.”
    “That’s because no one ever cleaned up before I left.” My dad appears in the doorway, wearing a baggie green T-shirt and jeans with grease spots on them. His skin has gotten a little color since the last time I saw him and he looks somewhat younger, but his eyes are bloodshot just like they used to be. He’s not wasted, but hungover, which can be equally as explosive.
    “I thought I did clean up.” I glance around at the brown countertops, still stacked with vodka and tequila bottles and the table piled with overdue bills. “Dad, why did you leave rehab?”
    He slumps down into a chair at the kitchen table with his shoulders