The Forever of Ella and Micha

front door and notice it’s raining. “But just in case they show, will you tell them?”
    He shrugs as he selects a carton of juice out of the fridge. “Yeah, I’ll tell them… but doesn’t it seem like your band’s falling apart?”
    “Kind of,” I mutter and shut the door. Pulling my hood over my head, I trot down stairs and out into the rain, splashing through puddles as I march toward the street.
    Ever since the little incident with Naomi, things in the band have gotten rocky. It started with her not wanting to be around me, and then Dylan and Chase lost interest when they discovered they could make a lot of money bartending at this club exclusively for women.
    Right now, though, I’m more concerned about what I’m about to walk into with my father.

    When I arrive at the bakery and see my dad sitting at a table, I almost pussy out. I tap my hand anxiously on my leg, staring at him through the window as rain drips down on me. He’s reading the paper and drinking a cup of coffee. Dressed in a gray suit and a red tie with a briefcase next to his feet, he looks like a lawyer. Suddenly, I realize I have no idea what he does or who he is. He’s nothing more than a stranger, like the people passing by me on the sidewalk.
    I man up and walk into the bakery. It smells like vanilla and kind of reminds me of Ella. Two of the eight tables are occupied and the cashier girl behind the display, filled with cupcakes and cookies, undresses me with her eyes.
    My dad looks up from his coffee and his aqua eyes widen. “Oh, Micha, you showed up.”
    I slide out a chair and sit down across from him. “Of course I showed up. When I say I’m going to be somewhere, I always show up. That’s the kind of person I am and you’d know that if you knew me.”
    He clears his throat multiple times while smoothing out invisible wrinkles on his tie. “Look, Micha, I’m really sorry for what I’ve done. For being a shitty father and for just not being there.”
    My forehead creases as I cross my arms and slump back in the chair. “I don’t get why you’re saying that, because the last two times I saw you, you made it pretty clear that you didn’t really care about me and you wanted nothing to do with me.”
    Tearing some packets open, he adds sugar to his coffee with unsteady hands. “Things change… some stuff happened, and… well, I need your help.”
    I stare at him expressionlessly. “Is that why you said you were sorry to me? Because you want something from me?”
    He discards the empty packets onto the table. “Do you want me to get you something? Do you want some coffee?”
    “I want you to continue on with what you want,” I say coldly. “Because I’m really fucking curious where this conversation is going.”
    He stirs the coffee and wipes the spoon on the lip of the cup. “I’m not really sure how to start this conversation…” He drops the spoon onto the table. “I was recently diagnosed with aplastic anemia… Do you know what that is?”
    “Do I look like a doctor?” I shake my head, annoyed.
    “Well, I’ll skip the boring medical terms and get straight to the point. It’s a rare disease and I’ve got a severe case of it.” He stares down at the cracks in the table, with his eyebrows knit, and wrinkles form around his eyes. “I need a blood and marrow transplant and the best thing for that is to get a relative to be the donor.”
    “Are you dying?” I eye him over. “You look healthy.”
    “No, I’m not dying.” His voice is as cold as ice. “But I’m not healthy either, and this could help me.”
    “What about your other kids? Why can’t you ask them?”
    “I don’t want to do that to them. They’re too young and… I don’t even want them to know I’m sick.”
    I hover over the table, putting my palms flat on the table, burning with anger, and the chair legs grind loudly against the floor. “So let me guess this straight. You want me to do it, even though you haven’t talk to me in years? You bailed on me when I was a child and I still don’t even know why you didn’t at least stay in touch with me.”
    “Micha, I said I was sorry.” He reaches across the table like he’s going to pat my hand, but retreats, which is a good thing because I probably would have punched him. “And this is bigger than that—I’m sick.”
    I shove away from the table. “I’ll have to think about it.”
    He picks up his briefcase and stands up too. “Can you at least go get checked