The Secret of Ella and Micha

phone. What the hell is on it? I climb out of bed, arching my back and stretching like a cat. “How bad is Grady?”
    He swallows hard. “He’s dying, so you need to get dressed and let me take you to see him.”
    I begin to object, but rethink my initial stupidity. Grady is the one part of my past that I could never run from. At one point, he was like a father to Micha and me. I even called him from Vegas once, although I didn’t tell him where I was.
    I nod. “Let me get dressed and I’ll be out in a second.”
    “See you in a few.” He winks at me and vanishes into the hall, leaving the door wide open behind him.
    Lila quickly springs up from the trundle bed, clutching the sheet. “Oh. My. Hell. What was that about? I mean, he crawled in here through the window in the middle of the night, and just climbed into bed with you.”
    “That’s what he does.” I open the window letting in the gentle breeze. Loose pieces of my hair dance around the frame of my face. “Oh, no.”
    Lila stretches her arms above her head. “What’s wrong?”
    I reluctantly look at her. “I think someone might have confused your car for a canvas.”
    She jumps out of bed and elbows me out of the way to get a look at the damage done to her beautiful, nearly brand new Mercedes. “My poor baby!”
    I pull a skirt and a pink tank top out of my duffel bag. “Get dressed and we’ll go check out the damage.”
    She pouts, looking like she might cry. “I can’t drive it home like that. My parents will kill me.”
    “I know plenty of people who can fix it for you,” I say, opening the door. “Or I use to, but I’m sure it’s all the same.”
    She nods and I go to the downstairs bathroom to change, avoiding the upstairs one. I turn on the shower so the mirror will fog up and hide my reflection. I comb my hair until it flips up at the ends naturally. Then I apply a light shade of lip gloss and head out the door, but run into my dad on the stairway.
    “When did you get here?” His breath smells like gin and his eyes are red. His cheeks have sunken in over the last eight months and his skin is wrinkled like leather with sores. He’s in his late forties, but looks like he’s pushing sixty.
    “Last night,” I tell him, taking his arm and helping him up the stairs. “I was in bed before you got home.”
    He offers me a pat on the back. “Well, I’m glad to have you home.”
    “I’m glad to be home,” I lie with a smile as we reach the top of the stairs.
    He moves his arm away from my hand and rubs the back of his neck. “Do you need anything? Like help carrying in your boxes?”
    “I think I can handle it on my own, but thanks.” I decline, sticking my arm out as he teeters toward the stairs.
    He nods and his eyes drift to the bathroom down the hall. He’s probably thinking about how much I look like her. It hurts his eyes, at least that’s what he told me the night I went to the bridge.
    “I guess I’ll talk to you later then. Maybe we could go to dinner or something?” He doesn’t leave me time to answer as he zigzags down the hall to his room, slamming the door shut behind him.
    My dad started drinking when I was about six, a few months after my mom got diagnosed with a bipolar disorder. His drinking habit wasn’t that bad back then. He would spend a few nights at the bar and sometimes on the weekends, but after my mom died, beer and vodka took over both our lives.
    When I return to my room, Lila is dressed in a yellow sundress, with her blonde hair curled up and there is a pair of overly large sunglasses concealing her eyes.
    “I feel like crap,” she declares, putting her hands on her hips.
    “This place has that effect on most people.” I grab my phone, noting the flashing voicemail as I slip on my flip flops.
    We go outside, leaving the smoky air behind and step into the bright sunlight, surrounded by the scenery of rundown homes and apartments. The neighborhood is filled with motorcycle engines revving and far in the distance are the sounds of a lovers’ quarrel and Micha is nowhere to be seen.
    A long time ago, it felt like home, back when street racing and running wild felt natural, but now I just feel lost.
    Lila starts biting at her fingernails as she gapes confoundedly at her car. “It looks worse up close.”
    I circle her car with my arms folded, assessing the damage. It looks like a fruit basket, only instead of being filled with fruit it’s crammed with innuendos and colorful words.