The Secret of Ella and Micha

set up for street racing, with a long straight road tucked between the lofty trees on the mountains. The sky is black, the moon bright, but there are clouds rolling in. I cringe, thinking of the night on the bridge. We’d been racing before I’d gone there.
    Micha gets a text message right as we brink the end of the road. He pulls the car to the side, maneuvering carefully across the pot holes. He pushes the parking brake in and checks his phone, shutting it off, and looking torn up.
    “What’s wrong?” I ask. “You look upset?”
    “Nothing’s wrong. Everything’s great.” He’s lying, but how can I press him to tell the truth when I’m a liar too?
    “So this is your surprise?” I will my voice to sound disappointed, but it comes out pleased.
    Micha gives me a sidelong glance. “Don’t smile, pretty girl. It’ll ruin your whole I’m-neutral-and-don’t-give-a-shit act.”
    I opt to remain impartial. “Who are you planning to race tonight?”
    “You mean who are we racing?” He smiles alluringly through the dark cab of the car. “Well, I thought I’d leave that up to you.”
    In front of the trees is a line of cars with their headlights on and their owners standing near the front. They’re a rough crowd, mostly guys except for Shelia, a big girl with arms thicker than my legs. She’s the only girl I’ve ever truly feared.
    “Well, there’s Mikey.” I rub my forehead with the back of my hand. “Does he still got that piece of crap 6 cylinder in his Camaro?”
    “Yeah, he does.” Micha leans back in the seat, examining me amusedly through the dark. “You think that’s who I should go for?”
    “It’s the obvious choice.” I don’t like where my thoughts are heading, but I can’t shut off my basic instinct. I’ve always been a hanging-out-with-the-guys kind of girl and therefor there is an abundance of knowledge about cars stashed away in my head. Lila is the first girl I’ve been friends with. “Although, what kind of a win would it be when you have this car that can clearly take on much more.”
    “You think I should take on someone in my own league?”
    “If you want the win to mean anything, then yeah.”
    We look at each other, like magnets begging to get closer. Yet flip one the wrong direction and they will push apart.
    “So which one is it, pretty girl?” He drapes an arm over the headrest behind me and his fingers brush my shoulder. “The underdog or the big dog.”
    There’s a dare in the air, teasing the real me to come out tonight. I want to give in, just for a few hours, and let my inner ropes untie. I want to allow myself to breathe again, but I fear the loss of control—I fear I’ll have to feel everything, including my guilt.
    “Micha, I think we should go back.” I put my seatbelt back on. “This isn’t my thing anymore.”
    He presses his lips together firmly. “Please can we have a night? Just you and I. I really need this right now.”
    I pick up on his strange vibe and the sorrow in his eyes. “Okay, what’s wrong? You’ve seemed a little out of it. Was it bad news on that text you got?”
    He traces the figure eight tattoo on his forearm. “Do you remember when I got this?”
    I absentmindedly touch my lower back. “How could I forget, since I have the same one on my back?”
    “Do you remember why we got them?”
    “I can’t remember anything about that night.”
    “Exactly, yet you’ll remember it forever. No matter what happens, which is completely ironic.” He lets his finger linger on the tattoo that represents eternity.
    “There’s something bugging you.” I tug the bottom of my shirt down to cover up my tattoo. “Do you want to talk about it?”
    He shakes his head, still focused on the tattoo. “Nah, I’m good.”
    To distract him from his thoughts, I point my finger at a smokin’ hot 1970 Pontiac GTO, blue with white racing stripes. “What about Benny? Does he still have the 455?”
    Micha’s eyes are pools of black liquid. “You think we should take on the big dog?”
    “I think you should take on the big dog,” I clarify. “I’ll just watch you kick his ass.”
    His expression darkens. “No way. I’m not racing unless you’re in the car with me. It’s tradition.”
    A starvation inside me emerges. “Alright, I’ll ride with you, just as long as you do one thing for me?”
    “Say it and it’s yours,” he says without blinking.
    My hunger urges me closer to him. I prop my elbows on the console, and my