The Secret of Ella and Micha

bumping my hip on the edge of the car. Tears threaten the corners of my eyes, but I haven’t cried in over a year and I refuse to break down. Spinning on my heels, I dash for the house.
    He doesn’t call out to me—it’s not his style. But his gaze bores a hole into my messed up head the entire way, until I’m finally locked inside my house.
    Then I can breathe again.

    Micha
    I swear I’m dreaming. Ella is standing in front of me and she looks just like Stacy Harris, a slutty cheerleader we used to go to high school with and who Ella beat up once because Stacy was making fun of a girl in a wheelchair.
    It was one of the things that made me fall in love with her; the fire, passion, and the need to stick up for the outcasts, even if it meant being an outcast herself. She never fell into any category—she was just Ella—but now she looks like a freakin’ Stepford Wife. She’s still hot as hell, a rock hard body, and long legs that go on forever. I’ve pictured those legs wrapped around my waist many times and the same images flood my head, even though she looks like a stranger.
    Her gorgeous green eyes are glossed over, like she’s repressed everything inside. She’s unhappy to see me and it hurts a little, but pisses me off more. She starts rambling about being tired, something she used to do all the time to avoid confrontation. I watch her lips move, wanting to kiss her so God damn bad, but knowing she’d probably kick me if I tried anything. So I lean in, smelling her hair and beg her to come with me somewhere.
    Then she runs down the driveway and locks herself in the house. I start to chase after her, but a Frisbee smacks me in the side of the head.
    “Sorry man,” Ethan calls out, hopping over the fence with a smirk on his face. “It slipped.”
    Rubbing my head, I arch my eyebrows at Ethan. “Perfect timing asshole.”
    He holds up his hands. “I said I was sorry. You were just standing there all dazed out like a freaking whipped pussy, so I thought I’d snap you out of it.” He scoops up the Frisbee from the concrete and gives a low whistle at Ella’s friend’s Mercedes as he circles it rolling up his sleeves. “Whose sweet ride is this? Wait, is it Ella’s?”
    “I think it’s her friends.” I eye the back door of her house, debating whether I should barge in after her and demand to know why she shut me out for eight months.
    “Since when does Ella hang out with people who drive cars like this?” he asks, peeking through the tinted windows.
    “She’s been gone for eight months.” I back toward the fence that separates Ella’s yard from mine with my hands in my pockets. “Who the hell knows who she is anymore?”
    I need a drink, even though I haven’t had a drop of alcohol in eight months. The day Ella took off, with no note or a good-bye, I had gone up to the cove, got drunk, and took all my anger out on Grantford Davis’ face. The cops showed up and I got busted for being under the influence and for assault. I’m still on probation for it and I had to go to anger management classes for a while. I’ve been really good about keeping my crap together, but five minutes after Ella shows up and I’m about to throw it away.
    I head to the kitchen, scoop up a beer from the ice chest, and settle on the couch between a blonde and a brunette.
    The blonde one giggles. “Oh my God, is the bad boy Micha finally back?”
    I can’t remember her name, but I play along. “I sure am, baby.”
    Then I swig my beer back and bury my pain, along with Ella. She’s the only girl that’s ever been able to get me this upset. The only girl that’s never wanted me.

Chapter 3

    Ella
    “I take it that’s Micha?” Lila wanders around my kitchen as she tightens a loose ribbon on the waist of her floral dress. “He’s even cuter than in the picture.”
    “Yep, that would be Micha.” I kick a box across the stained linoleum floor and flip the light on. It looks the same; seventies themed colors, wicker chairs around the glass table, and yellow and brown countertops.
    “So just your dad lives here?” Lila circles the small kitchen and her gaze lingers on the countertop next to the kitchen sink where empty bottles are lining the wall.
    “Yeah. My older brother moved out as soon as he graduated.” I adjust the handle of my bag and head for the stairway. The house smells like rotten food and smoke. In the living room, the aged plaid sofa is vacant, and the ash tray on the coffee table is