The garbage bag’s really heavy and leaves this gross slimy stuff on the kitchen floor as I drag it out, slide it off the steps and toss it into the bigger trash can. I put the lid on and skip down the sidewalk and then climb over the fence.

The sprinklers are on and the grass is all wet and kind of muddy, but I splash in it anyway, getting the bottom of my jeans wet and some mud gets stuck in my toes. I skip up the sidewalk, making footprints on the cement all the way to the side door of Micha’s house

I’m about to knock on the door when I hear someone crying from inside the garage. The door is open and Micha’s dad’s Challenger isn’t inside and it’s always parked in there, so it’s weird. Micha’s dad is always working on it and getting mad at it. When I get inside the garage, I find Micha sitting where the car used to be parked, with his back turned to me. It sounds like he’s the one crying, which makes no sense. Usually I’m the one crying and Micha is the one smiling.

“Micha,” I say and the crying stops.

“I can’t play today, Ella,” he says quietly and it looks like he’s trying to wipe tears away.

I walk around in front of him, but he won’t look up at me, so I sit down on the floor. He tucks his arms onto his lap and I can only see the top of his head, because he’s looking down at the ground.

“Micha, what happened?” I ask, the Popsicles cold in my hand.

He shakes his head and then his shoulders begin to shake as he starts crying again. “My dad took the car and left.”

“I’m sure he’ll be back soon,” I tell him, not understanding why that’s making him cry. My dad leaves in his car all the time.

He shakes his head and looks up at me. Micha’s eyes are this really pretty blue color that I saw on these beads once that I used to make a bracelet in school. His eyes are really wide and shiny right now like the beads and he looks so sad. It kinda makes me feel like crying, too.

“No, he’s not coming back,” he tells me and tears roll down his cheeks and fall onto the ground. “Ever. My mom said he ran away and he’s never coming home.”

I don’t know what to say to him. My dad ran away once, too, at least that’s what my mom told me, but then he came home that night and my mom said it must have been because he couldn’t find anywhere else to go. But sometimes she tells stories that I don’t think are true.

I scoot closer to Micha, not sure what to say to him, so instead I hold out a Popsicle. He keeps crying as he looks at it and then he finally takes it from my hand. He peels the wrapper off and I peel mine off and then I sit there with him while he cries because it always makes me feel better when he sits with me when I’m upset. Eventually his tears stop, long after the Popsicles are melted in our bellies and Micha finally gets up and wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. I get to my feet, too, and I search for something to say.

“Do you want to do something?” I ask.

He glances at me, still sad, but then he nods. “Yeah, what do you want to do?”

I smile and take his hand. “Whatever you want to do,” I say. He’s usually doing stuff for me, but today it should be about making him happy.

He considers something and then there’s the slightest sparkle in his eyes. “How about hide-and-go seek?”

I nod and then we play until the sun goes down, turning a sad day into a decent one because we’re together.

Micha

Later that day, I rap my hand on the doorway as I walk into my bedroom. Ella is lying on the bed on her stomach with the journal opened in front of her. I really wish she’d stop reading that thing. As much as I know it’s good for her to have something that belonged to her mom, I can see in her eyes that whatever’s in there is bringing her down. She hasn’t been on her medication for a while and hasn’t talked to a therapist in a few months, at least that I know of. She’s been doing fine and I want her to stay that way, but I also don’t want to be the asshole who tells her to quit reading her dead mother’s journal.

So I keep my mouth shut and instead check her out. She’s beautiful, her auburn hair pinned behind her head, wavy curls framing her face, and she’s wearing a black-and-red dress that hugs her body and black stilettos on her feet.

“God, you’re so fucking hot,” I say, adjusting myself as the urge to slam the door and take her from behind tries to overpower me. But people have started to arrive at my house for the party, so I control myself.

Ethan is letting everyone in but he wasn’t too happy about the party to begin with, although I have no idea why because he used to enjoy parties back when we were younger. It was our thing and we probably threw more at my house then we actually went out to, since my mother never cared just as long as we cleaned up afterward. I had to laugh at Ethan when we were driving and chatting about what’s been going on in our lives for the last six months or so. I guess when he and Lila go back to Vegas they’re packing their stuff and hitting the road to try and live out his dream of being a mountain man. It’s strange because Lila doesn’t seem like the type, at least when I first met her, but now she seems different. She seems less preppy and I hate to say it but at first I thought she came off as a spoiled rich brat. But she’s not though. She’s actually really nice.

Ella glances up through her long eyelashes, her gaze skimming over my black jeans, my studded belt, and my Pink Floyd T-shirt, and then she bites her lip. “You look good, too.” She closes the journal and sits up. “Trying to impress anyone in particular?”

I roll my eyes and kick a shirt out of the way as I stroll into my room. “Only you.”

“Yeah, I might know that.” She looks down at her hand as she flexes her fingers in front of her and the diamonds and black stone of her engagement ring sparkle. “But unlike me, you don’t have a ring on your finger branding you as taken.”

“You could always give me my ring,” I tell her. “I’ll wear it.”

She shakes her head, climbs off the bed, and tugs the bottom of her dress down, a dress that looks a lot shorter now that she’s standing. “No way. You’re not going to see that until the wedding.” She pauses, putting her hands on her hips. “It doesn’t matter anyway. If any girl hits on you, I’ll just kick her ass.”

“That’s my feisty girl.” I give her a deep kiss and then hold up a finger as I get an idea. “I got it.” I back toward the door. “You go out and start having fun and I’ll take care of the ring problem.”

She looks perplexed but follows me out of the room. She joins the small group gathered in the living room as I head to the door. I slip on my jacket as I step out onto the porch and into the snow. Christmas lights flash from the house across the street and I can hear the thumping of music from somewhere down the street. I trot down the stairs and hurry into the garage, flipping the light on. I pull a box down from the top shelf and set it on the counter. As I’m sifting through the car parts, my phone rings from my pocket. When I take it out, my producer’s name, Mike Anderly, flashes across the glowing screen. I press talk and put the phone up to my ear.

“It’s a little late to be calling,” I tell him, balancing the phone against my ear as I rummage through the box.

“I know, but I couldn’t wait until morning to call you and tell you the news,” he says, sounding way happier than he normally does. Usually, he’s all business and kind of cranky.

“What news?” I pick up the metal ring from the box, smiling at my clever idea.

“That you got on the tour.”

I nearly drop the ring. “The Rocking Slam Tour?” I ask. It’s the tour I’ve been trying to get on for months, the one that has a ton of my favorite bands, musicians I idolize. The one where I’ll have to be on the road for three straight months.