The Secret 00.5 The Prelude of Ella and Micha (3 page)

Oh, my God, his tongue is in my mouth.

Micha Scott’s
tongue is in my mouth.

And
I
just touched my tongue to his.

Before I can even register what’s happening, we’re kissing. And I mean full on French-kissing. It goes on for what feels like minutes, our knees knocking against each other as Micha plays with my hair and continues to kiss me. Unfamiliar feelings prickle inside me, ones I’m pretty sure I’ve never felt before, and that terrifies the living daylights out of me. They make me feel so...

Out of control.

And Micha is supposed to be my stability.

I’m about to pull away because I can’t take the terror hounding inside me anymore when a loud crash echoes from nearby and we both jerk apart, wide-eyed and gasping for air. My cheeks start to burn and even Micha appears embarrassed, which has never happened before—at least, from what I’ve seen.

Seconds later, reality crashes over me.

Oh, my God, I just kissed my best friend.

The silence that follows is painful, and I worry that everything is going to change. Be ruined. He won’t want to be my friend anymore, and if I don’t have him, I have no one.

I wish I never kissed him.

“Well, that was interesting,” Micha remarks, touching his fingers to his lips as he chuckles.

“Interesting, as in bad?” I ask, nervous for unclear reasons.

He swiftly shakes his head. “No way. Not bad at all.” That’s all he says before he runs back and starts swinging again. “So, did you hear that Ethan and Jane are going out?”

Confused by the abrupt subject change, I slowly let the swing crawl forward. “No.”

“Yeah, he told me the other day.” He starts chatting about who’s going out with who, updating me on the latest middle school gossip, but I zone out, my thoughts floating back to the kiss.

It felt so right yet so wrong. So good yet so terrifying. Are things going to change after this? Do I look as awkward as I feel on the inside? What is happening to me? Micha usually calms me down, but right now, being close to him is freaking me out. Although, in a good way, a way I don’t know how to handle.

As my thoughts and emotions start to jumble together, I feel like a huge mess. Finally, I arrive at a conclusion: never again. Never will I kiss Micha again.

16 years old…

Micha

There’s a certain moment in my life that changed my future forever. It blindsided me, but if I really had been looking to begin with, I would have seen it coming. It started with a simple surfacing of emotion.

My emotions for Ella have gotten way stronger
. The thought comes out of nowhere while I sit in the waiting room, waiting for Ella to come out from the emergency area. She fell off the roof only hours earlier and blacked out. For a second, I thought she was dead thanks to my drunk friend Ethan yelling that she was. I seriously about had a fucking heart attack, and in that moment, something changed between us. I thought she was dead and realized I can’t live without her.

I can never lose her. God, it hurts to even think about it.

When she finally walks out into the waiting room with a cast on her arm, another thought strikes me out of nowhere.

My emotions for Ella have gotten so strong I can hardly think straight when I’m near her.

“Are you okay?” I ask, quickly standing as she reaches me. My heart is slamming inside my chest while I scan her entire body for any more injuries.

She tiredly nods. “Yeah, I just broke my arm”—she elevates her arm that’s covered in a cast—“nothing too serious.”

I stare at her, probably for too long. Then I wrap my arms around and pull her in for a too tight hug. “Don’t ever do that shit again.” My voice is hoarse, but I’m too exhausted and worried to give a shit.

She tensely puts her good arm around me and pats me on the back. “Micha, it’s not that big of a deal. I’ve snowboarded off a roof before.” She starts to draw back, but my arms constrict around her.

“I don’t care,” I whisper in her hair. “Promise me you’ll be more careful from now on. And stay off roofs.”

She sighs, relaxing into me. “Yes, voice of reason.”

I pull back enough to look down at her. “Voice of reason?”

She shrugs. “That’s what I call you sometimes when you’re trying to take care of me.”

“I’m always trying to take care of you.” I turn for the door and slip an arm around her back, refusing to let her go.
Ever
. “Now, come on. Let’s get you home and take care of you some more.”

I was hoping by the next morning my feelings would go back to normal, that Ella and I would go back to normal. But, if anything, it’s gotten worse.

Nothing is ever going to be normal again. At least, not with me.

The revelation comes to me abruptly while I’m writing lyrics in my bedroom. At sixteen years old, the words pouring out of me are soul bearing, defining, and fucking startling, like a lightning bolt to the heart. And, the thing is, it’s not the first time I’ve written about Ella like this. My very first song was about her, too. At the time, it didn’t mean anything, but now I have to question what the cause is behind my emotional words dedicated to her.

The entire time I pen, all I’m thinking about is how I felt when I thought Ella had died. My hand actually begins to tremble, and my nerves only amplify when I reread my poetry. Where did these lyrics stem from? How the hell did I go from scribbling about desolation to writing about the person who means the world to me?

I’m so fucking scared.

And kind of excited.

“Are you okay?” Ella asks with concern from across the room.

It’s not like anything has visibly changed between us since last night. She still slept in the bed with me, fully dressed with a bit of space between our bodies, even though every one of my limbs craved to eliminate any amount of air between us. We woke up and had breakfast, chatted with my mother, then went back to my room to draw and write lyrics.

Her sketchbook is open on her lap while I strum my guitar and pencil down the rest of the mind-blowing lyrics. But the words only carry half my attention. The other half is on her, watching her uninjured hand move wildly across the paper, even as she stares at me with those big, beautiful green eyes of hers.

When did I realize her eyes are so beautiful? And how lean and long her legs are? How smooth her skin looks? How much I want to touch her smooth skin … kiss her lips … bite her flesh … watch her hand trace across my body …

Suddenly, that hand of hers stops, and she sets the pencil down. “Micha, what’s up?” She sits up in the beanbag chair. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I blink my attention from my dirty fantasies, my fingers halting on the guitar strings. “What?” Her concern is severely distracting to the point that I can barely focus. That’s the thing with Ella: she always cares about me enough to check on me, and when she’s staring at me with concern, like she is now, it’s difficult to even breathe.

Her forehead creases as she leans toward the bed, scrutinizing me. “Are you high?”

High on you.

Where do I come up with this shit?

I adjust the guitar in my lap. “No, why?”

She shrugs then relaxes back, tucking a strand of her auburn hair behind her ear. The movement causes my heartbeat to quicken and blood to roar in my eardrums.

“You just seem distracted,” she responds. “And you look kind of pale.”

“Being high doesn’t make me pale.” I cringe at the thickness in my voice. I’m never awkward around girls, and now I’m about as nervous as a debater with severe stage fright. “And I’m always a little distracted when I’m working on a song, especially when I’m about to finish one.”
About my feelings for you.

“That’s awesome.” She smiles brightly. It’s the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen. “Can I see what you have down so far?” She sets her sketchbook aside on the floor and kneels in front of me.

When she reaches for my notepad, I jerk back, tucking it behind me while dropping the guitar onto the bed.

“What the heck, Micha? Are you …?” She peers up at me with glossy eyes, like she’s about to cry. “Are you mad at me about something?”

“What!” I exclaim. “No, it’s just …” I think about the lyrics that just flowed out of me, as though my subconscious was speaking to me, whispering things I never realized until now. “I’m not mad, I just … don’t want you to read these until they’re finished.” It’s only when she starts to relax that I do, as well.

“Well, if you need to talk to me,” she says, sitting back on her heels, “I’m here for you. I know today’s a rough day.”

My brows knit as I set the notepad down on the mattress and scoot to the edge of the bed, planting my feet on the floor. “Why? What’s today?”

“Um, ten years since your dad left.” She folds her arms on top of my knees and looks up at me. The contact is almost unbearable, though in the best way possible.

Breathe, you dumb ass. It’s just a girl touching you, nothing more, nothing less.

Except the girl touching you remembered your father took off ten years ago today. The girl knows and cares about your past.

“I’m fine.” I wave her off then get to my feet. “But we should go do something fun.”

“Okay,” she easily agrees. Ella is usually up for fun, no matter the circumstances. She bounds to her feet and closes her sketchbook before reaching for her leather jacket. “What are you up for tonight? Racing? Dinner at the diner? We can go to that party downtown that people were talking about.”

I reach for my hoodie on my bedpost. “A party sounds kind of nice.” I glance down at her cast. “As long as you feel up to it.”
Maybe the noise will drown out my freaking alarming thoughts and feelings.

“My arm feels fine.” She reaches for the doorknob but dithers. “But, if we go to the party, will you promise not to act like a weirdo like you did at the last one? Because it wigs me out.”

I slip on my jacket. “I never act like a weirdo at parties, do I?”

She stares me down from over her shoulder. “The last party we went to, you almost beat Jonny Moylton’s ass because he was”—she lets go of the doorknob to make air quotes—“dry humping me. Seriously, Micha. You’re starting to act like a jealous boyfriend.”

My frown deepens as I painfully realize how right she is. I was extremely pissed off watching Jonny touch her like that, and I acted crazy. I’ll do it again, too.

“Well, he was asking for it,” I tell her, unable to stop myself. “He shouldn’t have been touching you like that.”

“That’s not really for you to decide.” She turns for the door again. “Guys are allowed to touch me, Micha. In case you haven’t noticed, I am a girl.”

Oh, I’ve noticed. Boy, have I fucking noticed.

“It is too for me to decide who gets to touch you,” I mutter then cringe when I realize I said it aloud.

She fires a death glare at me. “What is your problem? I don’t get it. You’ve been acting really … weird and pouty the last few weeks.”

I want to tell her I’ll stop. I’ll control myself. Control my emotions. But I’d be lying to her, and I never want to be that guy to her, the one who feeds her bullshit like every other dude in her life.

“You know what I’m craving?” I say, nervously scratching my neck. “Some of that cheesecake my mom made you for your birthday.”

She blinks once at the abrupt subject change, but then her eyes fill with hunger at the mention of cheesecake, just like I knew they would—Ella loves her cheesecake. “Is there any left?”

I nod as I zip up my jacket. “Yeah. Let’s sneak a few slices before we head out.”

She smiles, which is a rarity, before pulling on the door. When she gets it halfway open, though, she unexpectedly pauses, and I almost end up running into her.

“Maybe we should stop by the diner to get something to eat before the party,” she suggests, turning her head ever so slightly.

We’re so close our lips almost touch, and it takes every single bit of strength I have not to lower my lips and devour her. My hands curl into fists, and I breathe through my nose, trying to keep my erratic airflow as discreet as possible.

“I mean, if we’re going to be drinking, which I’m guessing we are, we can’t do it on empty, cheese-cake only stomachs; otherwise, we’ll relive last month’s puking party we had when we get home.”

“Good idea. I am kind of hungry.” I can barely form words because her vanilla scent is overpowering all of my senses, drowning me with an emotion that terrifies me.

She slowly nods, carefully eyeing me over. “Are you positive you’re okay? You seem kind of … weirdo-ish again.”

A slow exhale eases from my lips as I gather up what little sanity I have left, then I plaster on a smile. “Yeah, I’m great. Better than great. I’m fucking spectacular.”

What I really want to say is
“No, I’m not fine, fucking great, or spectacular. Nor will I ever be again. Because I think I’m falling in love with my best friend, who quite possibly will never love me back.”