Mending Michael

by J. P. Grider

  "I can't be alone again today," I say, finally, after another awkward silence. We seem to always entertain awkward silences between each other. Maybe due to the fact that I don't want to acknowledge feelings I shouldn't be having towards her? "I just keep seeing images of Kenna with some horrible family. I just..."

  Her thumb rubs my bicep—maybe unintentionally, maybe not—when she cups her hand around my upper arm. "You don't have to be alone. I told you yesterday...I'm here for you."

  Talk about mixed signals. She's hot. She's cold. But I'm grateful. "Thank you. You had no plans?"

  "No." I can tell she's lying.

  "Then why were you in the car with your friends?"

  "Oh. We were going to breakfast."

  "Were going? Then...why'd they drop you off?"

  "Uh...I changed my mind?"

  Despite my sadness, I smile. "You saw me ride by, and you had him turn around?"

  "No."

  "Yes." But I drop it, satisfied in knowing that she changed her plans for me. "So what you wanna do?"

  "I noticed your house could use a little painting. You wanna paint?"

  "No," I say vehemently. "I don't want to be inside that house. I can't."

  She looks at me confused. "Didn't you sleep there last night?"

  "No. I slept at my apartment."

  "Oh. I think I get it." Holly looks up at the sky before returning her gaze to me. "Have anything in mind then?"

  "I do. But you'll need a jacket. And a pair of boots. You cannot wear those heels on my bike."

  She looks down at them and twists her foot back and forth. "What? They're not that high."

  "No, but they won't protect your feet if we fall."

  "Oh."

  "A leather jacket would be preferable too."

  She raises her eyebrows and says, "You're asking a lot, you know that don't you?" But she laughs and takes her keys out of her purse. "You wanna come with?"

  Yes. I do. Very much so. "I guess."

  Her room is exactly as I'd suspected—classy. Expensive looking pale gray bedding and real black furniture—not the plastic type that most college kids use as dressers—adorn her room.

  "Nice poster," I say of the huge Audrey poster she has hanging over the top of her bed.

  "You like that? Thanks." She fumbles through a small closet looking for something.

  "Who?" I get closer to the giant photograph hanging on the long side of her bed's wall. "Is that...is that you?" I ask, squinting at the girl holding a bunch of balloons in front of some huge familiar landmark.

  "What? Oh...that." She laughs. "Yeah, that's me...trying to recreate that scene in Funny Face. Do you know it?"

  I'm not familiar, so I shake my head, still looking at the phenomenal picture.

  "That's the Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel," she says in a very smooth French accent. "In Paris." Holly is bending over tying her floral Doc Martens. "In Funny Face, Audrey runs through Paris carrying this huge colorful bouquet of balloons." She looks up at me, blushing. "When my parents took my sister and me to Paris a few years ago, I had them take a picture of me recreating the scene. Silly, right?"

  I laughed, but didn't find it funny at all. I found it extraordinary. "No. Not silly." Every day, I seem to find a new reason to be in awe of Holly fucking Buchanan.

  And it was driving me mad.

  "So where we headed?" Holly asks, her arms in that familiar position around my waist.

  "South."

  34

  HOLLY

  Once we hit the Garden State Parkway, I conclude that we are heading to the Jersey shore, or as Rose would say, "We're going down the shore." I've only been down the shore once, but I wouldn't count it, because it was Atlantic City, and we hadn't spent much time outdoors. I'm no good at gambling and so never went back.

  But now, I highly doubt we're headed to A.C., because if it's drinking Mick's trying to avoid, then he wouldn't put himself smack dab in the center of an alcohol-laden casino.

  Several miles down the quickly budding tree-lined roadway, Mick bears onto the Exit 82A ramp merging onto Route 37 headed towards Seaside Heights.

  ***

  I remember this place from the news a year and a half ago—the boardwalk that was demolished by Superstorm Sandy. It doesn't look so demolished now. In fact, it looks alive and well, and for it being near the end of April, the boardwalk is teeming with shore-goers.

  "It doesn't look like the news shows portrayed it," I say of the busy boardwalk.

  "You didn't see it last year. These people have been working their asses off restoring this place," Mick says thoughtfully. "There's still a whole pier missing, but this place is really something now. See that spot over there?" He points to a yellow-hazard-taped barricaded spot where new construction of a roller-coaster is happening. "That's where the old rollercoaster sunk into the ocean, completely intact. The boards broke right off, sinking the coaster."

  "I saw that on the news."

  We pass a lot of games that I'd love to play, but I know Mick's not very happy, so I don't know if it's an appropriate thing to suggest. Consoling friends is kind of new to me, so I'm unsure what's etiquette. With that being the case, I refrain from suggesting playing a game and let Mick lead the way.

  We continue walking the boards until he says, "Wanna walk on the beach?"

  "Of course. I love the beach."

  We stick our socks inside our boots, tie them together by their laces, and swing them over our shoulders.

  The cold water lapping at my ankles, while Mick walks the hard sand next to me, is almost painful. "Holy shit that's cold," I cry out.

  Mick laughs...softly...but he laughs. My heart hurts almost as much as my feet do, he is so sad. Stoic is more like it. Aside from the waterfall of tears he shed this morning, his face shows no emotion at all. Though because of those tears, I know his expressionless face is because he is sad for his niece. Who wouldn't be? A toddler, thrust from the only people she knows, into a family she's never met. That has to be ridiculously hard for all involved, but that little girl must be scared to death. And I know Mick is afraid for her.

  I follow him out of the water's edge up the sand, where he throws his boots down and sits next to them. With his elbows on his bent knees, he covers his face in his hands. I sit down close to him, my shoulder practically touching his. "Michael," I say softly, because I've decided still that he needs to be reminded of the strength he has burrowed deep down. "You'll get through this. You all will." And for some reason, I believe what I tell him. I've never experienced a sixth sense before now, but I have today. Michael Ross, his sister Charity, and his niece Kenna, will all have a happily ever after. I am sure of it...even if I have to have something to do with that happy ending.

  He sighs, but I can tell he is not crying. Not this time.

  With my right hand, I lean across myself to touch Mick's arm. "I'll go to the lawyer with you, I'll go to court if you have to, I'll even use my father's money and status to get Kenni back into your arms." Quietly, I say, "Even if that means doing everything my father wants me to do, I'll do it, to use his power."

  Mick lifts his head from his hands and says, "What does that mean? Do everything your father says?"

  "I mean, I'll take the internship, I'll pass my classes, I'll do what he needs me to do to keep him happy. When he's happy, he's very generous, and I know he'll want to help. He knows lots of great lawyers."

  He spreads out his legs and runs his hands through the sand, filling his palm with it, then dumping it out. While he mindlessly plays with the soft sand, he keeps his gaze on what he's doing. "You were thinking of not taking the internship?"

  I lean back, my palms on the sand behind me, while I bury my toes in the sand in front of me. "I was contemplating going against my father's wishes, but I don't have to...I want to help you."

  He looks at me now and keeps his hands still in the sand. "Why would not taking the internship have anything to do with your asking for his help...not that I need him to
help me, I...I was just wondering why you said it that way."

  I keep my gaze down when I say, "Because going against my father isn't a pretty thing. He's a prideful man, and if anyone disagrees with him, he makes life hard for them."

  "And if you don't take his internship, he'd make things hard for you?"

  I nod.

  "In what way?"

  "He won't pay for the rest of my education. I'll have to find my own place to live, or...get a full-time job and pay him rent. He has the power to do anything he wants, so..."

  Mick raises his brow. "And yet you were thinking of not taking the job? I'm impressed. You're more dauntless than I thought you were."

  "And what is that supposed to mean?" I ask, somewhat offended, because I don't really know what he's getting at. Is he being sarcastic?

  "Your act," he says simply.

  "My act?"

  "Your arrogance, your sarcastic mouth...I thought it was all a cover for a weak interior."

  "A weak inter.. .You have a lot of nerve, Mick." And don't think I call him Mick by accident. No. It is so intentional. "If anyone puts on acts and masks what's inside, it's you. You act all tough and rough and like you couldn't give a damn, but..." he has me so riled up at the moment that I lose my train of thought. I don't even know where I was going with that...I just know he pissed me off with that comment before.

  "And what, Holiday? I what? You tell me about myself, because I want to know...yes. I want to know what you think about me, because you are so all-important that what you think really matters to me." His tone is severe and cruel.

  I stand up, brush the sand off of me, and throw my boots back over my shoulder. "Fuck you. I'll get my own ride home."

  I walk up towards the boards, but in an instant, his hand is gripping my arm and spinning me around. "You are so fucking full of yourself...so...so...so pretentious...and...and entitled. And god-damned sarcastic. I never know when...oh God, I hate you. Hate you."

  I yank my arm away from him and with both palms, I push him hard against the chest. He doesn't budge, but he grabs at both my forearms and pulls me back. The soft sand causes me to stumble, and his hands move up my arms to right me, to keep me from falling. His dark eyes are brooding when they pierce mine. They move from my eyes to my lips and back again before I'm slammed up against his chest and his mouth is assaulting mine.

  But I let him...

  35

  MICK

  She tastes too good.

  The girl I hate.

  This girl I can't stand.

  This girl I can't stand to be away from.

  This girl I'm falling for so badly it hurts.

  Like a moth to a flame, I can't stay away from Holly. And I'm so afraid I'm gonna get burned. Again. I'm not so sure my heart could stand another blow.

  Yet here I am.

  Falling again.

  My hands travel up her neck to hold her face and abruptly, I unlatch my lips from hers, peering into her eyes once again. But because I am so fucking afraid, I breathe out, "I fuckin' hate you so much."

  Two small fists rap hard against my chest. "You are so fucking screwed up." She continues punching at me until she falls against my chest crying. "Why? Why do you hate me so much? My God, all I do is try and try...I just want to be your friend. What the fuck?" She trails off. In tears. Something I'd never thought she'd do in front of me. And I'm not proud of it.

  Once again, I encompass her in my arms, but this time, I don't kiss her.

  I hold her.

  And run a hand over the back of her head, while I lean my chin on top of it.

  I don't say anything.

  I can't.

  But I let the drumming of my heart pound against the beating of hers, until chest to chest, our hearts are beating in sync.

  It's all I can give her right now.

  Because I hate her.

  I hate her for making me fall in love with her.

  36

  HOLLY

  I have to be crazy myself for standing here in his arms, when I know damn well that glacial exterior of his is going to reach out and sting me again.

  And I don't cry. Not in front of people anyway. So what the hell is it about Mick freaking Michael Ross that has me blubbering like my mother? Goddammit, I am not some shrinking violet willing to take a man's shit. So why am I taking his?

  I gather my assertiveness and push at his chest again. Only this time, I shove him so hard I knock him down. "Fucking get your shit together before you kiss me again, because that bullshit's just gotta stop."

  He sits on the sand, eyes wide, looking up at me.

  So what do I do?

  I kick the fucking sand at him. I know…I’m too mean for my own good. I don’t want to be mean. I really don’t. It’s crazy though, these emotions that are triggered when I’m with him. I want to apologize. I stand there, looking at him, contemplating how to begin, when suddenly I see fire in his eyes.

  "You fucking bitch," he yells, getting up and coming after me.

  I run from him. I run so fast, I smack into the metal railing going up the ramp. I'm holding on to my side, in an attempt to make the pain go away, when his left hand lands on the railing to the left of me, and his right hand cages me. Behind me, I can feel his breath racing, and I don't think it's from chasing after me. As my own breathing picks up, his arms bend, enabling him closer to me. I don't dare turn around, because I have a feeling he wants to kiss me again, and I won't give in. I can't give in. I meant what I had said, he has to get his shit together before I'll let him put his mouth on me one more time.

  So I stand there. My back to him. His breath on my neck, his body hovering behind me. I close my eyes, willing him to walk away. Because if he doesn't, my body will betray me.

  Once his breathing gets to the point where I think his lungs are going to explode, he violently pushes off the railing, uncaging me, and muttering, "Fuck. Me."

  Slowly, I turn around, leaning against the railing and getting my own breathing under control. Because Oh. My. God. He wanted me. I felt it in his pants. And if he hadn't turned away, I think I would have pushed him back down on the sand and fallen on top of him. Then I would have found myself going against my word and kissing the heck out of him.

  After grabbing hold of my composure, I walk up the ramp and sit on a bench that overlooks the ocean. While I'm brushing the sand off my bare feet, I watch Mick, down at the water's edge, his head down, struggling internally with something.

  Kenna?

  Charity?

  Me?

  A secret that I know he holds close to his chest?

  My Docs tied, my feet propped against the boardwalk railing, I'm busy contemplating what the heck could be Mick's secret, if there even is a secret, when I see him walking up toward the boards. He doesn't go up the ramp, though. He heads straight for me...though I'm behind the railing, and he's beneath me on the beach.

  His lips are pursed, his face determined. After a brief rise of his shoulders, he exhales a long breath. "I don't have my shit together. You're right," he admits, crossing his arms on the railing where I just dropped my feet from. "But I'm trying." He hesitates, and I decide he's most likely biting his inner cheek again. "If you can be...patient...while I try...well, I'd appreciate that. 'Cause, well, truth is...I don't really hate you." His eyes close, and he shakes his head. "I just," he opens his eyes and looks up at me, "hate the way you make me feel things. I'm not comfortable with it, so..." he trails off, bending his neck to bring his chin to his chest.

  I think about this for a minute. Plus, it gives me time to cool the blush that's forming in my cheeks. Unable to control the sigh slash giggle that escapes my gut, I cause him to frown.

  Quickly, I correct that, by leaning over the railing and yanking him by the neck of his snug, sinewy-chest-revealing, gray t-shirt and pulling him towards me. Since he's quite tall, I don't have to lean down too far to bring my mouth to his. I don't kiss him. Not yet. Rather, with my lips barely brushing his, I whisper,
"Don't mess with me...and I'll be patient."

  His wide eyes darken with the dilation of his pupils, and his lip quirks just a bit on the right.

  "Now buy me a cheeseburger. I'm hungry, and you owe me," I demand, pulling away from him.

  Still standing beneath me, his hands now wrapped around the lower railing, he drops his chin. "Why do I owe you?" he asks, not getting it.

  "For putting me through your bullshit."

  He raises his brow and lets go of the railing. "Fair enough."

  I meet him at the top of the ramp leading from the beach, and he whispers something really softly.

  "What?" I ask, quite loudly, I might add.

  He drops his head and says louder, "I'm sorry."

  I smile. "Thank you. And I’m sorry too. I’m not the easiest person to get along with,” I admit.

  He nods and as we start walking, I feel his hand lightly brush against mine. When I turn to look at him, he's already looking at me. That's when he entwines his fingers with mine.

  We wordlessly walk to the hamburger vendor and order a cheeseburger and a cola each. Mick pays, I thank him. Again, we eat our burgers as we walk, silently observing the people and places on the Seaside Heights boardwalk, but barely saying a word to each other. Though we are holding hands again.

  As we pass the old carousel, the fudge shop, and the many money-sucking arcades, I realize that something has definitely changed between us. And I think the realization is sinking in for him as well.

  Maybe I'm just speaking for myself here, but we don't really know where to go from here.

  37

  MICK

  Okay, maybe I don't hate her anymore.

  Maybe I never did.