“Can we talk?” Mike asked.
Clarke licked her lips, then turned to face him. That's when she really saw him. He looked exhausted. She wanted to ask why he clearly wasn't sleeping, but she was pretty sure she could guess the answer, and she really didn't think she could handle having to hear about it. But he also looked sincerely concerned. He wanted to make things all right between them. She needed to let him. It wouldn't change the outcome anyway, but at least she would have that off her conscience.
“I've already forgiven you, Mike,” she said gently. “All that's left is for me to apologize for my own statements. I'm sorry. I hope we can move past this. But if you would rather I show my contrition with skywriting or something similarly expensive, I'll have to pass. An apology is all you're getting.”
His tense face eased into a soft smile and it made her heart hurt just a little bit.
“Can I take you to lunch tomorrow?”
Won't you be busy with the love of your life? She wondered. Instead she nodded. He grinned, then took the plate from the counter and headed back into the living room.
***
Mike was reduced to sitting alone in one of the armchairs during the movie. Sway had taken his customary position next to Clarke, and he wasn't entirely sure how he felt about it. When had those two become so chummy?
Clarke's stifled giggles during the flower market fistfight made him smile. He loved her laugh. But he couldn't enjoy it because he felt banished to his chair. Exiled from her personal space. And Sway was in his place.
Bitter jealousy simmered below the surface of Mike's carefully flat demeanor.
He hadn't seen Clarke since that day at the cafe when he'd been a complete asshole. Part of him thought that when he walked in the door, she'd throw her arms around him. All forgiven.
What he wasn't expecting was his stomach to fill with dry sand, and his breathing to become painful. Even after their small discussion in the kitchen, she returned to Sway. Mike's throat got tight. Like he'd swallowed his entire past and it was fighting its way back out of his mouth.
“I need a lemonade refill,” Sway declared, standing and rounding the couch. “You need a top-off, Sparky?”
Sparky? Mike craned his neck around to see who he was talking to.
“Yeah, thanks.” Clarke handed her glass back over her head and Sway took it from her.
It was too much. Sharing a plate of food, sitting cozily on the couch, getting her a drink refill. Sway was being too friendly, too familiar. Mike knew exactly what was going on. He'd seen it before.
He realized he was standing as well. He clenched the plate in his hand and marched to the kitchen where he set it down loudly.
“Dude, you getting more nachos?” Sway asked as he filled the two glasses with lemonade.
“Why are you calling her Sparky?” Mike growled low in his throat.
Sway turned to him slowly, frowning. “It's just a nickname. Why the—”
Mike stepped into Sway's space and stuck his finger in his chest. “No, you don't get to make cute nicknames with her. You don't get to share food off the same plate as her. You don't get to play the nice-guy, pretending to be Mister Supportive, and then swoop in and take advantage of a situation.”
Sway's face hardened. He grabbed Mike by his upper arm and jerked him around the corner into the hall towards the back of the house, where no one could see them. Mike shoved Sway's hand off his arm and then pushed Sway's shoulders with his fingertips. Sway retaliated in kind, except he ate up the distance in between them, barricading Mike with his back to the wall and their chests pressed together.
“Are you out of your mind?” Sway rumbled. “If you have a problem with me, we can settle it away from here. You really want Clarke to overhear your paranoid suspicions?”
Mike heaved out a deep breath through his nostrils as he tried not to take this confrontation the step further that his clenched fists wanted him to. Sway's words penetrated his angry haze and gave him the extra pause he needed to regain control.
“First of all,” Sway began, “Clarke and I really are just friends. Whatever issue you have with me doesn't involve her, so don't project that bullshit where it doesn't belong. Secondly, I know about Ilsa.”
Mike's body went still and he stared into Sway's impassive gaze.
“No, Clarke didn't tell me. I was here the night you came to tell her. And dude, that was the most messed up thing I've ever seen you pull.”
“You don't know what you're talking about.”
“Like hell I don't,” Sway snapped, and pointed in the direction of the living room. “I was the one here when you left. I was the one who had to hold her while she pretended not to cry. I was the one who watched you take a perfectly good woman and stomp all over her hopes and dreams. All for the sake of your own damned ego. Just because you think you can save the fairy princess after all.”
Mike's jaw clenched and he pictured his back molars cracking under the pressure. “It's not what you think,” he lied.
Sway's face twisted in a grimace and he leaned closer to Mike, taking a sniff of the air around him. “Chanel. Like I'd miss it.” His mouth twisted in repugnance. “Her perfume is all over you. You come here smelling like Ilsa and then want to get in my face for giving my friend an innocent nickname. You can't have them both, you know.”
“Clarke and I are just friends!” Mike retorted sharply.
“Then why are we having this ridiculous conversation?!” Sway ground out.
Mike swallowed. He had no reply.
“That's what I thought.” Sway finally stepped back. He looked Mike up and down. Measuring what he saw, his face a picture of disgust. “You don't need any help from me screwing this one up. You've got it covered.”
Sway left Mike standing in the hall. He returned to the kitchen and then to the living room. If anyone had noticed they had been gone for a while, they didn't say.
Mike let his head drop back and thump softly against the wall. Whether Sway was telling the truth or not, Mike wasn't in a position to find out. He couldn't just ask Clarke if he had made her cry without having to address everything that surrounded that particular detail.
Sonofabitch! He didn't ever want to make her cry.
That's why he'd told her that nothing could happen between them. Was it his fault that she let herself become too attached, knowing he wasn't in a place to offer her more than what they had?
But Mike's moment of jealous insecurity that nearly ended the tentative truce that he had established with Sway couldn't be ignored either.
The truth was, Mike wasn't ready to commit to Clarke. Not yet. Not until he knew he could offer her what she deserved. Not until he had it figured it out. Not until he was ready in the ways that counted.
This thing with Ilsa wasn't what Sway thought it was. She was a huge part of his history. Part of why and who he was. She still held onto a major part of his soul and he shouldn't just shake her off. Especially not when she was trying so hard to heal herself. What kind of a friend would he be, knowing the struggle she was facing and refusing to stand by her?
He wanted to help Ilsa get through this. He was one of the only people who knew her well enough to know how to help. And he had been there before. He knew what it felt like to have no one on your side, rooting for you. He couldn't just walk away from that. From her.
His phone chirped and he pulled it out of his pocket.
Ilsa: I need you.
Mike sighed heavily and rubbed his hand down his face. He tapped out a reply that he'd be there shortly.
It was issues like this that he couldn't ignore. Ilsa was too fragile right now. But she was reaching out for help and he was not going to leave her to it, just so that he could watch a movie with his friends.
Mike returned to the living room and gave a low wave as everyone looked up at him.
“Sorry, guys, I have to be somewhere.” He ignored Sway's scowl and focused on Clarke's turquoise eyes. She looked genuinely disappointed. “Lunch tom
orrow, no matter what.”
Her confusion eased into a smile and she nodded silently.
Mike didn't even look at the others in the room. He knew what he would see: judgment, suspicion, accusation. He didn't need to face that right now.
***
“What's wrong with you? Why won't you talk to me?” Ilsa asked, tears running down her face.
“There's nothing to say,” Mike said darkly. “Nothing will be the same again.”
“I don't understand. He was just a roadie, a hanger-on. You barely knew him,” she whispered.
What Mike didn't get was why Ilsa was having such an emotional reaction to his decision. He was done with drugs and alcohol. All of it.
Paul's dead eyes haunted him. Accusing him. Daring him to keep his word.
“He was my friend,” Mike said softly. “And now he's gone.” Paul had also been the only beacon of hope in Mike's world until it had been shut off. He was Mike's connection to the promise of a real future. A future with someone who belonged with him. Even though for the life of him, Mike couldn't even remember her name.
That future was dead now, too.
He looked up at Ilsa's distraught face. She was his future now. He would commit to her like he never had before. Somehow they would make this work. They would find their way back to the love they had shared in the beginning, when everything was new.
“No more, Ilsa. We can do this together. I'll help you.”
She shook her head. “No, you're different now. I feel like I don't even know you.”
“Do you know Sway better? Is that who you know now?” he asked, his tone bitter. “What happens when Sway finds out about the pills, Ilsa? Will he be your confidant then?”
She swallowed and shook her head forcefully. “Sway talks to me.”
“Whatever,” Mike mumbled, running his hands through his hair as he turned his back and headed for the door. “I'm gonna go for a walk. You go talk to Sway if you think it'll help.”
Mike woke up with a start. He sat up on the unfamiliar couch and looked around, trying to place where he was. The night before filtered slowly into his brain and he eased himself back down.
Ilsa had cried herself sick last night and begged him to let her have something to drink, to help her sleep. He'd talked himself silly; round and round they went as he explained what a setback that would be. He'd even threatened to take her to the hospital if she couldn't get a handle on this soon. Not letting your emotions make your choices for you was a very big deal.
Apparently, Marcus had a new girl in Chicago and had called Ilsa that night to tell her to get her things and move out. She had until the end of the week. Mike promised to help her find a place of her own.
She was a complete wreck, though. He remembered that from when they were together. Her emotions were explosive. She would cry and throw things, one time cutting her hand open so badly that she needed stitches. Thank God it hadn't gotten that bad last night. Although, she didn't have any alcohol to fuel her, no matter how many times she asked.
Mike had waited until she fell asleep and then he'd stayed on the couch in the room right outside hers so that she wouldn't sneak out after he left to go inflict more damage on herself.
“Should we get some breakfast?” Ilsa asked from the doorway, already fully dressed with makeup and everything. She didn't look like she'd been up all night long. She looked rested and glamorous as usual. “Or lunch is closer, I suppose.”
Mike looked at the clock on the wall to his right. Shit. He was supposed to be meeting Clarke in thirty minutes. He didn't have time to shower or change his clothes or anything. And he wasn't going to wear anything that belonged to Marcus.
He debated canceling and decided against it. He would just have to go like this.
“I have lunch plans with Clarke.” He heaved himself to his feet and heard his back crack in at least three places.
“Oh good, I've been wanting to meet her.” Ilsa disappeared into her room before Mike could respond. When she reemerged she had added four inch heels to her five foot ten frame, making her to an inch taller than Mike. Tucking her Coach purse under her arm, she gave Mike a sweet smile. “Ready?”
Mike took a breath, looked at the clock again. “Yeah, okay.”
***
Clarke saw Ilsa before she saw Mike. She'd been sitting in their normal booth and the blonde supermodel sucked all the air out of the room when the door opened. Every eye in the place turned to take her in.
Tall, slender, graceful. The woman was absolutely statuesque.
Then Clarke saw Mike. Hair flattened slightly on one side from sleep. Still in yesterday's clothes.
Guess that explained where he had to get to last night.
In truth, Clarke wasn't surprised. But she had been hoping he wouldn't make it so obvious.
Clarke stood to greet the approaching couple. Because that's obviously what they were. A couple. A very attractive one at that. Clarke could just about imagine what their babies would look like.
They'd have their father's creativity and their mother's bone structure. Hopefully the girls would get her hair and the boys would get his.
Ilsa leaned in to air-kiss Clarke's cheek before they settled in their seats. Clarke was on one end, facing the gorgeousness across from her.
“So glad to finally meet you,” Ilsa said with a brilliant smile. “Mike has talked of almost nothing else.”
Clarke felt her face get hot. She knew that couldn't possibly be true and if it were, then she knew why Ilsa had come. She was making a statement.
That was fine. Clarke had already come to terms with the realization that she wasn't meant to be in Mike's life for the long term. It was even more obvious now that he'd brought Ilsa along to a lunch that Clarke had assumed would just be the two of them.
“Sorry we're late,” Mike finally spoke. He tucked his sunglasses into the collar of his shirt, and Clarke noted the dark circles under his eyes.
“It's my fault,” Ilsa explained. “I kept him up all night and he accidentally slept in this morning.” She leaned forward and dropped her voice an octave. “He's so sweet, you know. My boyfriend broke up with me last night and Mike made sure I wasn't alone.”
Clarke swallowed. “He is a very good friend,” she agreed. Her words dropped heavily in the air, but Mike and Clarke were the only ones who felt it.
They ordered their food. Mike and Clarke ordered their usual, while Ilsa ordered an egg white omelet and fruit.
Ilsa also carried the conversation. She asked about where Clarke worked and if she had any recommendations for a good place to get a pedicure. She was perfectly delightful, in all honesty. She never spoke rudely or looked down at Clarke, even though they clearly didn't run in the same circles. She was kind to the waitress, raved about the delicious food, complimented Clarke's coloring.
Clarke liked her. A lot.
Mike excused himself to use the restroom and the two women were left alone.
Ilsa took a sip of her tea and smiled softly at Clarke.
“You do look like your brother. I didn't see it at first, but I see it now.”
Clarke nearly choked on her own spit. She took a steadying breath, then asked quietly, “How did you know my brother?”
“I was there,” Ilsa responded, tilting her head slightly. “Well, we both were. He was such a sweet kid.”
Clarke's world stopped. How many times had she talked about Paul with Mike and he never, not once, did he mention that he knew about Paul. She'd known he knew, somehow. But this...
“Can you tell me about it?” Clarke asked slowly, afraid of the words, but needing to hear them all the same.
Ilsa's delicate eyebrows twitched and her eyes softened further. “He spent more time with Mike than he did with me. But he was always talking about you, his twin sister. He would say how he couldn't believe that he was on tour and you would be so jealous when he got home to show you the pictures. He was constantly taking pictures. Has Mike showed them to you yet? “
“The pictures?” Clarke shook her head, unable to say anything else.
“You should ask to see them.” Ilsa's smile turned reflective and her eyes focused on a point over Clarke's shoulder as she remembered. “Paul used to say that we never know how much time we have left, death was just over our shoulder.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I wonder if he knew that night.” She looked at Clarke again, her face full of sincere concern. “He wasn't an addict, you know.”
Clarke shook her head dumbly.
“It was the first time he'd ever done anything like that. He'd been around us when we were partying, but that night he decided for whatever reason to partake.”
“Tell—” Clarke began, swallowing the thickness in her throat. “Tell me what happened.”
Ilsa's wide blue eyes glossed over. “He stopped breathing. Everyone panicked. Mike was the one who took him to the hospital.”
“Mike was with him when—when it happened?” Clarke clarified, her vision obscured by the water in her eyes.
“Clarke,” Ilsa breathed, realization dawning on her, “I thought you knew.”
“Tell me,” Clarke demanded, her heart thudding heavily inside her chest.
“Mike took him to the hospital, but he was... he'd been using. So he got scared and left, afraid he'd—”
“Afraid he'd be caught,” Clarke finished. “And my brother died alone.”
A single, beautiful tear slid down Ilsa's face. She truly thought that Clarke already knew. She had no idea that she had just changed everything that Clarke thought she understood. Everything she had told herself, everything her counselor had told her, to put to rest her deep conflict with how and why Paul had died.
He had been her best friend.
And she had been allowed for years to believe he was a liar. A fake.
A stranger.
Clarke pressed the playback button on her answering machine.
“Clarkey Clark, it's me, Paul. Hey, I think I'm coming home in a couple weeks and I might have a friend for you to meet. I'm just headed out, I'll try to call tomorrow... I was thinking today about how awesome you are and how proud I am that you're my sister. Don't ever sell yourself short, you deserve the best.” The message ended and Clarke sniffed a laugh.
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