We Own the Night

by Ashley Poston

  LD tilts down the menu enough to give Billie a no-nonsense look. “He got laid, didn’t he?”

  “He got laid,” Billie agrees.

  I stare between the two of them. Laid? But they were only kissing! That’s a total lie—lingo for . . . for . . .

  But Micah turns three thousand shades of red over his tanned skin. I like it when he blushes—the color on his cheeks reminds me of late-season apples. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Bullshit, you don’t,” Billie says.

  LD agrees. “I think we may need to do some asking around.”

  “I think we do. North?”

  My mouth goes dry. I refuse to look up from the plate of half-eaten cheesy fries. So it wasn’t just a kiss. It wasn’t nothing. It was . . .

  “Leave him alone, guys,” I hear myself say.

  LD scoffs. “As if! You three badgered me for two months while I was Internet dating that girl online—”

  “Who turned out to be a forty-year-old man,” Micah reminds her.

  She ignores him. “Call this sweet, sweet revenge.”

  Micah squirms. I put a hand on LD’s forearm. “Seriously, I don’t think—”

  “Why’d he be ashamed to tell us? Unless it’s Heather Woodard.”

  He bristles.

  “Is it?” LD asks. “You can’t be serious.”

  I can see this is going downhill very, very fast. “Can we just drop it? Who’s ready to order?” I try to signal the waitress to come back, but she’s flirting with a middle-aged man in a Husker’s baseball cap. Great.

  “Heather, really?” she presses.

  “She’s not—”

  “If you’re about to say she has a nice personality, save your breath,” then she turns to tell me, “I’m pretty sure the only personality he got out of her were a few fake orgasms. ‘Oh, Micah, there! There!’”

  Micah makes a move to stand. Aggressively, too. “Care to say that to my face?”

  “I’ll say it to whatever part you want me to kick first,” she rebukes flatly.

  Billie grabs Micah by the arm to keep him from lunging over the table. Abandoning my coffee, I throw up my arms in a peace treaty.

  “Whoa, whoa!” I shout, and shove Micah back down into his seat. “Seriously! Calm down. She was just joking.”

  “I didn’t get the joke,” Micah bites back.

  LD retorts, “Maybe you’re stuck too far up her—”

  “I mean it!” I yell, slamming my fists down on the table.

  If anyone should be angry, it’s me. It’s ME. The only person who loved him—loved him so much her heart is breaking, and no one cares. The dishes and cups rattle. Billie saves a fork from falling off the table.

  “Now,” I tell them, ripping open a creamer pack and dumping it into my coffee until the dark burned color turns white, “we’re going to act civil or so help me I will body slam each and every one of you to kingdom come. Capisce?”

  “Capisce,” Micah and LD mutter in unison.

  “Good.” I nod and steel myself, because a kiss is never just a kiss. “Pass me the sugar.” I should have known. I pretend not to care.

  Chapter Ten

  After lunch, Billie decides to take a walk with LD to apologize for their fight earlier. Billie and LD are neighbors, like Micah and I are. They’ve been with each other longer than anyone else in Steadfast. They played in each other’s kiddie pools and ran naked in each other’s yards. A part of me is envious of that kind of friendship—something I never had with Micah. We have our own secrets and our own inside jokes, but there’s always been a separation. This invisible fault line that LD and Billie don’t have.

  I turn toward the candy store, my hands in my pockets. Micah walks beside me. Unlike LD and Billie, I don’t want to have to deal with Micah right now. I’m not sure I can even meet his eyes. I know where Micah was at the Barn. I know what he did. I know what it sounded like—and that was something I thought I’d find out in a very different way.

  When we’re halfway to the confectionary store, Micah clears his throat. I look over at him. “Listen, I know I ditched you guys the other night . . .” he begins.

  “I didn’t even have to come,” I reply. “I could’ve stayed home and—”

  “And what? Wasted your life listening to the radio?”

  “At least the radio doesn't run off and abandon me.”

  “I didn't abandon you. You need to live a little, Igs. Expand your life. Do shit.”

  “I do do shit,” I argue.

  “No, doing shit is seizing the day, going to the Barn, partying, meeting people . . . doing shit.”

  My feet cement to the sidewalk. I stare at him like he’s grown another head. “Did you really have sex with Heather?”

  He stops and turns back to me, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean, I didn’t not have sex with her.”

  “Is that why you wanted to go to the Barn?”

  “Seriously? That's what you think? Igs, I had no clue that night was going to turn out the way it did. It just sort of . . . happened.”

  “Happened,” I echo.

  “Look, I'm sorry, okay? Things just happened, okay? I went with it.” He wrings his hands together. He only ever does that when he’s nervous, and he’s never been nervous around me before. He glances over to the confectionary store across the street. “Listen, I—I was going to ask you this later but . . . I need your help, I think. I . . . I need you to ask her out.”

  I give him another long look. “I’m not bi, Micah.”

  “No! I know. I mean for me. Ask her out for me.”

  My heart drops like a rock into my gut. I try not to outwardly wince, my hands growing clammy. I don't know what to say—what do I say? I can’t say no because he’s my best friend. He has been all of our lives. And . . . isn't that the answer, though? First and foremost, I’m his friend. Not his ex. Bless, we never even dated. I don’t own him. I don’t own any of him, except for the small spot he’s carved out in his heart for our friendship, and it hurts mirrored against the crater he made in mine.

  “Please, Igs.”

  I take a deep breath. “Why?" When he begins to answer, I go on, “She's given us hell for years. Literally our entire lives. Why, Micah?”

  Why her?

  “For my own good,” he points out. “Please, Igs; she won’t talk to me. I’m like—like a worm to her.”

  “No—no. She’s the worm. We’re better than her, and her little clique of fake-ass people. Wasn’t one night enough?”

  “But—”

  “No.”

  He catches my wrist before I can escape across the street. “Please, Iggy.”

  His grip is strong, his fingers secure enough so I won’t leave, but his grip is tender, too. I hate him sometimes. I hate how contradictory he is, sweet eyes and hard cheekbones and dark eyes and soft curls.

  “Micah, let’s not do this. It’s going to be agony. You had one really nice night, but that’s all it was—a great night.”

  “You owe me,” he argues. I try to deny it, but he begins talking over me. “Yes, yes you do. Remember Mike?”

  “Point proven!” I reply, appalled.

  “It’s not my fault he’s a dickweed—”

  “Ugh!” Rolling my eyes, I yank my wrist out of his grip and rub it, even though he didn’t hurt me. Micah could never hurt me. But his request throbs in a place in my chest I’m not very familiar with. A place I bottled up a long time ago, when I realized Micah and Ingrid would never have a cute couple-y name.

  What’s wrong with me? Of course I’m going to help my best friend score a date with my mortal enemy.

  I close my eyes and steel myself. Because this is what best friends do. “Fine,” I say, “although I really don’t know how I’m going to do it. She hates me.”

  “Not as much as you think,” he replies, and pulls me into a hug. “You’re the best! Seriously. You need anything—ever—just name it.”

  “A shot of vodka and seven Chi
p N Dales—count ’em. I want seven.”

  “Seven! Done—so when are you going to do it?”

  I scrunched my nose. “Um, next week?”

  “Seriously? C'mon, Igs,” he says, and pouts.

  “No pouty face. It doesn’t work on me. This is a delicate matter, okay? Just give her some time. You don't want to look too desperate, do you? You want to be a catch.” I’m pulling all of this out of my ass, but it sounds legit enough.

  He gives a long sigh. “Fine. I'll put my love life in your capable hands!” He leans over and kisses my forehead, before turning down the street toward his family’s body shop. When I get back to work, Heather’s reorganizing the SweeTarts by color.

  “God, what took you so long?” She rolls her eyes. “Had to graze in a pasture?”

  “With your dad,” I shoot back and put a pack of Twizzlers in the M&Ms section just to piss her off.

  RADIO NITEOWL

  SHOW #158

  JUNE 11th

  NITEOWL: Happy midnight, my lovely owls. You’re listening to 93.5 KOTN. This week’s topic is—well, everything. To be honest, I haven’t had the chance to think up a topic. I’ve been—um—busy. We’ll just say busy. So it’s a free-for-all! Welcome, Caller One, you are fresh on the air and no cursing. We got fined for last week’s . . . incident. Hello?

  CALLER ONE: Hello! This is Bendo’s Massive Dildos calling about your lifetime supply of di—

  (ends call)

  NITEOWL: Aaaaaand that’s another fine! Caller Two, you’re on the air! What’s your heartbreak tonight?

  CALLER TWO: My favorite band is dead, and I don’t know what to do. Their lead singer died a year ago, and her vigil’s next month but . . . no one’s heard from the rest of the band since she died. I think they’re disbanding. For good. I don’t know what to do.

  NITEOWL: I feel you. When Zayn left One Direction I cried. Not gonna lie.

  CALLER TWO: Right? Roman Holiday’s songs saved my life. They—Roman, Boaz, and even Holly . . . they were my best friends when I didn’t have any.

  NITEOWL: They were your light in the dark, right? Well, when a light goes out do you forget about it?

  CALLER TWO: No . . .

  NITEOWL: And just because you can’t see it, does it mean it doesn’t exist?

  CALLER TWO: Of course not.

  NITEOWL: Roman Holiday might be gone, but you’re still here. That’s what matters. You’re a light that’ll never go out. You can put their songs on repeat again and again—and because of you, their songs will never be forgotten. And in the meantime, you can find some other bands. They won’t be your favorite, but I think we can slowly fill that hole. What do you say, callers? Have any recs for . . . ?

  CALLER TWO: Lila.

  NITEOWL: Lila! Caller Three, have any recs for Lila? And a friendly reminder that no, I did not order lady toys, but thank you for calling—

  DARK AND BROODING: Maybe we can start by educating her on some real bands.

  NITEOWL: Whoa there, that’s sharp. Roman Holiday’s a real band.

  DARK AND BROODING: There are no real bands anymore. All the good ones are disbanded. They’re gone. Just like good music, gone. Like good radio deejays.

  NITEOWL: All right, all right. Lila, check out Eileen and the Come-Ons. They’re pretty hip and they’ve got some killer lyrics. Thanks for calling.

  (ends call)

  NITEOWL: Okay, Dark and Brooding. Let’s dance.

  DARK AND BROODING: Dark and Brooding? What am I, a character on a soap opera?

  NITEOWL: Don’t sass me. Why do you think every good band is disbanded? Or dead? There’s totally good music these days.

  DARK AND BROODING: Name one singer better than Freddie Mercury.

  NITEOWL: David Bowie.

  DARK AND BROODING: Also dead.

  NITEOWL: Name one singer worse than Kanye West.

  DARK AND BROODING: . . . Point. But you still haven’t answered my question.

  NITEOWL: I don’t know—that’s a tough question. Better at what? At falsetto or—

  DARK AND BROODING: No, the other question.

  NITEOWL: I don’t think . . .

  DARK AND BROODING: What do you want to do with your one boring life, Niteowl?

  NITEOWL: Hang up on you tonight. ’Bye, Felicia.

  Chapter Eleven

  Today's the day.

  I grab a piece of toast from the toaster, and kiss Grams on the cheek on my way out. The confectionary store is literally five minutes away from the house, but on a morning where I’m eating toast and guzzling the coffee I failed to enjoy at the table with Grams (read: almost every morning).

  I get to the store right as Heather switches the Closed sign to Open, and gives me a look that could wither unicorn hearts.

  “Sorry,” I quickly say as a reflex and put my book bag in the break room.

  As I pull back my hair under my visor, my phone goes off.

  —Micah 8:02 a.m.

  u gonna do it today?

  I chew on the inside of my cheek, pounding out a response with my thumbs.

  —8:03 a.m.

  Obviously. Want me to ask her fave flower too?

  —Micah 8:03AM

  and favorite food/restaurant

  oh

  that was a joke

  lol

  “Hello? I saw you come in, Ingrid,” Heather calls from the front counter.

  “That was my ghost,” I yell back. “I’m actually not here.”

  “Ugh . . . ,” she says, then mutters something inaudible.

  My phone buzzes again.

  —Micah 8:03AM

  thx igs

  ur the best

  Bless. I hope I’m the best after this. I spent all yesterday plotting out exactly how I’m going to set up Heather and Micah. Admittedly, half the day I spent listening to the Rolling Stones and staring at my ceiling, but the other half was totally involved with figuring out how to get my lame-ass best friend a date with the hottest girl in Steadfast.

  It’s like trying to get a zebra to date a show pony. Show ponies just don't mess with things that clash with their wardrobe, and Micah definitely clashes with everything Heather stands for. He’s dirty and oily, while she freaks out about the lint on her apron—and do I even have to mention the Twizzlers aisle? He loves taking long walks around the town square at night, while she enjoys sitting in the back of her daddy’s pickup truck. She likes pink, he likes blue. He’s nice and she’s . . .

  Not.

  And I’m being polite.

  Heather will never date someone like Micah; that much I know for a fact. Like I know the sky is blue and Heather is a Mean Girl. She has standards, and Micah is better than any of them. But I can't convince him—I’ve tried—so he has to get his heart broken the hard way. But he’ll bounce back. This is just a crush. That’s all it is. A kiss and a hookup.

  All he needs is a dose of reality, and he'll be back to himself again.

  I pull back my blond hair. Heather’s hair is a pretty black that almost looks blue. Mine is so fair I went as the Albino from The Princess Bride one year, and I didn’t even have to powder my hair. She has long legs, and I have long scars from where I fell out of a tree as a kid. She has green eyes; I have muddy ones.

  She’s popular, and yeah I am, too, but I’m not the sort of popular that can be traded for currency.

  I wish I were someone else.

  Someone whose parents didn’t ditch her as a baby, a girl with just a little gumption, just enough to stand up straight and own her accomplishments. The girl in the mirror would be beautiful—not because she’s skinny or has the prettiest makeup or most expensive clothes, but because she knows she’s beautiful. Because no one has to tell her for her to believe it.

  “Hello! I’m not the only one working this stupid store!” Heather shouts from the front of the shop.

  I tie the apron around my waist and grab a bag of Snickers to stock the shelf with.

  Heather’s sitting on the counter when I come ou
t, filing her nails. The radio behind her blares her favorite morning radio station. The host, Nick Lively, is probably the last VJ left post-when-MTV-actually-played-music era.

  Nick Lively is discussing what I already knew from Saturday night—the end of the pop-rock band Roman Holiday. Something about their contract expiring or something. It definitely sucks for all the fans who bought a ticket last year (before the lead singer’s death) to see them at Madison Square this July. Maybe I can do a radio show about that . . .

  “God, I can’t believe this,” Heather mutters, pressing harder on her nail file. Clearly, she has strong feelings for the now-defunct pop-rock band.

  “How come we’re so invested in people who clearly aren’t as invested in themselves?” I ask, walking up to my cash register. I start counting out my drawer.

  Heather shoots me a glare. “Because some of us like thinking about something else besides themselves.”

  Ha! Has she looked in the mirror? I bite my tongue and change the subject. “So, what did you do this weekend?”

  “Nothing with you.”

  Play nice. “I wouldn’t want to do anything with me, either, to be honest. I’m boring. Do you have any plans after the summer?”

  She stops filing her nails and cocks her head, giving me a suspicious eye. “Why would you care?”

  “Because you’re my coworker. Of course I care!” Lies, all lies. “I mean, we’ve graduated and the summer’s going to end someday, right? We’re never going back to school, which is really weird, you know? And there’s really not much to do here in Steadf—”

  “I’m taking online classes,” she interrupts, and returns to filing her pinky nail. “I’m going to be one of those courtroom recorders. I always loved Legally Blonde.”

  I’m genuinely surprised. “Those people who type out courtroom cases?”

  “Yeah. And if I like it, I might get a law degree, even though Daddy thinks that . . .” She trails off and scrubs at her nail bed harder. “Anyway, it’s whatever. Better than being stuck here.”

  “I think you’d make a great Elle Wood.”

  She snorts.

  “Maybe even go to Harvard. Why not try? It beats the hell out of Steadfast—”

  “Why the hell do you care?” she snaps. “It’s not like someone like you would understand.”