“Hey. I was hoping to talk to you about Micaela. Is that okay?” I ask hesitantly.
“Yeah, sure. Come in,” he says immediately, moving back so I can step inside.
I didn't get a chance to look around the last time I was here, and I take a second to inspect his place as I slip off my flip-flops. His place is definitely more lived in than mine. A couple of dark sofas are situated in front of the small, flat screen TV on the wall. A soft looking brown blanket has been tossed over the back of one sofa, and I see a bottle of beer sitting on a simple metal and glass coffee table. There's only one wall decoration, and it's a large framed photo of some fields and a dilapidated barn. It looks serene and peaceful. As I scan the rest of his place, I see that he's got stuff scattered across the counter top in his kitchen. A laptop, books, and other odds and ends. There's also a sink full of dirty dishes that are waiting to be washed.
My eyes slide back to him, and I see he's watching me inspect his place. “Who is Micaela? How do you know her?” I blurt out.
Caleb seems to hesitate. “Let's sit down,” he suggests, motioning to the couch. We walk over, and I see more school books and a binder sitting on one side of the couch. I pick them up before he can and carefully set them on the coffee table. “Sorry. I wasn't expecting company,” he tells me a bit sheepishly.
“You've seen my bedroom. I'm a total slob. Trust me, you could have rotting food on your counter top, and I'll shrug it off,” I say sardonically as I sit down.
He smiles slightly as he settles on the couch next to me, careful to leave some space between us. “I get the feeling that not much fazes you.”
“Not really.”
He nods and reaches up to run a hand through his hair. He seems uncertain and this surprises me. “Her name is Micaela Runde. She's...a friend, but I'm also counseling her,” he explains, his tone oddly cautious.
My eyes widen. “You're a sophomore, and they're already letting you guys counsel children?”
His lips press tight with a slight grimace. “Not exactly.”
I shift on the couch so I am facing him, my legs drawing up so I am sitting cross-legged. “What do you mean, not exactly?”
“I work at a crisis hot-line in the evenings a few times a week.”
My forehead creases as my eyes roam over his face slowly. “You...talk to people about their problems?”
“Yes. It's a safe place for people to call to talk to someone. We get a lot of calls from teens, some that are suicidal, or some that just need someone to listen to their problems or what they've done. Someone that won't judge them like their parents would. It's great experience for me, and it's a good way to help those that need it, even if I don't have my degree or certification yet. We go through a training process before we're allowed to take callers,” he assures me.
“So Micaela called the hot-line?” I assume.
He nods. “She just needed someone to talk to. She's a great kid, but she's going through a lot of heavy shit at the moment. She started calling more often, and I gave her my weekly schedule every Monday so she could call while she knew I was working.”
“They can request who they talk to?”
“Sure. But it still needs to stay anonymous. We can't give out our last names, and we don't urge our callers for a last name unless we believe they are going to harm themselves. Those are special cases. The hot-line works because it's anonymous,” he says quietly as his eyes lock on mine.
“But you've been with Micaela a couple times,” I point out.
He seems to choose his words carefully. “She called one night, was hanging with the wrong type of kids, and she got scared. Didn't have a ride home and was in a bad part of town. She knew I was working and she called, asking for a ride.” He gives me a tense look. “You've met her. She's a sweet girl, and she was frightened. I thought about calling a cab for her, but...I needed to make sure she was okay myself. She was crying.”
“I get it,” I say softly.
He draws out as sigh. “I said I was getting a migraine and left, but instead of going home, I went to pick up Micaela. After that incident, I gave her my cell phone number. She's eleven-years-old, Zoey. Her mother's turned into a drunk and she has no one else. She needs someone to call if she ever gets in trouble.”
I'm touching his arm before I can stop myself, my eyes telling him that he did the right thing. “If you're all she has, you need to be there.”
His face darkens. “I could get fired. I'm not sure if that could affect my career or not—probably, if anyone looks into my hot-line work. But I can't limit her to just phone calls. I just can't. She needs a friend—an adult. Someone that can help her and guide her. God, that girl has so much grief inside her, and she's got no one to share it with.” He rubs his hands over his face and looks at me wearily. “I'll take my chances getting fired if I can keep her from doing something stupid, something she can't take back.”
I know exactly what he's saying. I'm the girl that did the stupid stuff instead of asking for help. As I gaze at the man before me, I feel the barrier around my heart cracking a little bit more. Caleb is not what I expected. I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and I search his gaze. “Can you tell me what she's dealing with?”
“I shouldn't.”
I nod. “Okay. I understand.”
“I said I shouldn't, not that I wouldn't. You both have death in common, and you seem to relate easily to her. She really needed you today, and I think that's the first time since her father died that she's laughed and simply enjoyed a moment without grieving for her daddy.”
My body stills, and I give him a frozen look. “Her dad died?”
His eyes hold mine. “Six months ago in a car accident. Her mom's taking it hard, and she's turned to alcohol. Micaela says she's drunk most of the time. Hell, Micaela can come and go as she pleases and her mother doesn't even notice.”
I suck in a sharp breath and look away as I process this news. It hits me square in the chest. That little girl is like the younger version of me. She's lost someone she adored and loved, only to have no one to help her through her grief. She's alone. Thank God for Caleb.
“I know about your brother, Zoey. The guys told me.”
I look at him sharply, and I see that his eyes are calm and sincere. His expression tells me he wants me to let him in. He wants me to open up to him and explain why I’d lost it that night that I’d had that horrible nightmare. And damned if I don’t want to. There’s this completely different side of Caleb that has just blown me away. It’s a side that makes me want to confide in him. I almost want to tell him all my fears, because I know he’ll help me through it. He’s not the type to walk away from an awkward or tough situation. He proved it that night he’d pulled me from my darkness.
It’s unsettling to know that I’ve just recently met him, and yet he’s the first person since Micah died that I can actually see myself trusting. The thing is, I like Caleb. A lot, in all honesty. But if I give him more of myself, I give him more power to hurt me. I’m scared to death of being hurt again, and I simply can’t take that chance.
“This is about Micaela, not me,” I say simply. “Can you do anything about her mom? Maybe talk some sense into her?” I ask as I deliberately avoid the topic of my brother.
Caleb shakes his head. “My hands are tied. I'm not supposed to be seeing Micaela, and her mother has no clue her daughter is hanging with a twenty-year-old. This could blow up in my face.”
“You're right,” I murmur in agreement.
“All I can do is be there for her and keep her from dealing with her grief in a negative way. She's beginning to open up more, so I think talking about it helps. A lot of times that's all that's needed. Just someone to listen as they work through it and accept it.”
And then there are people like me. I look away and study the picture on the wall as my thoughts unfurl. I've held it all in for three years, and now it's like a stomach ulcer, eating away at me from the inside out.
“Zoey?” he a
sks softly.
My body stiffens. I'm pretty sure he's going to try to steer this conversation in a direction that I'm not comfortable with. “Well, I need to get going. I just wanted to make sure Micaela's okay,” I say as I rise to my feet.
Caleb stands, and he walks me to do the door. His eyes drift over my face as he says, “Why don't you stay for a bit. We can watch a movie and just hang for a while,” he offers.
“I have things to do,” I say as I slip on my flip-flops. It's a lame excuse, I know that. I look up at him. “If Micaela ever gets in a jam and you can't get to her, I want you to call me. I'll do it in a heartbeat.”
“I know. And I will keep that in mind.”
“Okay. Well, night,” I murmur before I turn and walk out the door.
Chapter Thirteen
“Micah, I don't want to go in,” I snap at him as he floats in the water near my dangling legs. We're at the vacation cabin that mom and dad rent for a week each summer. It's hotter than Hades, and we'd gone down to the dock. I'm sitting on the edge, my legs dangling over as they slowly swing back and forth in the water.
Micah's in the lake, floating easily as he tries to coax me into the water. “C'mon, Zoey. I promise not to let anything happen to you.”
I shake my head. “No. It's too deep.”
“I won't let you go.”
“No.”
He sighs and runs a hand through his wet hair. “I'll do your homework for a week,” he says with resignation.
My mouth drops. “No way!”
“Way,” he grumbles. “You should learn how to swim.”
“You're serious,” I realize.
“Yeah. You're a total brat sometimes, but I don't want you dead. Too many pools when we go to parties.”
“No, I mean about the homework,” I say. Micah's a bit of a goody-two-shoes. Rarely does he do anything that's against the rules. He's the type that never gets in trouble. It's irritating when I'm the one who gets grounded constantly, and he just smirks and shakes his head every time. He's also never offered to do my homework before. He's super smart, and I've harassed him in the past, begging for him to just do my homework so I can be done with it and move onto something fun. He always chose to help, but nothing more.
“Homework for a week. Is it worth it?” he taunts.
“Hell, yeah.”
“I figured as much. Get in here.”
I chew my lip for a second before carefully turning my body, and I begin to lower myself down into the cool lake water. My hands grip the edge of the dock tightly, my knuckles turning white.
Micah moves in closer, and he settles his hands on my sides. “Let go.”
“I can't. I'm scared,” I say through chattering teeth.
“Face your fear. Let go. I've got you.”
“Micah...”
“I won't let you go. I promise...”
My eyes slowly open as I wake from the dream. The memory of Micah's promise makes my breath hitch as I lie there, staring up at the ceiling. He said he'd never let me go, but he did let me go. He left me here all alone, and I in turn, I was abandoned by parents that I had thought once loved me.
There’d been so much laughter in our lives before that fateful party. That summer at the lake had been the last time we’d vacationed before Micah’s death. My heart clenches as I remember how much fun we’d had that week. I think my favorite memory would be the water balloon fight Micah and I had started. I still remember my dad’s expression when Micah nailed him in the chest while he’d been sitting on the deck, reading the morning paper. Dad—always up for some fun—didn’t hesitate to join in. He’d grabbed a balloon from our stockpile of ammunition and went searching for mom. He’d caught her while she’d been in the middle of doing breakfast dishes. For an hour, we’d raced around the property, pelting each other with water balloon missiles.
The sound of our laughter from that day echoes in my head, taunting me with what had once been. I can’t remember my parents uttering a single laugh since Micah died. Micah’s death changed us all.
I draw in a deep breath and try to calm my emotions. I need to leave the past in the past, or I’ll start the familiar decent into the darkness that’s always waiting to swallow me up.
It's Friday, and I have class this morning. I can't skip, especially after skipping last week when I'd had that nightmare and stayed holed up in my apartment the next day. Bitter loneliness sweeps through me, but I determinedly shove back the sheets.
It's just another day.
Get up and deal.
I take a quick shower and leave for campus. I put my dream out of my head and concentrate on my class as I try to distract myself from my dreary thoughts that haunt me constantly. By the time I leave the building, my stomach grumbles loudly, and I decide to grab some food.
It's when I spot them that I realize I've been fooling myself.
The group is standing in front of the Engineering Technology Building, and as my eyes rest on them, my body aches with the need to go join them. They've breached my barriers. They're already in. My eyes rest on Ace, and he's laughing at something Bev has said. They all were never non-friends. I can call them every name in the book, but the fact of it is, they'll still mean the world to me. I've come to trust them. To lean on them when I've always been so incredibly independent.
They're going to hurt me. But walking away will hurt me more.
That's when I catch sight of the blonde hanging all over Caleb. It's the same blonde from the party, and a cool, derisive voice in my head tells me to pull up my big girl panties and get over it. He'll never be with me. And even if I would allow it, my crazy moods would chase him away. I feel incarnate hatred for the blonde as sickening jealously unravels within me.
I'll let the others in.
But Caleb...
He’s the one I need to stay away from. So why can't I resist him when he's around me?
~*~
Micah appears to me while I am sitting on my couch, my eyes focused on my laptop as I work on some course work later that afternoon. When I pull my eyes away from the screen to rub them, I spy him sitting on the other end of the couch.
My entire body stiffens.
His familiar brown eyes soften as he gazes at me. “Hey.”
I close my eyes and draw in a deep breath. I will not panic. I'm not going to lose it, I'm going to deal with this. When my eyes open again, he's still sitting there. It hurts to see him dressed in his jeans and white polo shirt. It hurts to have him here but not be able to touch him.
“You're not running. That's good,” he says quietly.
“Why are you here?” I ask. I'm trying to be calm, but my voice is shaking.
“Because you need help.”
“I need help?” I ask carefully. “From you? I don't get it. You're just a hallucination. Imagining you isn't going to help put me back together again.”
“You need help from them. Let them help. Let him help,” he says simply as his eyes pin me to where I sit.
Slowly, I shake my head. “No. You're just my subconscious telling me what I want to hear. That it's okay to want to be near him, but it's not okay. He's majoring in Education to counsel kids, he understands my issues, but that's where it ends. I'm mistaking kindness for more—” My voice cuts off and I stare at Micah with dawning horror. “Oh, shit. I've gone from freaking out and going mental, to now conversing with my dead brother.” Somehow, this seems so much worse. I'm accepting that he's here. That can't be any good.
I shove my laptop aside and hurry for my bedroom. I shut the door and fling myself on the bed, my hand reaching for the nightstand drawer. The pills are right where I left them last—waiting for when things get bad enough that I want oblivion without the hangover. After swallowing the sleeping pill, I grab my iPod off the nightstand and shove the earbuds in my ear canals. Then I curl up, shutting my eyes tightly as I pray for the music to drown out my fearful thoughts.
I wake suddenly.
Music is still blaring in my ears
, and I wince from the volume. With a wide yawn, I pull them out of my ears and shut off the iPod as I try to figure out what had woken me in the first place.
That’s when I hear them. Voices are coming from my living room.
What the hell?
I slowly sit up and look around my room. It's still light out, but my clock on the nightstand tells me it's going on seven-thirty in the evening. I'd slept for over three hours.
The voices are still coming from out in the apartment. Masculine voices that are low murmurs. Are they really here? But how... The spare key. They've never dared to use it, and there's never been an emergency where they've had to. I should be mad that they'd invaded my personal space. I have a hair-trigger temper, but evidently it’s on vacation, because the only thing that I feel is confusion.
Feeling curious, I climb off the bed and walk out of my room. My bare feet are silent on the carpet as I enter the living room. I pause in the doorway and blink.
Ace and Jeremy have made themselves at home on the couch, and AJ is in my kitchen, digging through my refrigerator. Their voices are low as they talk since I don't own a TV and they've literally got nothing but each other for entertainment. How long have they been here?
Ace looks up and catches sight of me. His expression becomes unreadable. “Well, well, looks like Sleeping Beauty woke up.”
AJ's head pops out of my refrigerator, he studies me as he shuts the door. “About damn time. I was a little concerned you were sleeping so heavy. Rough night last night?”
“What are you all doing here?” I ask with confusion.
Ace rises to his feet and points to where he was sitting. “Sit,” he orders.
I don't like his tone. “I'm not a damn dog.”
He glares. “I said sit the fuck down.”
My eyes widen slightly. He's pissed. Like really pissed. Remember when I said that when Ace is pissed, you hit the deck? This is me hitting the deck. I meekly walk over and sit down. I know, it's laughable, right? Me going meek and obedient? Seriously, though, Ace doesn't get mad very often, and when he does, it's not pretty. It gets downright ugly. I watch as AJ ambles into the room to stand near Ace, while Jeremy stays sitting on the other side of the couch.
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