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 Chip 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.