40

EMBER

There are different types of shock. I've experienced quite a few.

When I found Greyson cold in his bed, that was quick shock; in a split second, I was sick to my stomach.

When my uncle got the phone call that he'd died, that was delayed shock; I went to bed without acknowledging what had just happened, and avoided it as long as I could.

When Cade Blackwood was backed into a corner and forced to explain the lie about his father, that was inevitable shock; part of me knew, deep down, that he was going to plunge a knife into my chest.

Then there are innocent types of shock, like ice-water poured over your head on a hot day. Or, conversely, walking into a store humming with heat after braving the cold, and that's what this feels like.

Michael holds me close, arms wound around me and palms flat against my lower back. I choke on my next breath, shocked. A dangerously large dam threatens to break loose behind my eyes. I feel the pressure of it building in my head.

"What are you doing?" I whisper horsely over Michael's shoulder, not too sure what to do with my hands. He squeezes me slightly, adjusting his chin over my shoulder.

"You needed a hug."

My heart does something I can't explain. It pulls and drops, skips and stops. It welcomes his presence and shuns it all in one beat.

I raise up on my toes and slowly wrap my arms around Michael's neck, resting them over his shoulders. I'm melting. Ice thawing. Limbs loosening. My heart slows down to a snail's pace as a calmness pours over me.

I sigh out a long, slow breath and set my cheek to Michael's shoulder. I'll be asleep in a moment if—

"You smell like lemons and the best of both worlds," Michael mumbles through his gauze. I chuckle and let him go as if suddenly remembering that the Michael I'm talking to is a very loopy version that won't remember any of this tomorrow. The truth is bitter on my tongue. I'd really love another one of those hugs, but from a sober version of him. Something authentic, I guess.

"We should get going," I tell him, stepping back. He stares at me for a moment, then sprints back towards the beach. He falls twice on the way there, only laughing at himself.

I stand fairly cold by the van and let him have ten or so minutes by the water. For me, it's time to think. Did I really just drop everything and steal a van to go get this weirdo from a wisdom tooth surgery?

When I watch him pull his hoodie off his head, I find myself jogging down to stop him from a very stupid midnight swim.

"Michael!" I call, finally catching his arm before he steps into the water in nothing but sweatpants. His forearms are covered in black arm-guards that I recognize as hiking wear. They're designed to protect the skin from cuts. "Were you planning on hiking after this?!"

"I want to swim," fights Michael, pulling me towards the water.

With a tight grip on his forearm, I kick the inside of his knee and he falls to the sand in a clump.

"Sorry," I breathe out, hands on my hips. I winded from that, which can't be a good sign.

"Ouch," mumbles Michael. He sits up, frowning. He looks down at his arms and touches the black, skin-tight guards. "I thought of everything," he says appreciatively.

There is a tattoo between his shoulder blades. Under the moonlight, I can't see it in detail, but it's circular. 

A stronger breeze batters through my thin black tee-shirt and I shiver violently. I crouch down and drop a hand to Michael's bare shoulder. From my point of view, I can see every defined line from his chest to his abdomen. He's an athlete, and he looks like one.

If I want to look like this, I need to put more time into climbing.

"Michael, you should get off the ground," I coax, grabbing his hands and pulling. "I have to get you home. It's cold and—"

"Wait wait wait!" he whispers, fighting off my hands. "You remind me—wait!—you remind me of someone!"

"Michael!" I snap. "Stop! Get up! We have to—"

"Have you seen a girl with bilingual eyes?" He looks up at me, terrified. "I think I lost her! She's bad with directions!"

I straighten up, close my eyes, and rub my temples. The beach was a mistake. I don't have the patience for this.

"Michael, for the love of god, please get up."

"I can't find Ember!" he cries, looking around in the dark. "Where'd she go?" He digs a small hole in the sand beside him. "Ember?"

I take off my baseball cap and lean down, showing him my bilingual eyes. He steals my cap and puts it on his head backwards. "I'm right here," I point out, "now get off the ground."

Michael throws his arms around my shoulders and crushes me to his chest. "Ember! I found you! Want to meet Hannah Montana?!"

This is going to be a long night.

❀❀

I had to do two things to get Michael back in the car: race him to the parking lot, but only if he put his hoodie back on, and gift him two invisible tickets to my next concert. Now, we're on the way to his apartment, driving with lights in the dark.

"Hannah, can I tell u a secret?" asks Michael, making itsy-bitsy-spider motions with his hands.

"Sure Michael," I answer, turning a corner.

"It's about my friend, Ember."

I bite my lip. I have a bad feeling I'm going to be offended by this. "Maybe just keep it to yourself for now, yeah?"

"So I met her at school, right?" Michael says, expression animated. "And—" He leans in and grabs my neck, pulling my ear to his lips. I accidentally jerk the wheel, cursing.

"Michael! Let me go! I'm fucking driving!"

"Shh," he whispers at my ear, ignoring me. "This is the secret part. I thought she was the prettiest girl I've ever seen."

I swerve in time to just miss a car parked on the right. Our heads conk together and Michael groans, letting me go to clutch his temple.

"Hannah, this is why we should have taken your limo."

"No! That was completely and totally one-hundred percent your fault!" I breathe out. My face heats up as I find my bearings again, straightening up in the driver's seat. I bring up a cold hand and touch my cheek. The contrast is notable.

Did he really just say that about me?

I find myself whispering, in a voice too small, "Really? The...prettiest girl?"

He quickly says, "She's a great friend but she sucks at climbing which makes me sad because I'm really good at climbing but I think she's really good at baking and I suck at baking so maybe that makes us even."

"Maybe," I whisper, trying to figure out what he's really talking about.

"She doesn't like me very much," he laments, still holding his head, "but she's probably a better driver than you, Hannah. No offence."

"She does," I say without thinking. "Ember cares about you. Really."

Setting his head to the window, Michael mutters, "I don't believe you."

I scoff, shaking my head. Would I be in this situation if I didn't? This isn't like me; I like to stay out of things. But I couldn't, which means I have to ask myself a question: did I do this out of guilt, to return Michael's kindness, or did I do this simply because I think Michael's a good person and that's what friends do?

I can't sort through the answers.

Michael sings quietly to himself, voice no louder than a whisper of wind. "Life's what you make it," he vocalizes, "so let's make it socks."

I bite my lip through a smile. Just like that, I forget my treacherous mind. "It's rock," I inform him. "Let's make it rock."

He frowns down at his hands, then shoves a hand into his sweatpants pocket and comes back with a handful of sand, beach glass, and rocks. He chooses up a dime-sized grey pebble and drops the rest on the floor of Cam's van.

"Michael!" I chastise, bringing my eyes back to the road. I take one of the last turns, almost at his apartment.

"No, this is a rock," Michael says, holding the pebble out to me. "For you."

"I don't want a rock," I tell him. He grabs my right hand and places the pebble into my palm, curling my fingers around it. I roll my eyes and shove it in my jeans pocket. "There. Happy?" Michael doesn't answer me. He keeps his head on the window, watching the nightlife as we pass.

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A/N

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Love Laurel