▪️Friday, November 27th, 2017▪️

▪️Chicago, IL▪️

The start to our morning is innocent: breakfast, then showers. Separate showers, because we want to get clean. But when Mike comes out without a towel, beads of water glistening on his bare everything, I decide innocent is a waste of a morning. Mike agrees because next thing—I'm the dessert he has to taste one more time. Then we christen the couch. Exhausted and naked, we can't stop kissing.

"I need to be at least six feet away from you, or this will happen again," Mike says when he comes up for air. "And dressed. We can't fucking keep doing this."

"I know," I whine through my sore lips.

Mike holds me at arm's length, and I cease trying to weasel my way back to him. "We need to stop."

"We do; we do; we do. I don't need a UTI."

"A what-tea-eye?"

"UTI—urinary tract infection. From too much of"—I wave my hands around our cooling bodies—"this. Haven't you heard about them?"

"No? I've never had this much in less than a damn day. Do men get them too?"

"You tell me."

"No clue. Not me. But thinking about it is helping." Mike looks down. I see what he means. "What other horrible things can happen because of too much sex? Lay it on me."

"Plague? Smite?"

"Smite's a great video game."

"A video game? I meant God would smite us."

"That does make more sense. We need to avoid that. God and I are on good terms. I propose an oath."

"That might be an overkill."

"A pinky promise?" Mike lifts his pinky into the air.

"I can go along with that."

I follow suit and extend my pinky his way. As we cross them, I flinch because the dull ache peers through the endorphins of being around Mike. He draws my hand closer to his face and examines it.

"Your pinky and ring fingers are crooked," he says.

"Yep." I jerk my hand away.

Mike catches it and kisses first the deformed digits and then the rest.

"You want to tell me, or should I pretend I haven't noticed?" He doesn't look up.

All the conversations we've had so far were barely first date material. What happened to my hand and the impact it had on my life is definitely not first date material. I can't even call what we're doing a date. We skipped forward and missed steps that would normally lead me to wake up next to a guy, even though with Mike being in this moment, on this couch feels like the best decision of my life. I was ready to bare my body. That doesn't mean I'm ready to bare my soul.

I never, and I mean it, never talk about the reason behind the scars on my left hand. My fans don't know about it. My agent does not know about it. Only three people are privy to the information: my mom, my dad, and Amelie. Am's dad used to know, but he took that to his grave. I relax my hand in Mike's.

"I was in an accident." Being awake this early in the morning after a handful of hours of sleep and countless orgasms must be the reason I'm dazed enough to tell Mike more than I should. "My hand got pinned, but I was the lucky one." I stare at my fingers and see shattered plans. A broken me huddled in my room, not talking to my parents, sleeping the days away in case the next time I woke up, all would be as it was before. Whole. "This is the only physical reminder."

Mike's bottomless eyes are more understanding and supportive than curious. "Who wasn't lucky?"

That question is the hardest one to answer.

"The rest of the people in my car got it worse." The jaws of life opening the back passenger door. The driver of the other car moaning on his stretcher. Ambulances and firetrucks blocking the road. I don't see the images in my mind anymore, but the sounds never leave. The only way to not hear them is to fill myself with more and more music to detain every memory of that day locked away. "Head-on collisions are among the deadliest car accidents."

"Fuck." Mike runs his lips along my scars, like they are cute freckles and not raised reminders of what I will never be. "No one should go through that. Were they your friends?"

"Almost? I'd only known them for a semester when it happened."

Mike brings me closer to him and engulfs me in his body.

"We don't have to talk about it if you don't want to," he whispers into my ear as if saying it louder would be too much for me. On second thought, he's right. Saying it all out loud is too much. I've reached the limit of baring myself for the day.

"Another time. Pinky swear," I whisper back. I offer him my second pinky.

Two pinky swears in a row—that's what Am and I do. Not me and random guys. I don't think I've even ever promised something to my dates before. This is new territory I'm not sure I should be entering. The way I've behaved around Mike in less than a day of knowing him is beyond casual. It's barreling into a serious territory. I don't do serious. I drop our hands and escape from the gentle prison of his body. "Let's try this getting dressed thing you mentioned."

Somehow, it's past ten, and Mike has to leave because he's picking up his mom and brother from the airport. I tap my foot and squeeze my teeth to prevent myself from asking if I could go. Damn. I've never liked someone I knew less than a day enough to want to tag along with them to an airport pickup. It's ridiculous. I catch myself thinking beyond today and into the future but sharing a future with someone isn't something I'm ready for. Isn't something I might ever be ready for.

I don't want him to leave. A snake of anxiety slithers across my skin when I realize I don't have his number. I'm worse than a schoolgirl: jittery and silly, but I'm not that schoolgirl. I stopped paying attention to what people think for a reason. I vowed to live my life the way I want, even if it's getting a guy's phone number. I want to see Mike again.

"Give me your phone." I stretch out my hand, and he pulls his cell out of the pocket of his wrinkled slacks. I intercept it and type in my number, my name, and snap a signature selfie with my chin to the side and my eyes looking up that gets me the most likes on social media. Without makeup, I look like the college girl-next-door and much younger than my twenty-three. I save my contact information and send myself a text from his number.

Me (from Mike's number): to be continued...

I pass the device back to him. He's putting on his leather jacket in the hallway when the door opens, and Amelie, walks in, wearing the same clothes she had on at the Friendsgiving Bash yesterday. I wasn't the only one who had fun last night. We eye each other. She eyes Mike, grins, and gives us two thumbs up.

The giddiness is so unlike her, but I guess Ben's doing a fine job keeping her in a good mood, not something she's used to. I love, love, love Ben. The only thing I love more is Ben and Amelie together. Such a change from her scum of the earth ex who shall never be mentioned again.

"I'll text you." Mike wraps me in his arms, kissing me as if we have no audience. I kiss him back, forgetting Am, and the hallway, and the open door of the apartment.

When we separate, and he heads out, our connection doesn't break, just extends with each step. The need to call after him is against every behavior I'm used to.

I'm self-sufficient. I don't chase boys or men. But I want to chase after this one. I shut the door and lock the bolt. I shake my head to get rid of the thoughts I don't want to be thinking. I forbid my heart to ask questions.

Mike's just a nice guy I enjoyed spending the night with. Nothing more. But if I give in and decide to see him again, it's only to feel his lips on mine and to linger in his warmth.

"Should I even ask?" says Amelie when I turn to face her.

"Should I ask about you staying at Ben's place again?"

"Don't deflect. Are you going to see him again?"

"Is 'I have his number' an answer?"

"It most definitely is," she says, and her grin returns. She gives me two thumbs up again. Am and I laugh as she heads to her room. I let the idea of calling Mike re-enter my head, and it's not as scary as I anticipated. It feels possible. Good even.

Back to the living room, I attempt to clean up. I don't need to close my eyes to see the ghost of Mike on the bar stool by the counter, as I move it back into place and wipe it off. I'm not going to tell Amelie his naked behind was on it, but I'm paying it forward. I hope she wipes the stool as well when it's Ben's turn to sit on it au natural.

I collect the cushions from the couch and imagine Mike's legs hanging over its arm—too short for his height. Daydreaming is something I'm used to. I get lost in my mind and forget about time or place. Punctuality will never be easy for me, no matter how many alarms and reminders I program into my phone. My phone. That's what's been buzzing on the counter. Is Mike calling me already?

I run back, and my heart falls. It's Jason, my agent. I press 'answer' and brace myself. What have I forgotten to do this time around?

"Are you sitting down?" Jason's voice breaks on the last word, and I know it is either something great or something horrible.

"Just spill it already." My heart picks up speed. I pray he spits out whatever has him in a tizzy.

"Pack your bags. You open for The Whats for the next four months."

The Whats. The Whats? It's Black Friday, not April Fool's Day.

"The Whats, who won two Grammys this year? The hottest pop-rock group on the planet? Those The Whats?" I squeak into the phone.

"The very same. Your luck's turning. Poppy, the band's guitarist, heard you yesterday and because they had an issue with Kiera, their scheduled opener, they want you for the last leg of their US tour. Preferably, starting the rehearsals tomorrow. We'll have to sign the contract, but the money is about the same as you would've earned on your usual circuit. The publicity, however, is a goldmine for your future. They play some smaller intimate venues but also a couple of arenas. It's a huge break for you, Angie. You can't even imagine how huge."

I listen to him babble as the picture comes together in my mind. Friendsgiving Bash. Poppy talking to me, staring at me like I was a puzzle, giving me her card.

I texted Jason her info and her request. I thought maybe she'd look at my stuff, or most likely forget about me the minute she was back on tour. Instead, she actually called Jason after he emailed her my songs. On Black freaking Friday. Poppy Thompson requested for me to open.

For me?

Me?

I can't form words, and a bloodcurdling shriek erupts from my lungs.

She liked my songs. Really liked my songs. I squeeze every part of my body: my fists, my eyes, my arms, my toes as I scream hard enough I could shatter the windows in our apartment.

Pain shoots through my wrist, and I let the phone slip out of my hand as I stand shaking in the middle of our tiny living room. I open my eyes in time to see Amelie rush over. I stop shrieking, but the stillness lasts mere seconds.

Unable to contain myself, I switch to jumping around. Amelie rescues my phone and nods to what I suspect is a retelling of what Jason has told me. The Whats, the tour, four months, arenas, fans, dreams coming true. I can't hold it in. I resume screaming. I don't care who hears me. I will explode if I don't let the full force of my emotions out.

Amelie retreats, and my elation takes over. I sprint, tackle her down onto the couch, grab her by the shoulders, and scream what has been running through my mind into her face.

"I'm going to sing to thousands of people, live, thousands, you hear me, thousands."

"Oh, I hear you," she says. "But I won't be able to anymore if you keep shouting. I'll be deaf in both ears."

"Some of the shows are at arenas. An arena, Am. Do you even know how many people that is?"

"No clue. How many?"

"I don't know, but a lot, I need to look up how many people it'll be, but an arena!"

"I got it, an arena. I'm beyond excited for you, but could you please climb off and give my ears a break?"

I get off Amelie and plop onto the couch. The spike of adrenaline is over, and I enter the trance phase. I stare up, unable to feel my eyes, and not in control of my voice or thoughts.

"An arena, an arena, an arena," I go on whispering to the ceiling.

Amelie scooches over to my prostrate body and hides her face between my arm and the crease of the couch.

She mumbles something into the cushion.

"What?"

She moves her face, liberating her mouth from the soft plush fabric. "I got in, you know, into the program, in France."

"What!" I stretch my 'a' until I run out of breath. She got in. After all the rejection letters, she got into a doctoral program. Her news jolts me. She did it. I did it. We did it. "This is the best day ever!" I'm shouting for both of us, ready to hear her join in into the screamfest.

Amelie is suspiciously quiet, and when I look at her, I see tears swelling in her eyes.

"Are you crying?" I slide down and put my face next to hers. I run my hand over her hair, and she closes her eyes, tears streaming down her cheeks and disappearing into the wet cloth of the cushion.

"What is it, Am? You know you can tell me." I continue the gentle strokes, trying to be present for her sadness and not lost in the excitement of my career.

She lets a long and arduous breath out. "I think I love him." She says what I've been suspecting all along. Every time I saw her with Ben it was clear-as-day: they were in love. In real kittens-and-unicorns love. I-wish-I-would-feel-something-like-that-too kind of love. Timeless love.

"Isn't that a good thing?" For me, love isn't what I'm after. But Am and Ben, they need love in their lives.

"Not when I have to break up with him. I'm leaving, and I'm afraid I'll be breaking more hearts than mine."

"Right. Leaving." I'm leaving too. My friend and I will no longer share a space even if it's watching reruns once a week. I'm not losing her, but I'm not keeping her either. Tearing away the only attachment I allowed myself is going to hurt. Attachments and I don't mix, because pain and I don't mix even more.

"I should probably let him know." Amelie's voice is shaking. "Get it over with."

"Good idea," I say, but I'm not listening to her anymore.

The pulsing in my wrist transitions from timid to incessant, like a giant red buzzer that drowns every other sound or sensation in the room. It's past the time for my meds. I have to take the next dose or I'm going to cry alongside Am.

The last twenty-four hours weren't gentle on me. My brain is fried while my body is sore and jumpy. I cradle the fingers I over squeezed while talking to Jason. I should tell him about the swelling, I should wear the brace the doctor insists upon, but I'm not passing up on this opportunity.

No pain, no gain.