Page 4 of The Book of Legends
I say nothing, not because I would have agreed to go, but because I understand.
I can’t be mad at him. It’s not his fault my life is turned upside down.
It’s not like I want to be around his teammates. The last thing I want is to be around them.
It didn’t go well in high school, and so far, college isn’t any better.
I won’t tell him how I feel about them because then I’d bea shitty friend—like I’m trying to make him feel sorry for me.
When theinevitablehappens—when she dies—everyone around me will keep going.
The world doesn’t stop. People don’t stoplivingjust because someone dies. Life keeps going,like the spinning wheels of an old clock.
Even if it feels like a part of me is missing, I have gone through every scenario in my head. People will tell me how sorry they are, that she’s in a better place, that she’s watching over me. But none of it will make me feel better. Nothing anyone says will bring her back. And then, eventually, they’ll expect me to move on.
But how?
There is no manual for grief. No set number of days, weeks, or months before I’ll be able to smile again, before I’ll be able to laugh. But I can’t think about that right now. It hasn’t happened yet.
“You’re right,” I finally say.
I did tell him I needed to be with my aunt as much as possible. I have to keep reminding myself it’s not his fault she’s going to die.
“I haven’t seen you much,” I admit truthfully. “And I know it’s my fault.” This is my way of smoothing things over—of snapping myself out of this spiral.
Because it would be unfair of me to ask him to come with me to visit her. No one wants to visit someone who’s about to die.
He visited her before he moved to the dorms, and then it was awkward between us.
It started to affect him at practice.
“Nothing is your fault, Selene,” Micah says, lowering his voice. “Remember that night… prom night?”
My breath catches. Tiny butterflies take flight in my lower belly, fluttering alongside something heavier—something that has been buried for months. There were times I thought he forgot about that night.
But I didn’t.
“Yes,” I whisper.
“I do too.” His voice is softer, quieter. “There are times when I’m about to go to sleep, and the memory of that night pops into my head.”
It was both the best and worst night of my high school life. We went to prom as friends. He broke up with his girlfriend three days before and then asked me. To be honest, I didn’t expect him—or anyone—to ask me. It was last minute, and there was no way I would have said no. I wanted to go.
We left early and ended up at his house. It was the first time we were alone there. His parents were out of town, and my aunt had trusted Micah to bring me back at a decent time. I think she was more excited about us going together than I was. He made popcorn, and we watched a movie in his room.
We sat on his bed, our backs against the headboard. I’m not sure if he could tell I was nervous. I practically ate the whole bowl of popcorn because I didn’t know where to put my hands.
Our thighs were so close together, part of the fabric from my dress covering his black pant leg.
When the movie was over, I took off my glasses to clean them with a napkin from his nightstand. When I looked up, he kissed me. There was a hitch in my breath. My hands were shaking. I let the shock of his lips on mine settle, waiting for my brain to catch up. I was relieved when he didn’t pull away. He started slow, like he was waiting for me to accept what was happening.
I always thought Micah was attractive, but he was my best friend. He had numerous girlfriends. They hated that he included me most of the time, but I respected his space. He never hinted that he wanted more. He never looked at me that way—the way I wished he would. I wasn’t going to act like I didn’t have a crush, but as time went by and the more popular he became, I knew I never stood a chance. It was luck he talked to me at all. He never gave me any inclination that he wanted more, and I knew he was leaving for college.
I figured our friendship—or whatever it was that night—had an expiration date, that he wanted to be with me in the true sense.
“You do?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
“I remember how beautiful you looked,” he says. “I also remember there was no way I could resist touching you.”
