Page 32 of Lonely Hearts Day

A slow smile spread across his face when he noticed mine. “Why are you being a punk?” he asked.

“Because Iama punk.”

“Can’t argue there.”

I play punched him on the arm and then handed him the matches. He took them, but in the process, closed his hand around mine, his eyes still intent on me.

“Please don’t set yourself on fire,” I whispered.

“That was my plan, but I guess I won’t anymore.” He finally released my hand. Then he lit a match and threw it on the logs. Nothing happened. He repeated the process until some of the pine needles and kindling toward the middle caught fire. With a little time and some strategic jabbing with a long stick, the fire grew. And like moths to flames, people began to gather around it. Jack and I continued to stand side by side, my body warmed by the flames, or maybe by his closeness. Either way, it felt nice.

“What’s he doing here?” Jack asked. An hour had passed. We’d eaten, pinned knives on hearts, and told dating horror stories around the fire. I had no horror stories to tell. I’d been on a total of two dates in my high school career. One was with a guy who asked me to the school play last year. It was unmemorable—both the date and the play. The second was right after my parents’ separation. I’d marched up to Cooper Morris, a guy I’d told Jack was cute a handful of times and asked him out. We’d gotten greasy burgers and drunk way too much soda, but he didn’t initiate a second date.

“Who?” I asked, turning to follow Jack’s gaze to the patio doors. The smoke from the fire seemed to be blowing directly into my face now. I took several steps closer to the house but the only person I saw coming outside was Sage. My heart sank. I thought she had opted out of my party when I told her she couldn’t come as Jack’s date. Apparently not.

“This is not a date,” she said loudly as she hugged Jack. He hugged her back. I averted my gaze, trying not to register the stab of jealousy that shot through me.

That’s when I saw who Jack must’ve really been talking about, through the smoke: Micah. I walked over to him fast. People were greeting him as if he was a celebrity, patting him on the back and telling him how happy they were to see him.

When he saw me, he said, “So this is the party?”

What was he doing here? He had to know my invite earlier had been a joke.

“Singles only,” I said.

“You’re in luck, Scar,” he said, using the nickname Jack had given me in elementary school. “Iamsingle.”

“Does Cassidy know?” came flying out of my mouth without much thought.

He found that amusing. “She does. Broke up with me not even an hour ago.”

Why did he seem so unfazed by this? My familiar friend, bitterness, churned to life in my stomach again at his casual delivery of this news. They had been together for four years. That’s an eternity when you’re only seventeen. Maybe he was eighteen. But still.

“So I told her I was coming here,” he said.

“You didn’t,” I responded. The last thing I needed was Cassidy Dawson showing up at my door somehow blaming me for this. “Leave me out of this.”

“I thought this was the place where singles went to celebrate.” He threw his arm to the side, as if putting my yard on display. The movement made him stumble.

“Have you been drinking?” I asked. Maybe he wasn’t as unfazed as I thought.

“Only after I drove here,” he said and then put a finger to his lips in a shushing motion.

“Micah, not cool.”

“It’s not cool at all.” His voice caught with those words and I noticed his eyes were glassy, emotional. “Are you going to beat me up again?”

“I didn’t beat you up. It was one shove. Five years ago.”

“I should go,” he said.

“Come here.” I steered him back toward the house by his shoulders. I took him to the nearly empty sitting area, grateful that most of the party was outside this year and sat him in the corner of the couch. “You can’t leave until you sober up. I’ll get you some water.”

I grabbed a bottle from the fridge and brought it back, opening it and placing it in his hand. And even though I didn’t want to, I sat down next to him, recognizing brokenness when I saw it.

“Do you think she’ll come here?”

“I don’t know. I guess you want her to?” I asked.