PEARL

TWENTY-TWO

This "something" had come in various forms, ranging from repeating her head-and-warm-bare-sugar-brown shoulder performance, to nudging Nate's socked (yes, socked) foot with her own, to both trying to kiss him like they'd been doing for the past hour and jerk him off (made difficult by the stubborn knot he'd warned her about, and had re-tied before bed) when he was drifting off to sleep.

(She'd stopped the search for this something coming in the final form after realizing that trying to string together reaction and distraction when Nate was more than half-asleep was, to quote a used but likely forgotten and not that tasteful the first time alliteration, more Weinstein than Winona.)

But Ida's becoming-common search for this something through comments that suggested disinterest and spite and through trying out handjobs in the middle of the night (Oh we're rhyming now? How original) had, unfortunately, proved only as successful as her distractions without the reactions – the lilac burst of a scar-crescent, sleep-confused smile or sharpened stare from Rowan or furrowed brow from Micah died within a matter of minutes, whatever its Winona or Weinstein (A third time? Scrapping the barrel, I see) form, and had simultaneously brought about the movie-inevitable:

A dislikeable main character everyone hates although they're supposed to garner their sympathy (although why she needed it, Ida still didn't understand), and side characters that they much prefer.

And obviously, with that currently being the state of cinematic affairs and plot lines always ready to bring more than a little pain, it was Saturday and Micah Angelo was minutes away from leaving. His parents, cinnamon-warm in spite of the hospital's best efforts and smiling sadly, watched and waited as he hugged each one of the group (Nicole excluded) gathered like mourners by a soon-to-be mound of earth in the reception Ida hadn't set Mary-Janed foot in since her mother had had all that paperwork to sign. Micah hugged her, too, even though Ida was certain that he – like the plush-red-seat or sitting-room-sofa audience, courtesy of movie industry inevitability – didn't like her much.

The only one he didn't hug was Lily, who strangely wasn't there to say goodbye, although Ida had thought that she'd be peppering his "so lovely and pretty" cheeks with countless lip-glossed kisses.

"Sorry," Nicole said, interrupting Ida's attempts to intercept whatever borrowed plot twist Hollywood or the hunched-over writer were planning by saying something to Micah about the piece of paper she'd just handed him in place of a hug, neatly folded across the middle. He opened it up as she spoke, revealing a shockingly good charcoal sketch of Rowan's face. She must've gone to get the stick she was talking about after the previous night's incident, when Ida was enjoying the company of the night and its futility. "I can only draw individual people well. I would've drawn us all."

Had Ida not been so shell-eviscerated, even she would've found such a selfless gesture as sweet as Nate evidently did, given the topaz sheen in his eyes; and Micah, given the way he was threatening to tear-smudge the sketch he stroked with the pad of a rock-rough thumb; and Rowan, given how he dropped his eyes to the linoleum under his shoes and didn't raise them until Micah reached for him.

Not Ida, though. She saw it as a waste of paper and charcoal, seeing as it would end up crumbling in the rain or being torn into confetti to litter Micah's bedroom with as soon as the sirens – waiting as patiently and pleasantly as his parents – sang their song, and the silver-sparkling tears started to fall.

Because they always did, and made everything rosy wilt.

Whatever may or may not have been blossoming between her and Nate included.

Naturally, Micah hugged Rowan the last and longest, fulfilling every requirement of the heartstring-tugging farewell. He held him close, gripping handfuls of his clothes and hiding his honey-dripping face in his hair, and the height difference between them that is needed by writers across the gritty globe to get those teen hearts beat faster (pop music wasn't Ida's main massacre target, but is a major part of the media, so couldn't escape taking a punch or two sometimes) was made more obvious by how small Rowan looked right then, draped in Micah's naturally over-sized sweater – so much so that the sleeves swallowed his hands when they were hanging by his sides – and returning his embrace with limp arms and a milk-white face pressed against his shoulder, sniffling into it.