violet skies / michael clifford

the wedding date

21. he's changed his mind, jessa

I was thirteen when mum left. Sometimes I wonder why she didn't take me with her, but I don't blame her for not wanting to live in that house anymore.

I used to blame my dad. For not not trying hard enough to make it work; for letting her go. I guess I never understood that some things are just too broken to fix.

I know he's happy with Sara. I just didn't think my dad would get married again. But it's here, the day I've been dreading. The day my old family will be forgotten about, and a new one created.

The doorbell rings, bringing me out of my thoughts.

"Can someone open it, I've just had my nails done?" Sara asks.

I'm about to stand up, but someone else beats me to the door. She comes back a moment later, looking confused. "Some guy was asking for Jessa."

I freeze. "Who was it?"

"Crazy, purple hair. Honestly, he looked a bit lost. I told him he had the wrong house."

Picking up the bottom of my floor length dress, I hurry to the door. I swing it open, hoping he's still there. He is slowly walking away, shoulders slumping slightly as he moves. He's carrying a bag in one hand and has a backpack hung over his shoulder.

"Michael!"

He turns around, green eyes sparkling. Walking towards me, his face lights into a smile. "Hey, it's you. The woman told me you weren't there so I–"

"Mikey, what are you doing here?"

Michael opens the bag, showing a big mess of blue fabric. "I brought the dress you left at mine, in case you still want it. I mean, I see you've got a new one, and this one is kinda torn up but I just. . . thought you might want it back."

"Thanks," I say, casting a quick look behind me. He can't be here. Not right now.

"Look, you might not want to talk about it," Michael says. "But at some point, I guess we're gonna have to."

"What do you want to talk about?" The voices from the other room are making me stressed. "I can't right now, I have to get ready for the wedding."

I back away. The movement is stopped by Michael's trembling hand at my cheek. His fingertips feel roughened against my skin. It's all the guitar playing. The strings have shaped them that way.

Actually, all of him is rough, I just haven't properly looked at him until now. I've been too busy worrying about the big picture to see the little things.

But now, I see all of him. I let my eyes wander, taking in every detail from Michael's tattoo, which I remind myself to ask about later, and the spots across his forehead which he managed to previously cover up with snapbacks.

When he catches me staring, his touch disappears. He keeps his green eyes away from me, and his arms protectively folded over his chest.

My gaze lowers to his jeans which might have once been black but are a faded shade of grey, torn at the knees; his slightly reddened and bruised, pale skin showing through the holes. It seems his hair, a purple mess of violets and blues, is the softest thing about him.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Like what?"

"As if you're, like, judging me."

"I'm not judging you," I say. "I'm just. . . looking at you."

There are footsteps coming from the other room.