The homecoming dance took place the next night. There were a thousand other places Michael would have rather been, and a million other things he would have rather been doing. But when a guy had a girlfriend like Isabel, he pretty much had no choice but to go to the damn thing.

Kyle would wear a tux, of course, but Michael would have none of that. He wore jeans, because . . . well, why not wear jeans? They were comfortable, and he was all about comfort. He tossed on a nice black jacket, one that had once belonged to his dad. And he put on a nice white shirt underneath, too. He looked presentable. That had to count for something.

Apparently it didn't count for much, though, because he watched Isabel's face wrinkle up in displeasure when he went to pick her up. She had expected him to look nicer. Indeed, compared to her, he was severely underdressed. She was wearing a long, red strapless gown with a huge slit up the right side and some sparkly-looking adornments that went diagonal from the slit to her breasts. And oh those breasts were a thing of beauty to every member of the male gender. Strapless was the only way to go when you were built like her. She always managed to look ravishing in red, too. It was definitely her color.

Come to think of it, maybe she was just over-dressed. She did look so good, though.

A gust of wind whipped her hair about her as she got into his car, making it wavier than it already was. "You couldn't have worn a tux?" she asked disappointedly.

"Nope." They'd had the same conversation last year.

Isabel wanted to get to the dance early, but he wanted to get there about a half an hour later, when it was already in full swing. No point waiting around for the party to start, however lame the party would be. It was just taking place at school, in the cafeteria of all places. When it had been announced that that was where it would be this year, Tess had gotten so upset that she'd considered waging a protest.

When they walked in, even he had to admit that the cafeteria had been transformed, though. It looked nothing like the boring, mundane place they ate lunch at every day—well, some people ate lunch there every day; not him. The lights were down low, and blue and gold Christmas lights were hung from the ceiling, meant to look like stars amongst various paper mache objects, including clouds, asteroids, and of course, comets. A fog machine was keeping things perpetually smoky, and under a balloon arch, a photographer stood, poised to take pictures of all the happy couples. The background was decorated to look like a solar system, and it said A Dream Come True.

"Hmm," Michael grunted, looking around. "Looks kinda pointless."

"Um, hello? Do you know who took the time to plan and decorate this whole thing?" Isabel huffed. "The student council. Which I am a part of."

"Oh, well . . ." He'd really shot himself in the foot there. "I meant pointless in a good way."

She rolled her eyes, probably about to let him have it until Tess's voice rang out behind them. "Oh my god! Look at my best friend! Doesn't she look amazing?"

"You look nice," Kyle said. Yep, he was wearing a tux.

"And your best friend doesn't look too bad, either," Tess added. "God, Michael, you almost look dashing."

He shrugged. "Almost."

"Jeans, though?" Tess made a face. "Really?"

He groaned, not about to stand there and get his wardrobe critiqued. "I'll be back," he announced, heading over to the food table. Most people were dancing, so that gave him open opportunity to hover around the punch bowl. When he was sure no teachers or other chaperones were looking, he whipped out his flask and poured some whiskey in. He saved some for later, though, when there would be a new batch of punch. He quickly hid his flask away in the inner side pocket of his jacket and poured himself a glass. One sip had even him cringing. That was . . . strong really wasn't a strong enough word to cover it.

When he rejoined his friends, Isabel and Tess were busy giving commentary on everyone's dresses. Kyle looked bored, but he was putting up a good front. Still, when Michael came back, he let go of Tess's arm and stood beside him, quietly asking, "Did you spike the punch?"

"Yeah, I think it was already spiked, though."

Kyle chuckled. "Well, should make for an interesting night then."

Maybe 'interesting' hadn't been the right word for it. More like mind-numbing. Endless. Dull beyond the telling of it. After the dress commentary, the girls decided they wanted to dance. Which was something Michael didn't do. He sat at the table they'd taken over for themselves while Kyle got out there and danced with them, and while they danced with their cheerleader friends. A few of the other football players joined in, and suddenly they were the biggest group out there. Isabel kept looking at him impatiently, like she was waiting for him to just give in and go out there.

He resisted for as long as she could, but eventually she got fed up enough that she marched up to him, grabbed his hand, and tried to pull him to his feet. "Michael, come on," she whined.

"I don't dance. Unless I'm making a Harlem Shake video."

"Too bad. You're at a dance. Come on."

He gave in, only because he figured it was easier than having her bother him about it for the rest of the night. He'd dance for a bit—fifteen minutes max—and then he'd sit back down again. Or maybe go get some more punch.

He didn't have rhythm, and that wasn't his fault. He'd inherited his two left feet from his dad. So mostly he just stood behind Isabel, his hands on her hips while she danced. Kyle was a little more boisterous, of course, twirling Tess around, even doing a little hip shaking of his own.

As long as Isabel's hips were moving, Michael was content. In fact, when her butt grazed against his crotch, he felt downright inspired. He dug his fingers into her waist and pressed his pelvis forward, grinding against her.

"Michael, stop!" she yelped, spinning around.

"What? You wanted me to dance," he reminded her.

"Yeah, dance, not give all our classmates a peepshow."

He sighed, hating this. Hating every moment of it. On nights like this, he felt like he couldn't do anything right in Isabel's eyes. He wasn't dressed right. He didn't dance right. He didn't say the right things about the decorations.

"I'm gonna go get a drink," he told her, slipping off the dance floor. He immediately dumped in the rest of his whiskey when he got to the punch bowl and poured himself a glass that was full to the brim. He chugged it, feeling the need to thank whoever else had put something in there. It was probably all that was going to get him through the night.

"Michael!" A cute, curvaceous little redhead staggered his way. Literally staggered. Girl was pretty far gone. Even the chaperones had to notice. She tripped over her own feet and fell into his arms. "Oh, Michael!" she squealed, smoothing her hands over his chest. "I'm fucked up."

"Yeah, you are." She was wearing a strapless dress just like Isabel was, but hers was currently hanging so low that she was about to show some unintentional nipple. "I know you, don't I?" She looked familiar. "I don't really remember you, but I remember . . . enjoying you."

"Roxie," she informed him.

"Roxie. Oh, it's all comin' back to me." It really wasn't.

"Dancing. Topless. Party."

The topless dancers. He remembered now. She was the one he'd screwed in Kyle's truck. She was one of Tess's cheerleaders. "Oh, I got it."

"Yeah, see?" She tried to take off his jacket, and he half the mind to let her, except that Isabel was coming towards them. "Son of a . . ." He pushed Roxie away, holding his hands up innocently.

"Great, Michael," Isabel bit out. "You take me to this dance and end up flirting with other girls. Really a dream come true."

He couldn't deny that he'd been flirting, or at least letting her flirt with him, so he wasn't going to. Instead of answering, he took another drink of spiked punch.

Luckily, Principal Forrester got up onto the stage and grabbed the microphone, offering him an escape route when he said, "Would all nominees for homecoming royalty please come up onto the stage?"

"That's me!" Roxie exclaimed, skipping off. She barely managed to make it three feet before she fell, got back up, skipped some more, and then fell again. Eventually, she made it. Michael followed closely behind.

He squinted against the bright spotlight and stood next to Kyle, wondering if there was some possible way he could get out of this night without making Isabel feel too bad. He could always try the whole 'I'm sick, and I have to go home' drill and see if that worked. But she would just say he was sick because he was drinking too much.

No, he was probably stuck there.

In a surprise to no one, Principal Forrester quickly revealed, "Ladies and gentlemen, your 2013 homecoming king is . . . Kyle Valenti."

Thunderous applause rang out as Kyle stepped forward. The outgoing kings from both West and East Roswell were there to put a ridiculous gold crown on his head.

"And as for the moment you've all been waiting for . . ."

Michael made a face. The moment they'd all been waiting for? Homecoming queen? Who honestly gave a shit?

"Your 2013 homecoming queen . . . Tess Harding."

Tess let out a high-pitched squeal and leapt forward as the applause rang out again, holding one hand over her mouth and one over her heart. "Me?" she gasped, pretending to be surprised. "Oh my god!"

Michael disinterestedly clapped for his friends. Not a shocking result, but they deserved it. They were the perfect couple, after all.

Everyone had to form a circle around the dance floor for Tess and Kyle to have their royalty dance. When the next song came on, also a slower one, Principal Forrester invited all the other candidates to pair up and take the floor, too. Roxie immediately jumped in front of Michael with a huge grin on her face, as though she were expecting that he would dance with her. And truth be told, he wanted to. She was definitely revealing some nipple now, and it was a nice nipple. But he knew well enough to know that there would be hell to pay if he lay so much as one hand on her, so he walked down off the stage and made his way back to the food table, where Isabel was still standing and looking upset. He held out his hand to her, waiting for her to take it. And she did wait. She waited for at least five seconds before giving in, laying her hand in his, and letting him lead her out to the dance floor.

Tess rested her head on Kyle's shoulder while they danced, but Isabel didn't do that with him. She probably would have if things had been going better that night. As it was, though, she put her arms around his shoulders and allowed him to wrap his around her waist, but she stayed pretty distant, and she looked down at their feet as they swayed in time to the music rather than looking him in the eye.

Maybe it was naïve, but he'd sort of been hoping that a slow dance in front of the entire school would be enough to convince her to forget that she was mad at him. But the longer he stood there with her, feeling the space between their bodies rather than her body pressed against his, he knew that wasn't going to happen. So he buckled down and apologized. "I'm sorry." Felt like he'd been doing that a lot lately.

She waited a moment, then snapped her head up to glare at him. "Are you?" she asked accusingly.

"Yes."

"Because it's the same old story. All the time, Michael. You do something infuriating or immature, and you just expect me to forgive you."

He frowned. "No, I don't expect that."

"Sure you do. And why wouldn't you? I'm still with you, even though you cheated on me."

He sighed heavily. Maybe it had been naïve to believe they were past that, too. "Come on, Is."

"No, you come on. When are you gonna grow up? When are you gonna stop being the guy who spikes the punch and gets drunk and lets girls crawl all over him?"

"What's so wrong with spiking the punch?"

"It's just . . ." She clenched her hands into fists momentarily. He could feel them on his shoulder blades. "I don't know how to get through to you. And it gets so frustrating, because sometimes I really think you might be changing for the better, but then you just do something to prove me wrong."

"Then maybe you should stop trying to change me," he suggested.

"I'm not."

"Yeah, you are. That's the whole thesis of your little speech." He glanced out at the crowd around them, wondering if people could tell that they were arguing.

"I just . . ." She lowered her head, and he heard her sniff back tears. When she lifted her head again, they were shimmering in her eyes. "I love you," she whispered. "And I believe in you. And I want you to be someone. Anyone."

He hated when she talked like that, because even if it was meant to sound supportive, it just made him feel . . . pressure. Doubt and pressure and skepticism and all sorts of things no one wanted to feel if they could help it. But on the bright side, it seemed to make her feel more at ease once she had that off her chest, because she relaxed in his arms, moving closer to him. And eventually, she lowered her head and rested it against his shoulder, holding on tightly while the dance continued on.

...

Church was a waste of time in Michael's opinion, but Isabel and her mom never missed it. Sunday morning hit, and they were always there, right in the front row, singing along with the best of them, dressed in nice clothes, actually paying attention to the sermon and everything. After the less than amazing festivity that the homecoming dance had been, Michael figured the least he could do was tag along to church when they invited him the next day. Mending fences and all that bullshit.

He hated it. He hated every single second of it. He managed to convince them to sit closer to the back, but that didn't stop other members of the congregation from coming up to him and shaking his hand before the service started and asking him what church he usually went to. He flat out told them this was the first time he'd been to church since he'd been baptized. But truthfully, he wasn't sure if he'd even been baptized.

He wore the same jacket and nice shirt he'd worn to the dance, because he didn't have anything nicer. He spaced out while the minister droned on and on with his sermon. The only part that was even semi-interesting to him was communion, because of the wine. But he barely even got a sip of that.

Afterward, they went out to eat. Not for breakfast. Not for lunch. Brunch. Honestly, who ate brunch? Wasn't that like an old person thing? Or a gay thing?

Isabel and her mom seemed to enjoy it, though. Diane talked about everything that had happened at work that week, and Isabel talked about what had happened at school. When Diane asked her daughter about the dance, though, Isabel became strangely quiet and changed the subject. Every once in a while, Michael made some small comment or nodded his head in agreement, just to make it seem like he was taking part in the conversation. But really, he was just watching the clock, counting down the time, wondering how soon he could be home and be sleeping.

When he got home, his first order of business was to get into comfier clothes. His second order was to take a few of his dad's beers out of the refrigerator and drink up. Friday night after the game had been far too sober—since when did he end up being the designated driver? And last night had just been miserable all around.

He sat on the living room couch, already on his third beer, having a one-on-one chugging competition with himself, when his mom got home from work. She immediately started picking up dirty clothes that were strewn on the floor. Some were his dad's, some were Tina's, and some were the things he'd worn to homecoming. When she saw him and saw what he was doing, she groaned, "Oh, Michael, really?"

He tossed his head all the way back, downing the remainder of what was left in that can. "What? You know I drink."

"But during the middle of the day? In the house with Tina right upstairs?"

He set the empty can down on the coffee table alongside the other two. There was still one full one waiting for him.

"Couldn't you try to be a better example?" She tossed the dirty clothes onto his lap, maybe as a way of asking him to toss them in the washer. And then she picked up the full can and brought it back into the kitchen. Maybe to just put it away or maybe to drink it herself as the day wore on.

...

Maria could see the larger of the two truckers reaching down beneath the table to massage the bulge in his pants while she refilled his friend's coffee. Even when she turned to him and asked, "Anything more for you?" he didn't stop.

"Nothin' you can give me in public." He grinned, and that got a chuckle out of his friend.

God, were men all alike? Did they all just have the urge to be repulsively hormonal, regardless of age? Because these guys were at least twenty years older than the high school idiots from the other night, but they were acting very much the same.

She forced herself to walk away from the table without giving them a piece of her mind. Because it wasn't in her job description to do that. With the coffee pot in hand, she slowly made her way through the restaurant to a section that wasn't her own. It was unusually crowded there today. Some huge UFO tour group had just come in from Arkansas, mostly retirees, and being retired, they were in no hurry to leave. They ordered seconds and thirds, and even dessert on top of it all. Which meant that booths that were usually empty were occupied. Which meant that Michael was relegated to a table near the front window when he came by. Not in her section.

He'd been there for twenty minutes, but all he'd gotten was a root beer float. And he'd barely even touched it. In fact, he was just sitting there, his head down on the table, pillowed by his arms.

She glanced into the kitchen, noticing that Jose was almost done with the heavy trucker's order of Saturn rings. But she had absolutely no desire to rush those over to him, so she walked over to Michael instead, nearly tripping over an elderly woman's cane on the way. When she got to him, he was so out of it that he didn't even hear her. "Michael?"

No response.

She tapped his shoulder. "Hey, Michael?"

Slowly, he lifted his head. His eyes were bloodshot, and he looked tired. Who knew? Maybe he'd been sleeping. Although it was pretty loud in there with all those people, so that was doubtful.

"Hey, your booth's empty now," she informed him.

"Oh." He looked over there for a moment, then just said, "Thanks."

That was it? He wasn't going to move? "Are you gonna go over there?" she asked, not even sure why it mattered. It didn't matter.

"You want me to sit in your section?" he teased. "Why? I don't tip very well."

"You're getting better."

He finally smiled a little bit, and he grabbed his root beer float and got up to move. She made a quick detour to put the coffee back, picked up the Saturn rings, and dropped them off at the truckers' table wordlessly. She heard just the first snippet of some kind of derogatory remark, so she scampered off to Michael, sliding in across from him.

"Are you still mad at me?" he asked her.

"Mad?" She frowned.

"For the other night. After the game. Me not standing up for you when my friends were here."

"Oh." Though she wasn't sure why he would call those losers his friends, she figured she didn't know him well enough to judge him in that regard. "I wasn't mad," she informed him. "I was . . . disappointed."

"Ugh." He made a face. "That's even worse."

"You think?"

"Oh, yeah. Everyone's so disappointed. Topolsky's disappointed that I'm not a better student." He was starting to slur his words a bit, but he kept going as if he hadn't. "My mom's disappointed I'm not a better son. Isabel's disappointed I'm not a better boyfriend."

"Oh, no. What happened there? What'd you screw up now?"

"What makes you think I screwed up?"

"Well, you seem drunk, so . . . educated guess?"

"Well . . . you're right," he admitted. "But I get drunk all the time, so . . . you can't really just go by that."

"Noted."

He sighed, spinning his straw around in his ever-melting root beer float. "At the dance last night, this girl was flirtin' with me . . . and I kinda flirted with her back."

"And let me guess: Isabel saw the whole thing."

"Yeah. How'd you know?"

She shrugged. Wasn't hard to figure out.

"Well, anyway . . . she was kinda pissed."

"Obviously."

"But I've been tryin' to make it up to her. I slow-danced with her in front of everyone. I went to church with her today. I went out to eat with her and her mom."

"Well, you just have to keep that up," she advised. Even though she didn't know a whole lot about Isabel or about the situation, it seemed simple enough. "Show her that you care."

"Show her that I care?" he echoed questioningly.

"Yeah. You do care, don't you?"

"Yeah." He bent down and took a sip of his float. It made a funny gurgling sound as it inched up the straw. "What should I do?"

"Oh, I'm leaving that one up to you. You got any ideas?"

He seemed to sober up for a minute as he looked off into the distance, nodding slowly and contemplatively. "Yeah, I think so."

...

The water was warm as it fell down around them. It looked so good on her skin. Michael had to touch her. First just her shoulder, then her arm. He slowly moved his hands low enough to wrap around her stomach. If he was sure she wasn't still upset with him, he would have let them venture lower, but for now, he decided it was best if they just stayed put.

She reached forward to adjust the water, making it warmer as it was starting to cool. Lowering his head, he kissed her shoulder, then moved her wet hair aside and kissed the back of her neck. Isabel shuddered and craned her neck backward, resting against him.

"You know, I don't need you to get me clean," she said.

"Maybe I'm tryin' to get you dirty," he murmured in her ear.

She laughed a little, turning to face him, looking down at their feet.

He put one hand under her chin, urging her to look up at him. "Hey," he said softly, "you know I care, right? About you."

It took her a moment, but finally she nodded and affirmed, "I know."

Damn right I care, he thought. Romantic shower, no promise of sex of any kind . . . Although, now that they were in there . . . why not do it? Sure, his parents were home, but they didn't care. Or maybe they did, but they'd just learned not to let it bother them a long time ago.

"I'm really sorry about homecoming," he apologized, even though he felt like he'd apologized enough. "Senior year. I should've made it a better night for you."

She narrowed her eyes skeptically and asked, "I thought you didn't buy into all this senior year sentimental stuff."

"I don't. But it's important to you, so . . ." He shrugged, reaching behind her to adjust the water onto the cooler side.

"Well, it's okay," she decided. "I mean, not okay, but . . . it's over. We're moving on."

And that was exactly what he'd been hoping to hear. "Good." He grinned, moving his body in closer to hers, eventually pinning her up against the corner of the shower. As they kissed, he let his hands roam down to cup her round, gorgeous ass, and she instinctively raised one leg to wrap around his waist. He hooked his hand under her knee, positioning himself, bending his knees a little so that he was at the perfect angle to slide into her.

"Wait," she said, pushing gently on his chest. "Do you have a . . ."

Before she could finish the question, the one she always had to ask, Michael heard the bathroom door open. They both froze, concealed by the shower curtain.

His dad cleared his throat and asked, "Krista, that you in there?"

"No, Dad, it's me," he answered back.

"Oh. Sorry. I'll be outta here in a minute."

They continued to stay still, and Isabel made a face when they heard his dad lift the toilet seat and start peeing. Yeah, this was definitely a mood-killer.

About ten seconds later, they heard the toilet flush, and the sink turned on quickly as he washed his hands. On his way back out, he called, "Hi, Isabel." And then he was gone.

Isabel's mouth dropped open, and she covered it with her hand. He laughed, unable to tell if she was mortified or thought it was funny. He sure as hell thought it was funny, though. Hands-off parents like the ones he had made it possible to get hands-on with his girl whenever and wherever he wanted. He kissed her again, hoping to get her back in the mood so he could show her just how much he cared.

...

"So you had sex with her?"

"Yeah."

Maria couldn't help but laugh at the dopey grin on Michael's face. She'd seen it before. It was a guy's classic just-got-laid look. But on Michael, it was kind of adorable.

"Don't act so shocked," he said as he walked her down Main Street that night. "I was just taking your advice."

"Wait, I don't recall that being my advice."

"You said, 'Show her how much you care.' What says I care more than doin' it?"

She laughed again, shaking her head. "Well, you're obviously an old-fashioned romantic." Such a guy thing to say. Such a guy. "Well, whatever, I guess if it worked out for you . . ."

"Oh, it worked," he assured her. "We're good now. She is lovin' me. She was in such a good mood at school today. And she stayed over the other night."

"I assume your parents don't know about that."

"No, they know."

Her eyes bulged. "And they're just okay with it?"

"Yeah."

"Wow." That was definitely a . . . unique parenting style. But then again, Michael was probably a unique son. "Well . . ."

"Nah, it was pretty tame," he admitted. "After the sex, anyway. We stayed up and watched movies with Tina."

"Who?"

"My little sister."

"Oh." She couldn't find the time or energy to stay up late anymore. She was just too busy.

"You know, Maria . . ." He nudged her side playfully. "It's like you work two jobs, you know. You give me good advice. Part waitress, part therapist."

"Yeah, well, too bad I only get paid for one job." For the amount of work she was doing, she sure wasn't reaping much reward from it.

"Yeah, your job must suck."

"Thanks."

"No, I mean . . . the customers suck."

"You're a customer," she quickly pointed out.

"Well, I'm the exception. But seriously, you're on your feet all day. And I mean all day. You're always there."

"Well, my manager—who I've aptly chosen to call Fuckface, by the way . . ."

"Fuckface?"

"Yeah. He had the bright idea to fire everyone he didn't like. So we're understaffed. Which is actually okay with me, because then I get more hours." Sure, double-shifts were excruciating, but at least she was able to pull a little more money in that way.

He frowned, stopping at the crosswalk. "Why do you like to work so much?" he asked.

"I don't like it. I just have to do it."

"Why?"

"Because I'm not in high school, Michael. And that's what you do when you're not in high school. You work."

He grunted, stepping down onto the street when the walk symbol appeared. "No thanks."

She followed him, glancing around, knowing they couldn't go much further together. "Have you ever had a job?" she asked him, pulling her jacket tighter around herself as a gust of wind whipped past.

"No," he admitted. "When I was, like, ten, my dad quit his job and tried to start up this handyman business. Just like a Mr. Fix-It type thing, you know. And he really wanted me to help him. But I was too lazy, and the business never really got up off the ground. So he went back to construction, and I went on . . . bein' lazy."

"Hmm." She nodded, wishing she had that luxury. Even though laziness wasn't a particularly attractive quality for anyone, there was something refreshing about the way he just owned up to it. "Are you and your dad close?"

"Not really. What about you?"

"Me and my dad?" She shook her head vehemently. "No."

"You must be pretty close to your mom, though."

"Well . . ." She wished she were one of those girls who could say her mom was her best friend. "We used to be, but now . . ." She didn't want to delve into it too much, so she just summed it up with, "It's complicated."

"Always is with parents."

Always? Was that true? She stopped abruptly in front of Blue Moon, which was widely regarded as the worst bar in town, and turned to face him. "Thanks for walking me," she said, "but I've got it from here."

"Are you kidding? You think I'm gonna make you walk by yourself at night?"

"Actually, um . . ." She motioned behind her to the bar. "I'm meeting someone in there."

"Oh." He glanced over her shoulder a moment. She hoped he didn't look too hard, because it was probably just a bunch of old guys in there. "Alright," he said, already backing up and heading off the way they'd come. "See you around."

"Bye." She put her hand on the door, watching him go, wishing he could take her the rest of the way. Because it really would be nice to not walk home alone.

As he was jogging back across the street, trying to beat the crosswalk sign before it turned, she ducked into the nearest alley and headed towards home.