late spring of ‘68

֪𓏼𝜗🪽℘ 𝓽.he small african-american boy jumped from the little-kid playground and crossed for mguirk park. he crouched under a tree, not doing anything but humming and occasionally whispering i love her under his breath, feeling more light-headed and romantic each time he said it. at one point, as a bunch of boys drifted into the park and began stomping up the slide and crawling through the tunnels, where they knew he liked to hide . . . he whispered the words i love her twice, and then had to put his face into the soggy grass to cool his burning cheeks.

when he came up, there were green and twiggy bits scattered about his puffed afro. clapping his hands against the warm trunk, he stood on two feet; tennis shoes once pearly white, now coated with brown and streaks of bright green. he twists on his heels and heads toward 6th avenue. he was almost out of the park when a sixth grader named gable spock saw him and yelled: “hey, little-girl! wanna play?” and there was an explosion of laughter.

he escaped as fast as he could, hunching his neck down into his backpack like a turtle drawing into its shell. if he wasn't running from his fourth grade class, he was running from the big sixth graders . . . who picked on him because he sung. because 'only girls sing'. 'boys don't sing'.

still, he considered himself real lucky. if it were another day, the boys might have chased him, pushed him out into the road, or dropped him into the dirt, all to see him cry.

they called him lonely too.

he wasn't lonely. maybe in the next years to come. but as of now, he had his big brothers and big sisters. he doesn't have many school friends, but he has his books and his dreams and his pet rodents, who he loves dearly. each and every one of them.

four blocks down, popping his fingers and singing sam cooke under his breath. he saw you in a navy pleated skirt and a purple sleeveless blouse sitting on a bench outside kelli's sweets. you were tearing through what looked like a crunchy chocolate bar, which came from the 50¢ sweet-mash-bag in your lap. deep coloured hair that shone nutty brown in the sunlight is parted right down the middle and banded to the sides of your head with ribbon accessories.

michael liked you as much as a fourth grader could like a fifth grader. and this was a secret that not even his good rat pal knew . . . and he trusted his rat with every and any thing. no, it's not that he was ashamed of this secret . . . but maybe a bit embarrassed for himself. he'd melt like hot candle wax if the sixth graders found out his secret.

he knew that big girls never go for the little boys. or 'babies'. and even though michael wasn't a baby, he was a few centimetres shorter than his already short fourth grade class. so he looked like a baby compared to every one else. and what could michael do for you that you weren't doing for yourself? you earned $1 every afternoon walking your old neighbour's dog, another for just practicing multiplication and division with her lonely son, and 75¢ working in claude's collection; your grandpop's record shop.

michael rarely had time off. and when he did, such as now, he was running away from the big kids who liked making him cry. he always took refuge in the public library, where he'd find you . . . sitting amongst the picture books. the ones he's effortlessly drawn to. he liked that you enjoyed reading the little kid books; the ones with pictures and 3d pop-up mechanics. "ain't no such thing as'a 'little kid' book. a great story's ageless," you told him one afternoon.

how could he not like you? how could he not respect you? how could he not try to give you the absolute world? at nine-almost-ten years of age.

approaching the bench where you're sitting and snacking on sweets, michael whirls an invisible hat onto his afro, pulls an invisible trench coat over his thin shoulders, holds a finger over his top-lip for a moustache, and pretends to be detective t. patch of the rochester program on channel 56.

adding the correct voice, he became detective t. patch . . . at least to himself: "been lookin' 'round for'ya," he said, marching high, "err'wher'- cap' tol'me 'ta grab 'ya 'nd head on down'ta th'station."

and when you turned, he was again struck by your good looks . . . only it occurred to him now that you might actually be an angel. the ones mother’s spoke about. mother wouldn't believe him, but he knew a real-life angel. maybe he would tell his rat pal.

"mm- your detective patch's gettin' better."

michael smiles sweetly, "really think so?" you give an easy nod and once that chewing slows to light lip-smacking, "don't sound like you're holdin' a toad between y’er cheeks." he plopped onto the bench and clapped his small hands together in excitement. after his afternoon-into-evening rehearsals with his brothers, he'd practice his detective t. patch accent in the shower. it was the only big kid show he watched that he knew you watched as well.

"saw last night's episode?" and michael shakes his head in response. he slouches, quite literally to shrink down into himself. he couldn't watch last night's episode. joseph wouldn't allow it. "i've lost television privileges for two months," he said with a full-body sigh, mindlessly scratching the back of his arm. you gasped, cupping a glossy hand over your sticky, rainbow-stained mouth. "two whole months? no-way . . . what'd you even do?" michael shook his head again. he couldn't say it aloud.

"would you spoil it for me?" he hoped, wiping both clammy hands along the pant-legs of his denim overalls. you blink down at the fourth grader, mouth hung agape, tongue dyed all sorts of magical colours. "nuh-uh. 'm the wrong girl to ask." michael tips his neck up, "you are the only girl i can ask."

you weren't a great storyteller and you can barely remember last night's episode. you were watching that episode next door with your neighbour's son, who struggled bad with multiplication and yapped with so much food in his mouth.

you rub at your sugary chin, not contemplating a single thing, just wanting to be dramatic. michael waits there silently, carefully picking at the exposed stringy-pieces of his denim. michael's eyes; big and shiny and beautifully brown, study your profile like this'll be the last time he sees you . . . your glossed forehead, high cheekbones and chubby cheeks, plump nose, and rainbow lips.

"maybe," and those red, orange, pink, purple, and green lips stop in a slim grin. "may-beeeeeeee. but . . . ya'know it's gon'a cost." not money, but michael's young mind went there immediately. he feels his pockets for something good, and isn't at-all shocked when they're totally flat. "that book." michael takes a moment to think this over. he has plenty of books; half checked-out from the library, half from mother's younger-days. which one were you referring to?

"las' week, you signed beyond the clouds from señora geni's cart . . again. i want it. tomorrow." michael scratched at his shiny nose, thinking, where did i put that book? he feels a tiny nudge at the side of his torso and when he looks, there you are with a fist-bump, waiting . . . palms too gluey to let him suffer. "do we have a deal?"

woa? michael makes a low, sort of disturbed croak, "i'm not finished with it yet -" he's only read the book seven times. he would begin his eighth tonight. like a normal boy. ". . . why do you want that book? it's got the lowest rank in the entire fantasy section." señora geni had told him. she was on her way to toss the book in the basement when michael stopped her that afternoon.

"well . . ." you groan. if michael didn't ask as many questions as he did, you would've told him the cover looks cool, but because he is who he is, you give an answer that'll fulfill: "there's'a movie now. it's showing at the library . . . that's why i'm waitin' here, actually."

movie? hmm . . . michael blinked in only one direction. if he had looked right, he would have gotten a nasty shock. standing in the shade of a big ol' sugar maple tree just one block down were the sixth graders.

"can i watch with you?" now talking monotonously to the concrete, "i won't be annoying." the timing was just right enough so that things worked out perfectly for everyone. you held out the paper sack of candies and michael dug a small hand in, "thank you." he could not remember ever having meant thanks so deeply.

michael liked the library. not as much as he liked you, but the library was close by. he liked the way it was always cool, even on the coldest day of a cold february morning in gary, indiana. when he entered with you, he couldn't help but stare over (up, rather) . . . the sun, just a bitter orange, bleeding through the stained-glass, which glittered over your twisted hair in reds and blues and greens. like your candied lips.

"what else d'you have checked out?" when you're turning your head to face him, michael blinks off . . . poorly hiding his nervous energy. this was a date. like a date date. a big-kid date. his first real date. as a fourth-grader. this was wow! "uhm- not many. i have just'a few . . . know splish splash?" a herpetology picture book.

you nod, passing a lollipop through your lips, "ms. jayne read't to everyone -" the winter of third grade year, which seemed like forever ago. ms. jayne and the other third grade homeroom teachers traveled with their students to the public library for one big story-time circle. "- right over here."

the children's library section. michael liked the children's library section, although it had none of the spooky charm he felt in the older library; with its dusty textbooks and globes and curving iron staircases too narrow for two people to pass upon.

the children's section was colourful and bright, with shelves of rental movies and picture-books and toy baskets, and a little noisier in spite of the 'lips: zipped! ears: opened!' signs that were posted. usually, around this hour, while the big kids roomed the streets after school, the real babies would be having story-time. but this afternoon, miss sadie, the sweet old librarian, has transformed the children's nook into a cute movie setup.

and every beanbag sat stiff. child-less. the popcorn cart was untouched. the juice boxes were poked open, but un-sipped.

"maybe it's . . . still early?" michael thought, hands raking along his denim thighs. "right?" he blinked up, searching the side of your face for any sort of answer — "more for us," before skipping off toward the purple beanbag. and michael lifts both dank hands to his boiling-hot cheeks. he wiggles on his heels, quickly trying to pat down the scrunch of his little face.

he felt both foolish and exalted, as miserably embarrassed as he had ever been in his young life. and yet so inarguably blessed. he's having an innocent little daydream about hugging you, and then kissing you. on the apple of your cheek.

michael settles into the blue bag, right next to yours. "i like popcorn." a large grin spread across his cute face. he knew how idiotic it must look, but he could not seem to pull it back. "do you like popcorn?"

". . . who doesn't like popcorn?"

michael had to clear his throat, and his little blush deepened. "my brothers'," he answered. "me and mother, we watch a movie when we can ‘nd they . . . they don't join in."

"what’a 'bout your dad?"

he shakes his head. "joseph says 'suckers watch movies'." what? you weren't a sucker. michael apologised for the accidental jab, holding a hand over your knee as if to give a pat . . . but stopping instead before contact.

"i'd get popped in th’mouth if i called my momma or daddy by the first name," closing your eyes and shivering at the make-believe scenario that would stay a 'make-believe scenario' until your last breath.

it wasn't strange to call joseph 'joseph'. that's all the boy knew. and that's all joseph's ever been. "mhmm. he's a serious man. you wouldn't like him." michael scratched the teeny itch at his eyebrow, keeping himself from going on any further. "do you watch movies with your family?"

there was a pause then, and michael was suddenly aware of two things: you wanted to tell him something . . . and you weren't entirely sure if you wanted to say it. "well," with a short, yet dramatically loud sigh. "it's only me 'nd daddy. he likes working 'til the sun comes, 'nd i see my momma on the weekends only- she has some'other man." so, no. the answer was no. not anymore.

"but this can be the first of'a thousand movies." together.

for a moment michael was uncharacteristically flustered. and then, felt a bit weird. he had dropped his eyes, retreating from your lovely smile, and realized now that your skirt had ridden up a bit when you shifted forward to drop the candy sack in between your thighs. he could see your knees.

opposite the rolling wheels, "i had a feeling i'd be seeing you two." that was miss sadie; her white hair a dazzling cloud around her head and upon her shoulders, her eyes a foggy blue-green. she steered an av stand, balancing on-top had been the antique filmstrip projector. "how was school?"

michael's little chin dipped . . . and he sat perfectly still, letting you take the floor first. you launch right into it, happily recounting the day. he figured you sensed his discomfort with the question, and he was grateful — relieved — that you were using leftover energy to distract miss sadie long enough. he just wanted to hide the fact that his fraction quiz was burning a hole in his backpack.

miss sadie circled the story-time nook. she reached that wall and pulled-down a large white sheet. then, she switched a light and waddled back for the production cart. she tugged some cord, and a soft yellow glow of the bulky machine buzzed to life, casting a square canvas onto the sheet . . . illustrated clouds soar across the sheet accompanied by singing violins and flutes and clarinets, bringing michael's storybook to film.

"shush, please," miss sadie whispered to only you, her voice a warm rasp, raising a single, veiny finger to her lips. michael held his breath, stretch forth so far he nearly tumbled off the edge of the oversized beanbag.

he stole one last glance . . . and you were looking at him too.

late spring of ‘68

֪𓏼𝜗🪽℘ 𝓬.arrying a card with the address turned inward he was taking no chances, (even though he didn't see his brothers), he got a few square slips of paper from the office. when joseph wasn't watching, michael rushed in for loose-leaf sheets. he took these back to the bedroom he shared with his brothers and began to scribble with mother's good pen, to cross out, and then to scribble again.

working carefully over a fifteen-minute period (with one break to go back and get more loose-leaf), striking out words that were too long; changing, deleting . . . michael came up with something good. better than good, for a seventh grader.

and when he wakes up the next morning to a desk completely cleared, he can't help but tear. he asks mother if she'd seen a purple note card and she shakes her head, no baby. i haven't. michael looks to his brothers and they're at work moving boxes out . . . he won't bother them. and he won't bother joseph about that letter.

michael claps his small hands together and closes both eyes to pray, please let her wait for me.

late spring of ‘68

֪𓏼𝜗🪽℘ 𝓪.s the cab moved slowly down 6th avenue and then curled up center, his first thought was predictable enough: how much had changed. but the predictable thought was accompanied by a deep dismay that he would never have expected.

the mill's arcade was gone, replaced with a long parking lot (BY PERMIT ONLY) the sign chained to the gate announced. (VIOLATORS WILL BE TOWED!). the sole-mates and kelli's sweets, which had stood next to it, were also gone. they had been replaced by a line of banks and currently under-construction skyscrapers. mb toys, ronald's sandwiches, and the pharmacy where his big brother had gotten him those long candy bars, was also gone.

polly's boutique had become some strange call center. looking out his window as the cab idled at a stoplight, michael could see another clothing shop, a natural-foods store, and claude's collection; which was featuring a clearance sale on ALL VINYLS AND TAPES!

"hi- excuse me?" kindly patting the driver's shoulder; he was a big man who wore a red-and-black-checkered hunter's jacket. "excuse me? can you pull aside?" if the request hadn't been coming from thee michael jackson, the cab guy would've kept on going. he checked his side mirror before changing lanes and parking behind a meter. "i'll be here, mr jackson." michael thanked that bald man and climbed from the backseat — sunglasses on, baseball cap snug over damp curls, jacket zipped to the neckline.

his bodyguard, bill bray, stood back a few feet . . . watching as the young man tottered about the clearance boxes. not browsing, but faking like he had been. he squints through the window and stares in, looking for anyone his brain recognised . . . no one so far.

"find anythin' good?" this was bonnie o'grady. no more than twenty-three. "these've been out for days now . . ." michael opened his mouth and then something — some powerful intuition — closed it again. his accent work wasn't the best. "i'm close to the owner- she's my roomie, actually." auburn hair, tied super-high with two teal scrunchies, wagging in the chilly wind. "- don't tell her i told you this, but i've never really enjoyed claude's collection," giggling.

michael looked at the woman, not saying anything. he shook his head, slow and disapprovingly. not liking claude's collection was like not like fruity candy. and everyone liked fruity candy. or, they were supposed to, anyways. claude's was right of passage. couldn't live in gary and not adore claude's extensive stock.

back in michael's californian home, he had an entire shelf dedicated to the pieces given by claude. the old man liked when his granddaughter sang with michael. he'd always ask for michael. and when the youngin sang, he would insist: 'grab something, son. go on.'

and michael naturally gravitated towards nat king cole; who's voice reminded him of mr claude. so calming and gentle and safe.

"'uncultured ears' are just 'inexperienced ears'," were claude's words. "i'm sure anything found in these boxes are good- better than good . . . they may change your life." because essentially, that's what music does. it heals. and as michael scans this young woman up and down, he could feel a proper healing was needed. "can i recommend- " he drops into a low crouch and those slim fingers slap records together. "- barbara randolph?"

his eyes, a glittering brown behind those shades, locked with her blue ones, asking again without speaking: 'so? barbara randolph?' he holds the record, waiting.

she did not look down or away as michael turned his head . . . perhaps because she might begin crying. holy shit. it's really fucking him. realisation had took bonnie by the neck and jumped down her throat — it was like sucking and sucking and sucking on a piece of hard candy and then finally getting to the center, which just so happens to be some other gooey candy that horribly stains the tongue.

"'m sorry, sir- is she bothering you?" and the sunglasses come off. "she likes to do . . . thaat -" michael's heart is warm, a beating hammer in his skull. the curls on the nape of his neck stand at attention. his eyes are hot, his hands are cold, and he's sure that at any moment you'd turn away and disappear into claude's again, swallowing down all the years spent separated, and then he would see it; a bat. dangling from your fist. he would hear the snarl just before you pounced on him and swung . . . working hard to see some guts.

but there's no bat. you don't even head back inside.

. . . you hug him.

which not only surprises him, but surprises bonnie as well. if she didn't shut her mouth, she'd draw a cluster of flies.

subconsciously, her hand rips out those two teal scrunchies and threads itself through the bird's nest, reminding her that she didn't put as much effort into it as she should've, had she known michael jackson would stop at claude's. she no longer wanted the 'troubled-painter' look. of the 'i-pretend-i-don't-care-but-i-really-do hair'.

"wha- what?" you couldn't explain how you felt. the words had run out. there was a brick of feeling inside of you, nearly choking you, and you could not get it out of your throat. "what're you doin'here?" welcome back home! would've been nice too. a little shuddery sigh came from him seeing his bodyguard lengthening that stride each step —

michael lifts a hand from the curve of your back, she's okay. he closes his eyes and takes the time to reflect that your touch, and the sensation of your grown-woman weight, was not exactly unpleasant. but so absolutely wonderful. his nose tickles the side of your face, and you swore you felt gusts of warm air; short inhales and exhales.

"a film."

you pull away and hold him at arm's length, michael's grinning and there's that sparkle in his big eyes. "a film? that's . . ." no more touching. dropping both hands from michael's shoulders, you fold them behind your backside. "exciting. what about?"

and here, michael senses something he doesn't like. not one bit. the grin flattens and he lumbers forward, "it's short, really. nothing wild. just'a hometown kind of thing . . . before gettin' back with my brothers on triumph." oh how he would've loved to ditch the journalist and spend his entire trip bothering you.

"how's that been? . . . touring?" she's been watching me, his mind couldn't help but go there. what'd you like the most? his voice? or his dance moves? what was your favourite song? should he tell you that he's working on some new music? what brother'd you like the most? was it him?

"not the greatest," michael said. he offers a heartwarming smile, a smile that makes you think of very early spring. being young and running through some sweeping meadow; the promise land. kiddie troubles forgotten. the skies up above so clear . . . "how've- ?"

"before you go, take somethin'." you twist away and motion for the tragic clearance boxes; filled with such excellent music. "take anythin'. whatever. you know you can." this was your admittedly peculiar way of turning down the promise land. the goodness of michael jackson. "please." you felt deep reality wash over you — through you.

. . . he looks back at bonnie who's also deeply confused. in her head, she was calling you stupid. a big looney idiot for pushing michael jackson away. or, attempting to, anyways. and if he could choose, he would have stayed right here. but . . . there was a journalist waiting on him at the newspaper office.

"i should've tried harder to reach you," michael said, hands laying palely over his trembling thighs. "i am so, so sorry." he gulped hard. you had heard it. "- i'd like to make't up to you." michael felt that sense of the past folding in on itself, folding in on him.

the question popped out of his mouth like a cork flying from the neck of a champagne bottle: "catch up, maybe?"

catch up? it's been ten years. the most that's happened to you was completing art school and taking over your grandfather's record shop . . . which you were thinking about letting go.

not as cool as being a superstar touring the world, attending award shows and rescuing exotic animals.

when was the last time you thought of michael? not the pop icon. just michael? four years ago? five? maybe seven?

when michael and his family moved away from gary in the late spring of 1971, it was impossible to accept the sudden loss of your best friendship. the abrupt end to what should've been a shared summer. a summer that should've been spent pretending to be jungle explorers, or astronauts collecting moon rocks, or kidding yourselves that you were pirates looking for treasure, cowboys riding the wildest horses, or superheroes saving the planet from an alien invasion.

there were other things, things you hadn't thought of in years, coming back. all of it was coming back just from the sight of him . . . and as michael stands here, in his disguise, silent pleading and signalling one more minute to his bodyguard, you're wondering if you want to open that door back up —

"do you have'a bullet?" fucking bonnie. you watch michael stare over his shoulder and feel a familiar weight of dread crunch around your heart — could he be someone you could get used to so quickly, again? or would this be something you'd seriously regret later? he lived a life completely different from yours. in almost every aspect.

"hm? bullet?" now he's looking down at you. michael holds a hand to bill for another five, not peeling his eyes from you once . . . but you're glaring at bonnie. harshly. "bulletin,” answering, “it's'a . . . chat site-thingy."

slow-paced, fairly new and programmed by a middle-aged man still living in his mother's house, bulletin was a huge digital cork-board made of shared text spaces. the start of multi-user communication.

"it's kind'a replaced letter-writing, mail, and there's a'bajillion topic threads," bonnie continued, inching closer and closer, until her shoulder was kissing yours. "but you make an account first . . . if you wanna jump into convos, friend people- private message, all the good stuff." he looked from bonnie to you, back to bonnie, and then to you again.

"i . . ." you wanted to lie, i deleted my handle yesterday night! sorry michael jackson! it was at the back of your throat. but with bonnie right here, you knew she wouldn't let that slide. "i don't use it as much. so . . . don't wait for anythin'." it wouldn't be too hard finding your bullet; username having only been your name. no extra bits, hanging numbers, or dragged out letters.

michael nodded, happily. "still, i'll make an account. i promise." and with that: "it was real nice meeting you." bonnie nearly melts into the concrete. shit, she remarked under her breath, shaming herself for emptying these pockets earlier in the apartment. she had a weirdly shaped, lavender makeup mirror . . . he could've signed the case.

"barbara randolph," he kindly urged, holding a hand out toward the boxes.

and he jogs to meet with his big bodyguard.

you suck in a fat breath and keep from turning. bonnie didn't just crane her neck though, she spun her entire body to watch him squat down into the cab. and she says, "think you could get us some tickets?"

seriously? the tip of your tongue poked at the innermost part of your cheek. unbelievable. you had opened the swinging door to claude's and she followed you in, asking, "were you ever gonna tell me? huh?"

you return to position behind the front desk and plop down onto pop's old spinny stool, "what, bee?" bonnie put her elbow on the table and then cupped her chin on the palm of her hand, regarding her closest friend with what appeared to be deep fascination. "oh- you know what. if i grew up with michael freaking jackson, i'd never shut up about it."

"uh no- we didn't grow up together. that was like three or four years of elementary." which was pretty huge, but you were trying to play as if that were nothing at all. bonnie, having known you as long as she has, can see right through it. "knowing him's not somethin' i ever thought to brag about- look ‘at how you're actin' . . . mad."

with a hand, bonnie clutched her chest; not truly offended but taken aback. "me- mad? no. more like . . . totally flabbergasted i might just disintegrate." she folds both forearms over the countertop and leans in, blue eyes gleaming. she waits until you stare up from the half-done crossword puzzle, "childhood crushes are pivotal," smirking. "i'd be upset with him too."

what bonnie's suggesting is . . . just patently untrue. and absolutely ridiculous. "no." childhood crushes weren't real, you believed. they were rarely about true romantic compatibility and were fantasied emotions spiked by pretend-play; princess and knight, mermaid and sailor, witch and wizard. if young you had liked a young michael, it was based on some superficial trait. like how during pretend-play, he never strayed from the plot. or never gave himself too much power.

but you doubt young you ever looked to him and seen the L word floating over his afro.

"i'm not upset with him." not anymore. you weren't that middle schooler anymore, crying about her close friend's sudden disappearance. those tears dried cold when he magically appeared belting and twirling on daddy's television. smiling so big and looking so sparkly. he was doing fine. "i don't want anythin' from him, actually." not even a friendship. "you shouldn't've mentioned bulletin."

bonnie scoffs lowly, watching you set aside the colored pencil and rip from claude's stool. "i was doing him a favor, actually."

the thought of simply bundling her into the break-room and then standing with your back against the door until this day was over had crossed your mind, but you were unable to bring yourself to do it, although you certainly could have; you were inches taller than bonnie and outweighed her by ten pounds. you couldn't think of what to do or say, because this was so utterly like her.

she's done this plenty of times before. all throughout high school and university. she jumped into your business and dropped you into situations you couldn't exactly slink out of. "him? what'a 'bout me, bonnie? . . . i had that."

"you had that? that was freaking pitiful, ya’hear me? listening to you gave me actual hives, girl." bonnie managed through a cackle, vehemently. "i thought i should speed things up -"

your head snapped around and she saw that you were hitching in a breath to scream. "no. i was speeding things up by showing him the boxes."

"he asked for communication and you froze. if i didn’t do that, we all would’ve still been out on that pavement- waiting on you.”

you closed your eyes briefly, then opened them and said: "i had to think." as if the world would stop and give five minutes. "i don't know him. 'nd i won't act like i do . . . for show tickets."

bonnie's leaning on the doorway, red nails plucking away at the already hideously chipped paint. "oh don't stand here and act like he can't be some reliable source." what bonnie was implying had presented itself the moment she'd seen you jump into him for a hug. opportunity. bonnie wasn't an evil girl. she was . . . passionate. extra. "you should be in new york . . . or california. not in gary- gathering coins at your granddad's shop and after those kiddie plays -"

then: ". . . you're tellin' me he can't help with that?"

you were sure he had the power and connections to be of great service. and you were certain he'd give into you . . . really, all you had to do was ask. but that felt too easy. and unfair to him. "i'm working on it, bee."

bonnie uttered a sigh that was full of trouble, watching you slither through the opening, cookie in hand.

if a quarter fell into her palm every-time she's heard you say that, she might've had the funds to take you to new york or california herself.

"greatness takes patience."

֪𓏼𝜗🪽℘ 𝓹.erhaps it was simply the dimness of the charter theater that caused the illusion, which lasted for only the briefest minute, but michael wondered if it was some sort of message meant strictly for him: that fate could also be kind. and real. because in that brief minute it seemed to him that neither had grown up, that he and his old friend had somehow done a peter pan act and were still children.

playing pretend.

instead this go round, you were the one playing pretend and michael was the one watching. he sits in an audience of probably thirty; children with their parents, and holds a weakly folded pamphlet; some man's sorry-as-fuck attempt at a broadway playbill. beyond the clouds, blotched across the front. he thanked his bodyguard for the awesome gift; two tickets for beyond the clouds, and was plotting an even bigger thanks: how'd you know she'd be here? michael asked. i didn't, bill would answer.

it made him nervous being able to feel his heart beating in his ears and wrists as well as in his chest. you weren't even singing directly to him, but it felt like you were. it felt like . . . everything was fading to a comfortable blur and only you remained . . . in those lopsided angel wings and tall golden boots, which were supposed to be hooves. even the young man casted as the prince, his favourite character, had gone to fuzz.

he was seeing your face in an entirely different way. and because he did, it became a new face — the face of a tired artist. he could see you going home with your roommate, sitting in that crappy truck with your hands folded as the heater hissed and you talking about mistakes made on stage. he could see your face downturned over some fast food. then, an odd thought crossed his mind and an honest question rose to his lips: would you like california?

michael's eyes are shut and his head's bobbing to the sweetness of your singing voice and the complementary piano, acoustic guitar, and violin. if this were a studio recording and he was in the comfort of his bedroom, he would've drifted off . . . to a place he's only ever dreamt of visiting. beyond the clouds.

he would figure out how to get you out of gary. off of this busted stage. you deserved greater than this . . . this half-assed pamphlet. and those scrappy wings. he couldn't be too mean though, he did admire the garment sewer's effort. but he could have gotten better. especially for you.

and he would.

late spring of ‘68

֪𓏼𝜗🪽℘ 𝓪.nd by early december, you were leaving gary holding a briefcase stuffed with green bills. claude's collection was bought and cleared out; leftover records stacked tall on a shelf of your shared living space in encino, california. with bonnie and the cat she swears she can not live without, fig newton; a chocolate brown street cat that'd swoop in every now and again for a bite.

he has a soft pink nose, blind in one eye, an unusual meow, and a limp in his trot.

now, he’s yawning big, uncurling from that spot, and stretching even bigger. he wiggled his hips and wobbles himself together, tail swaying side to side. fig had a new track lined up for when he wanted the floor again.

the brown cat rocked from the windowsill and lowered onto the back of a squishy sofa, the cushion dipping under his weight. a shift of his hind legs brought him to the armrest, then to the lid of a closed storage trunk in one step. the clothing trunk sat flush near the coffee table, making the next hop easy and painless.

"mornin' chunky chip," you coo, watching fig rub against and circle your ankles. you smile and bend down, snatching the cat up and holding him back like a human baby. he didn't twist or turn, just laid there . . . like a calm human baby.

      you let your fingers trail through the cat's fur, scratching the warm spot behind one ear until his purr rumbled like a tired engine.

"can i log into your bullet?" bonnie's already at the computer; a thick square machine that cawed on a thrifted desk in the living room. why would she even ask that? how could she after what she’s done? "no, you can not, bee." she groaned, slapping her thigh, "what if there's a new message from mj?" mj.

so yeah, there was that. the back and forth digital letter writing to mj had become a fixed thing. though sporadic, a message, whether at the end of the night or peak hour of the morning, would be sent and/or received.

bonnie's fingering the keyboard, typing in your bullet handle and password chunkiestMonkeyFig66.

quickly tossing fig onto a nearby pillow, you grip ahold of bonnie's chair and wheel her off: "nottttt happening. you've done more than'a 'nough," and switched that tab.

bonnie frowns weakly and in a whiney voice, "oh c'mon. i said i was sorry." she didn't.

but this is what's happened: bonnie was up with the moon last night. she had her bowl of oatmeal and chopped fruit, and went to the computer and opened bulletin. her account first. after answering those friends, she logged into yours. you had some replies from immikey. and bonnie was more than happy to get those for you. she clicked open the aisle and worked on one message. and then another message. and then another.

and now, because of her . . . michael was expecting you at hayvenhurst. tonight, 6 o'clock on the dot. his only request: [ come with a braided crown ]. which you couldn't remember ever doing on yourself. the most-intricate styles you've had had been done by your neighbour; all through elementary and into middle school. may she continue to rest.

"i know you aren't for-real upset about that." bonnie wiggles herself back to the desk, "i thought that's what all’of this was- to get the spark back." she misinterpreted your word completely. as always. "no, bon. you're trying to rush it." the it being the friendship between you and mj. you made the mistake of telling her what had happened all those years ago. and even when you stressed to her: we were literal babies, she heard: opportunity.

"i wouldn't call it rushing . . . how about lending a hand?" bonnie folds her arms over her chest, tightly. you know defensive body language from plenty of personal experience. "you two chat about nothing," she forces. "i'd hate to wait all day for cheesecake recipes and an answer to: ‘did you watch last night's episode’?"

"but you aren't- i am." which bonnie kept on forgetting. one side of you wondered if she was being so pushy because this was michael jackson. maybe she's just super excited? but then, the other side believes that michael's social status didn't matter. it could've been anyone; if they were showing you the slightest bit of attention, she'd call for a superbowl party. ". . . 'nd i happen to really like what we chat about."

bonnie, with her matte-mauve lips parted, watched you circle out of the living room and head through the rounded kitchen opening. she gets up, "you haven't gone out to see him since we got over here. do'you know how rude that is? . . . very."

you start the faucet and turn back to look at her, saying, "he's been busy, y'know? i'm sure you saw, we were chatting about gettin' together . . . eventually, after the triumph tour." but the triumph tour's been over for over two months now.

you give the huff and puff of a long-suffering parent dealing with a recalcitrant toddler. "but please, bon. let this be the last time you go against me."

against you? really? and bonnie's defeated. the silly woman makes no reply to this, only climbs the curvy stairs. a door shuts. the lock clicks. sigh.

֪𓏼𝜗🪽℘ 𝓲.t's three o'clock by mother's wrist watch when she comes by, clutch under the pit of her arm. she's swapped the trim brown pants for a floral skirt and a pair of nice slippers. "how's this, michael?" she asked her boy; who couldn't really give the attention she desired. "michael?" again. she stares about the hallway, once dull shades of beige, parchment, brown, was now . . . twinkling in blues and purples and powdery pink.

curtains draped from the ceiling in pretty swoops, cotton clouds were tacked to the walls, and he's sticking and re-sticking blinking stars. this has to be perfect —

"michael . . .? please be careful up there," no longer worried about whether or not her attire looked appropriate, but her son's safety. "don't you think you're taking this hangout a bit too far?"

right as she finished her question, mr bill bray was laying more paper bags around the entrance way. paper bags, stretched taut and ripped in certain corners, filled with decorations. mother leans away from the railing, "michael- i'm sure you don't have to do all this. has a movie and bowl of popcorn gone out of style?"

what? no. never.

"mother . . . this is more than'a hangout." michael marched down the ladder and dug into a shopping bag for the last pack of stars. "it's'a much needed do-over." mother lets a brow raise in curiosity. "what is there to do over, michael? you were twelve," chuckling, genuinely astounded by his zest.

"if only you could've heard my heart when she'd come out of claude's." he felt like a young boy again, with emotions far too big for his body. "and you should've seen her on stage." michael palms the wall, thinking his knees may just betray him in front of mother.

"well, michael . . ." mother cups a soft, chilly hand over his heated cheek. "i'm happy for you, baby," earnestly. "and i trust that you'll clean up after yourself. and her. right?" he nodded, and then looked glumly at what was done. joseph would go to give him sixteen different flavors of holy old hell if he left this up too long.

mother squeezes his shoulder before taking to the grand staircase. "ask your brothers to help mr bray with these bags," she called, voice echoing as strongly as her heels.

and he had gone obediently to grab his brothers. not only could they help bring these bags up, they could help him finish this hall out, and maybe even take on a character. he'll learn quickly that he should've asked his brothers before buying all'a those costumes.

he wiped at the wet glue painted along his fingertips and skipped the steps. michael hurried through the foyer and through the gallery and through the dining room — "hey- hey! guys?" poor michael, the basketball dribbling over concrete completely swallowed his feather-light voice.

he dabs sweat away from his forehead with the back of his hand and scurries in — not into the game, but close by the game's steel pole . . . hoping that getting into their eye-sight would help. which it did:

jackie stopped his brother, marlon, from going for another shot. wasn't like he'd make it anyway. that ball would’ve snapped michael right in the head.

"i- uhm . . . i'm having a special lady over tonight." his brothers dissolved into a frenzy of loud hollers, knee-slapping laughter, and ruthless teasing. they piled onto him, throwing playful punches and good-natured shoves. and once they backed off of him, michael, through giggles, "i have something real nice planned for her, and i . . . i don't think i'll be able to get't done alone. not before six . . ."

the guys exchanged glances and then locked eyes with michael, a silent collective demand: just spit it out, man.

". . . i'm decorating the house, and i'd greatly appreciate extra hands." his brothers stare amongst themselves again, gaze saying more than ten-billion things. in these six seconds of silence, they've just remembered they have extracurriculars to attend to. right now, weirdly enough. funny how fast time flew when good fun's being had.

"mikey . . . you should've asked us much earlier," jackie said reluctantly, perfectly conveying the facial expression that matched his words. pained. gosh, mikey boy. so darn close! michael’s just about to go into how spending his days and nights in the studio has kept him from preparing properly when :

"we're meetin' with some friends in like- " now tito's checking a wrist watch that wasn't there. "- ten minutes, man." mmm.

and michael looked at his brother distrustfully. but, that was okay. he could ask his sisters for decor help; girls were masters at that sorta stuff anyways. it was practically in their dna. "what time'll you be home? you don't have'to help unload . . . maybe you'd like having a role?"

"role?" marlon's brows creased a little. he looked guiltily at jermaine, but jermaine was looking moodily away from michael and at the trees that surrounded one side of hayvenhurst.

"mhm, yeah . . ." michael's plucking at the dried glue on his long fingers, using this as a distraction. an innocent tactic to avoid further eye contact. "there's'a bunch of side characters, like . . . rocky, the friendly dragon. or, uhm- daring frog, the talking frog. those type."

then: "and, uh, don't worry about the script. i thought we'd make beyond the clouds our own . . . follow the film loosely . . . y'know?" all they had to do was watch the movie once. which was easy enough.

the choice also came from being unable to go into joseph's office and sneakily printing copies. 'cause wasting joseph's paper would've resulted in a terrible black eye.

"i really want my friend to enjoy herself, 'nd i think going all out's really gon'a get her head in it." and for a moment michael thought he had his brothers right where he wanted them. he excused the concerned looks on their faces. "we can feed on each other's passion, and -"

"no." and everyone turned to jermaine. "we are not playing dress-up with you, michael." so cold, and so very honest. it wasn’t dress-up though. "the girl's’ll help you." and as jermaine spins to leave the basketball court, the other brothers trail away too. marlon waits a moment, having been the only one to see the sadness on his brother's face. he cuffs a hand onto michael's bicep. "maybe some other time?" . . . "good luck tonight, mikey."

once marlon’s gone, michael catches the fresh, miserable tear that streaks his cheek. he sucks in a shaky breath and trods back inside, fixing the fallen button of his forest-green polo.

when he reached the entrance hall, bill's dropping down the last three shopping bags. michael bends and shakes two open, seeing clothing. costumes. already paid for, and going over no single body.

"bill . . .? have you kept any receipts?"

֪𓏼𝜗🪽℘ 𝓽.he passengers’ door unlocked with a chirp. his bodyguard took the handle and pulled. you thank him and bill responds with a low nod. he points over to hayvenhurst and you . . . can't believe it. this place doesn't even look real. and that fountain! why would a family need a fountain in their driveway? how much had it been to install that fountain in the driveway? were the first two questions you'd ask michael.

getting to the front doors, you hesitate, but there's no need to knock — they crisply snap open on their own. creepy. peering into the pitch-black entryway, with the moonlight offering little guidance, you stay put . . . and bill brushes on past. you don't see how he does it, but almost magically . . . the entrance sparks, a fog machine chugs, and violins and cellos and trumpets and flutes begin, lifting the space into a dreamscape —

"holy- is this s'pposed to’be . . .?" a whistle. bill was standing with some box. some long white box, with not even the smallest dent or scuff smudge. "he got me a gift?" and now you felt bad for arriving empty-handed . . . damn-you bonnie. "what's this?" right after grabbing the heavy box from bill's hands, "careful," he warns, then marches out and takes assigned position at his vehicle.

heeled ankle-boots clacking above this tiled floor and slicing through smoke, you start for one end of the connecting staircases; banisters striped with fake silver vines and fluffy feather pieces. ". . . michael?" and you were whispering. which did absolutely nothing. this place was gigantic, after all. no voice could travel about in a home like this that low. but who were you to be shouting in a house that wasn't your own?

you knew better.

from this current step, you could see onward . . . and the decor tacked past the curve of upcoming hallway was much fuller and brighter than the set you were on last month. no offense to gary's charter theater crew. "michael -?"

near the banister is a short brown table with an empty fishbowl on its surface.

you removed the fishbowl and replaced it with the large, heavy white box. you hated to see the ribbon go, it was a beautiful bouncy bow. and seeing what'd been inside, you were too scared to touch it. no, your hands weren't packed with cheeto-dust, but still! you couldn't take any chances. it'd been a white gown. not ivory, or cream, or baby powder, or embroidered in glittering jewels. just pure white.

and the pair of wings that made this box feel as though it were a newborn.

"i wasn't sure you'd like it . . ." michael, who's wearing a blue shirt fastened with pearl buttons, a high collar, and a gold sash cross over his chest marking royal status, stands ways off to the side of you. "it's not the exact same, but i thought’t looked pretty close," while smiling apologetically, adjusting the slim gold circlet play-crown.

he saw a thankful look in your eyes, a look of comfort and warmth and confirmation, that look that said this is beautiful, michael. wow! that look that said wow, mike. i could kiss you right now. then love would come back, and that was right and good because he did love you still.

he could even have a discussion with you, if you wanted it, of course. but that must come later. for now, beyond the clouds was in session.

"follow me to the bathroom." michael takes up your gift box and nods for the opposite direction, feeling so delighted with himself and you. he didn't think you'd actually show. he felt that as he was shopping. he felt that as he was decorating. he felt that as he went to double check his bulletin board. but with you here, the world was suddenly very clear to him and very friendly.

"take your time . . ." and michael closed the door.

he gave a mini cough into his palm and sniffed . . . i need a mint.

֪𓏼𝜗🪽℘ 𝓽.he dress was made of soft, flowing fabric that pooled around your feet like fresh snow. it had a modest square neckline and long sleeves that narrowed at the wrists. the sheer cape was absolute but not overly dramatic. luminous in your plainness, the gown makes you untouched by the greed surrounding the prince's fortune . . .

"why're you lookin'at me like that?"

michael grinned a little. you continue to stand by the door, facing him, hands on your hips, cheeks tight with . . . unease. "am i missin' something? a bracelet, maybe?" he doesn't say anything. there'd been no missing clothing piece. but a smile.

"you are perfect."

never have you ever been called perfect. or even felt as though you were. "michael . . ." and that smile changed your pretty face into one that was gorgeous.

then, you grew grave again, hefty wings flopping with your movement, "how long'd this take?" and his world came back into some kind of focus. "most of the day- did't all by myself." he cradles the small of your back and angles his head inward, "warmed up?"

you leaned back momentarily, humming with the studied concentration of an artist painting a landscape. "'m sorry?" and michael removes his hand from your body, the violins and cellos changing their strings. the trumpets and flutes follow . . . the starting instrumental of beyond the clouds' soundtrack.

"mic -" would no longer answer to michael. from here on until this beautiful playlist came to its end . . . he is prince evander, who seeks refuge in this forgotten castle beyond an enormous, fluffy cloud, where he'll met the woman in white. you — no. kerensa, a pegasus hiding her species.

giggles bubbled from his throat as he bounded down the stairs. michael, clad in bright red snuggly socks, uses their slip and skates into the gallery like a child on ice, arms spread for balance . . . then the music abruptly rewound through the mansion, pulling your attention to the empty chair drowned in shimmery white fabric. a makeshift throne.

how creative.

֪𓏼𝜗🪽℘ 𝓲.t was nice to know that your play didn't change — of course it would only strengthen, you were dedicated to the theatre.  

      he was vaguely aware that he was doing one of his voices; not a strange and outrageous one, like those he sometimes did while alone.  but a total, rich, assertive voice.  an i'm-more-than-capable voice.  just like prince evander at the top of act two.  it sounded great . . . but it would be a lie.  just like all the other voices were lies.

      michael thought he was doing pretty good as prince evander until mid-way through act two — the tough bit.  he was having some trouble differentiating between you and kerensa.  there were moments he'd find himself glancing sideways along your figure and calling you out-of-character.  most of those times, he hardly catches himself. 

      his most recent slip, you smiled a bit.  that was bad, and it had admittedly knocked him for an even bigger loop.  but he felt that he was going to be able to handle it.  no sweat.  but it was here, standing by and watching you — kerensa — croon cutely and pet michael’s cuddly llama louie, without trying something off script. 

      you were starting to look like a bride.  his bride.  not a children's fairytale character. 

      "what're you thinking about?"  was that to michael or prince evander?  they both look a little pale, a little distracted.  "many'a things at once," the man answered, rubbing louie, and then fell to studying his own hand.  "more-so of the kingdom below."

      which wasn't unusual.  since his arrival, evander thought about the kingdom constantly.  and how there must be a grand search-party, scouring the forests and little village for their prince.  they'd never think to look up above.  "my father used to tell me . . . a good ruler should make himself indispensable."  while scratching louie's middle,  "i believed him. for'a long time."

      kerensa falls silent then, not looking at the prince but pensively at the llama.  he liked watching kerensa carefully soothe his friend with glossy nails.  he thinks he could watch those fingers do just about anything and be riveted. 

      "i thought if i worked hard enough, solved their problems . . . made sacrifices, those close would eventually . . ."  he's searching for the right word — "value me."  and there's something unexpectedly vulnerable about the admission.

      evander laughed under his breath, though there was no amusement in it.  just sadness.  "sometimes- i wonder whether there would be much difference if it were someone else sitting in my place."

      ". . . what do you mean, someone else?"

      "someone better."  the answer came so naturally that it surprised you.  evander didn't seem to get how sad it sounded.  "someone more sure-of-themselves. someone who doesn't complain."  a gloomy grin.  "someone who doesn't even begin to wonder 'am i'a disappointment?' 'am i weird?'"

      michael doesn't even realize it, but the conversation is carrying him somewhere dangerous; the line between evander and himself becoming strikingly thin.  but like evander, michael was just a tired young man who seemed genuinely uncertain whether his worth extended beyond what he could provide.

      his brothers and his father know what he can give them.  what he can be for them.  and he fears that once that's gone — if that'll ever cease — there will be no one. no one to have.  how could he be begged to tour, pulled onto a bus for three months straight, made to perform with his brothers again, and they can't even help him decorate the halls.  why couldn't they do that for him?  he never asked for anything.

      "i envy people i will never know . . ."  and he's satisfied with not being able to take that back. 

      you stop petting louie.

      "there are people out there who just . . . get to wake up and be themselves."  his gaze drops to his opened palms.  "nobody's waiting for anything from them. nobody's already decided who they have to become -"   his voice was flat but nevertheless choked with tears.  "not before they've had th’ chance t- to figure it out."

      he doesn't know who they are.  could be anybody.  somebody walking down a street somewhere in new jersey or maine or texas. somebody working a normal job.  somebody nobody looks at twice.  somebody who doesn't have to hide behind sunglasses and baseball caps.  "they . . . belong to themselves- you belong to yourself." —

      — "you don't know how blessed you are."  a flash of frustration that seemed far too personal.  for a moment, you're not even sure what to say.

      michael drops his face into the palms of both hands.  the awareness arrived a second too late.  he stared at you through his fingers, his expression faltering imperceptibly, as though he was trying to retrace the path that had led him there.  "i . . . i'm so sorry."

     he grieves the life he never had.  he wonders who he would've been.  if none of it had happened.  he wonders what if would've been like to grow up by your side.  would he attend the same university?  would he be your roommate, instead of bonnie?  would you be his girlfriend right now?  not what he would have become.  or achieved.  simply, what would he have liked?

      "hey . . .?"  you placed a hand onto his face.  feeling both mellow and unhappy — a state more common to him than he ever would have believed — michael blinked.  his jaw was clenched, his eyes subtly drooped with sadness; he was the spitting image of a portrait bonnie would paint if given the prompt of sorrow.

      "i hear you," flicking the tear-tracks that shone on his cute, blotchy cheeks.  "'nd i don't think you're wrong."  removing your hand and sighing lowly,  "but, i think you're mixin' two things that don't belong together." 

     a grumble.  he had to clear his throat.  you take michael's hands in your own and gestured for the dry grass.  you wanted to sit.  he needed to sit.  while the knees are bending, the hands stay connected.  glued.

      "there are people . . . who wake up 'nd don't have anyone expecting anything from them, yeah -"

      his gaze searches for anything that wasn't your stunning face, white from the moon showering those incredible features — but you took his face in one hand, thumb pressing into one cheek, fingers pressing into the other, palm cupping his chin in between.  "- but that doesn't automatically mean they belong to themselves. some of 'em are jus' . . ." 

      letting him go,  "ignored. or stuck. or invisible in ways that don't really feel freeing."  your fingers twitch slightly, wanting to reach for michael again but don't.  "sayin' i'm blessed . . ."  shaking your head faintly.  "makes 't sound like i've got something untouched and you've got nothin'- that's not true."

      louie the llama's circling a patch of grass before arching and tucking his legs under his body, comfortable and ready for sleep; only having been removed from his stable for the roleplay.

      "i'm sorry to've ruined this for you."  awh mikey.  he's so embarrassed and thinks, she shouldn't have seen me cry.  "not'a thing's been ruined."  this actually was the most fun you've had in months.  "you surprised me."  he cocked his head, listening, the frown on his face starting to dissolve.  "the charter would've loved you in their production." 

      he seemed to contemplate this prospect soberly, quietly . . . portraying prince evander alongside you, his kerensa, for an audience of no more than twenty-five.  he would never have dreamed of such happening, not in ten thousand years of dreaming. 

      "really think so?"  like he was that fourth grade boy again.  when nodding, the bulky wings attached to your back shimmied; rhinestones hidden within the feathers twinkle. 

      you push up from the grass, fabric around your knees and shins stained green.  you apologize for the carelessness and michael reassures, i can wash that, with his soiled slacks too.  you offer a hand and michael grabs on, coming to his feet as well.  then, he pulls over to wake louie the llama. 

      when louie's back in his stable, sleeping like a baby, you and michael walk hand-in-hand into hayvenhurst through a side entrance — that lead straight into the humongous kitchen.  "i can get somethin' of janet's. or toya's. get you out'a that dress." 

      mmm.  was he asking for a sleepover?  that seemed like a door starting to open.  "uh- yeah. yeah, sure. anything works."

      and by eleven o'clock at night . . . with beyond the clouds’ soundtrack set to a whisper, you and michael are scooping through a container of strawberry ice cream; you'd dip in first, then he'd go right after.  "sprinkles?"  he asked, licking a glob of pink from the spoon's back.  getting a nod, michael twisted and went for an overhead cupboard.  "rainbow or all-white?"

      . . .

      "doesn't matter, 'promise. they taste the same."

      michael would travel to the ends of the earth to argue that claim.  but right now didn't seem too appropriate.  so, he shrugs it off.  michael returned to your side, careful not to brush against you. 

      "i hope we can do this again."  you stare over at him, startled by the simple enthusiasm in his voice.  "soon, rather than later."  he was licking his lips, looking down at his filled bowl, shaking sprinkles in, "it's . . . been a'while since i've had a friend,"  he whispered, and smiled a dopey, dizzy, and absolutely beautiful grin.

      after spooning ice cream past your lips, you touched his shoulder lightly and then took it away as if he were too hot to touch.  in a tone you hoped was casual:  "i'll be here- as long as you'll have me."  forever.  that was it.  no matter what.  whatever that looked like.  he'll take it all; the ups and downs, disagreements, whatever.

      you couldn't even begin to understand just how important you were to michael.  he raised his spoon and you did the same.  clink.  sucking clean, it's impossible for you to take your eyes off of him . . . his mouth.  and the skin peeking through the v-cut of that white night shirt.  and his fingers.  so long and with nicely cared for nails.  so attractive.

      no.  blinking down at your bowl of ice cream, you wonder if staying the night's a good idea.  it won't be if you keep noticing the little things.  why won't your brain stop zeroing in on his fingers and his mouth and his tongue and his dimples and his perfect teeth and his everything?  no.

      but don't you worry.  he feels just as compelled to kiss as you do.  possibly even more so.  but you're scared.  and so is he.  and he doesn't want to mess up.  he's tried at his wrist, once or a few times, but that was nothing compared to the real face.  your real face.  obviously.

      hushed violins and pianos banish the uncomfortable quiet. 

      "i have last night's episode recorded."  the rochester program.  and a species of honest relief came over you.  yes.  that's exactly what you needed.  something to reel you off of michael.  watching him clean up the counter a bit, you ask:  "when was the last time you tried at patch's voice?"

      michael shook his head.  not in some time.  he bet if he had a go at that voice, you'd laugh and say:  'no way! a second toad's found a home right there in'between those cheeks!' 

      he walked you into the living room, and you settled onto the sofa with both bowls balanced in your hands.  michael hurries to shut off the soundtrack, remembering the fog machine and those shining lights and the feathers and the vines and the drapes all over . . . the thought nearly made him groan.  he'd have to get all of that in the morning. 

      michael vaulted over the cushions, the scattered pillows, and mother's neatly folded blanket.  he landed with an eager plop on the sofa and immediately held out his hand for his bowl.  you passed it over, and with the remote in the other hand, he turned his attention to the box television, already working quickly to get the episode up.

     in another five seconds, last night's episode of the rochester program is playing . . . and this feels good.  this feels safe — so wonderfully, undeniably safe.  and so very sure. 

      as the thirty-minute mark sneaks closer, your eyes are desperate to surrender.  they're pleading for defeat, for the relief of finally falling shut, but you're holding out for michael.  because he's giggling, scraping the last streaks of melting ice cream from your unfinished bowl, talking as if you're still tapped in: 'hear that? i knew it was her. i knew since the very start.'

     you let your head touch down onto his shoulder and he freezes; his spoon hangs suspended in midair.  even the hand resting beside him seems uncertain of what to do next.  he remains perfectly still.  as though he's afraid that any movement might disturb this.

      cautiously, he lets himself relax back into the cushions.  his shoulder dips a fraction to make room for you.  he tries to keep watching the program and to keep eating his ice cream.  but a smile keeps tugging the corners of his mouth; the one that appears when something unexpectedly good happens and you're trying very hard not to make a big deal out of it.

     "mikey . . ."  he hasn't heard that from you in a literal decade.  not since scraped knees and chalk drawings across cracked concrete outside of claude's.

      you don't know how to say these words without sounding like a child.  but you say them anyway:  "don't leave me again."

      he's frowning.  michael placed his bowl to the side of his thigh.  he reaches down and grabs your soft hand in his, thumb rubbing around and about.  "i wasn't planning on'it," he mumbled against your braided hair.  "even i can’t let that happen again."

      and you pick your head up.

      michael sees that as his window for something special — so, he leans in.  and you mirror him, unthinking.  feeling his strawberry-scent breath over your lips, the time between closing your eyes and getting the first hint of contact truly felt like years.

eventually, your mouth met his, and it's warm . . . comforting, perfect, everything michael had daydreamed about for the past couple of weeks and more.  since he was a boy. 

      lips gliding over the opposing pair, tongues warily lapping out to entangle in the same way he'd seen his brothers do with girls, and he had to drown out the voice in the back of his mind that wondered if you would much rather prefer kissing the more experienced guy over him.

      but when you lifted a hand up to rest at his jaw, smushing him deeper into the kiss, all of his anxious thoughts and doubts melt away, and he cherished the feeling of finally kissing the girl he was so utterly head over heels for.

      he would be thinking of the way you kissed him back so passionately, so gently, for years to come.

      michael wasn't sure how much time he spent revelling in your wonderful touch, but when you peeled off, faces still mere inches away . . . quietly catching his breath, a faint rustle came from the doorway behind —

      — mother had seen.

you didn’t come looking for viral moments or “gotcha” questions. instead, you listened attentively. you made your guests laugh while ensuring they felt comfortable. and somehow, by the end of every interview, it felt less like journalism and more like a conversation between friends.

“welcome back, everybody,” you beamed, leaning forward slightly to connect with the lens. “today i’m joined by the incredible cast of michael.”

the cast waved and smiled, the energy in the room instantly lifting.

nia long, coleman domingo, juliano valdi. and finally… jaafar jackson.

the moment you’d seen him walk into the studio earlier your brain had completely malfunctioned. because what the hell? nobody had warned you. not a single soul had informed you that this man looked like that in person.

the pictures online did him absolutely no justice.

his smile alone should’ve come with a warning label. he wore a simple, tailored shirt that fit him perfectly, and his curls fell just right over his forehead. thankfully, years of professionalism kept your face neutral. mostly.

across from you, nia was already grinning. you and nia had known each other for years. she was one of the bigger names that you’d interviewed back when you were first starting out and you’d interviewed her countless times since. you loved her dearly and so did she.

which was exactly why you should’ve known she was up to something.

while you adjusted your notes and checked your earpiece, she leaned slightly toward jaafar. just enough for you not to notice.

“see?” she whispered, nudging his elbow. “i told you she was gorgeous.”

jaafar looked over at you while you were laughing with one of your producers, gesturing with a pen in your hand. his stomach immediately flipped.

“yeah,” he muttered quietly, clearing his throat. “she is.”

nia’s smile widened. she had him exactly where she wanted him. completely.

the interview began smoothly. you asked thoughtful questions. questions about responsibility, legacy, grief, art. the emotional weight of portraying real people.

“there’s a lot of pressure attached to this project,” you said, your voice dropping to a softer, more intimate register. “how did each of you navigate stepping into shoes that meant so much to millions of people? coleman, let’s start with you.”

coleman shifted in his seat, nodding thoughtfully. “you know, you have to approach it with reverence, but also find the humanity. we aren't just playing icons; we're playing real family dynamics. it requires a lot of vulnerability.”

“and it shows in the footage,” you responded, nodding before turning your gaze. “jaafar, what about you? especially with the familial connection, how did you balance that pressure?”

the answers were heartfelt and honest. exactly what you loved. and throughout the entire interview—

you couldn’t stop noticing jaafar. not because he was attractive.

well.

partially because he was attractive. but mostly because of the little things. he rubbed his knee whenever he got nervous. every single time. the way he took in his bottom lip. the way he twirled the ring on his finger.

whenever he was about to answer a particularly personal question, his hand would move to his knee and start rubbing absentmindedly, his fingers smoothing over the fabric of his pants. it was adorable.

and his smile.

lord.

every time he talked, every time someone made a joke, that smile appeared. soft, genuine, slightly shy. it transformed his entire face. you found yourself looking away more than once because you were determined to remain a professional. he quite literally gave you butterflies every time he spoke, his voice low and incredibly gentle.

meanwhile, jaafar was having the exact same problem. because every time you laughed, his attention snapped toward you. every single time. it was becoming embarrassing. especially since the rest of the cast had started noticing. nia was shooting him knowing looks, and coleman had a slight smirk playing on his lips. jaafar knew he would be getting an earful later.

after nearly an hour of conversation, you clapped your hands together, the papers in your lap rustling.

“okay, before i let you guys go, we’re playing a game.”

collective cheers went around the room. juliano pumped his fist in the air, while coleman leaned back with an amused groan. you laughed at their excitement.

“it’s simple. michael song versus michael song. you pick the better one.”

“oh no,” coleman sighed, rubbing his temples playfully. “this is how friendships end. you’re trying to tear this cast apart.”

“oh yes.” you smiled deviously. “absolute chaos is the goal here.”

the game started out simple.

billie jean versus smooth criminal. the cast chose smooth criminal.

“the choreography tilts the scale, it just does,” nia argued, and you nodded in agreement.

rock with you versus remember the time. rock with you was the victor.

human nature versus dirty diana. human nature obviously.

the cast surprisingly agreed on most choices. until disaster struck. you looked down at your card. then back up, biting your lower lip to hide a smirk.

“hmm.”

immediately suspicious, nia pointed a manicured finger at you.

“what’s that face? look at her face, y'all.”

“oh this is about to reveal character.” you said dramatically.

juliano laughed, shaking his head. “just ask the question!”

you took a deep breath, building the suspense.

“man in the mirror…”

everyone nodded, already prepared to shout it out.

“…versus the lady in my life.”

silence.

then one by one.

“man in the mirror,” coleman said firmly.

“man in the mirror,” nia echoed.

“man in the mirror,” juliano piped up.

your jaw dropped.

“WHAT?”

the entire cast burst out laughing at your genuine distress.

“y’all cannot be serious.”

“it’s man in the mirror,” juliano said, leaning forward with a massive grin. “it's a classic!”

“absolutely not.” you argued with the child, pointing your pen at him. “you are too young to understand the romance of it all.”

“absolutely yes.” juliano fired back, laughing.

you sat forward dramatically, resting your elbows on your knees.

“you people don’t understand.”

more laughter echoed through the studio as the producers joined in on the debate.

“no seriously. the intimacy. the yearning. the longing.”

you placed a hand over your chest, closing your eyes for effect. nia was crying laughing, wiping the corner of her eye.

“here she goes,” nia chuckled.

“i’m serious!” you pointed around the room. “maybe i’m just a hopeless romantic but the lady in my life is superior. the vocals at the end? the breakdown? come on!”

across from you, jaafar couldn’t stop smiling.

he loved watching passionate people talk about things they loved. and you? you lit up. your hands moved when you spoke. your eyes sparkled. your entire face became animated, your smile blinding. you were absolutely gorgeous.

it was impossible for him to look away.

“i actually agree,” jaafar spoke up, his voice cutting through the laughter. “it’s one of michael’s most slept-on songs and the vocal performance on it is incredible.”

“exactly!” you shouted, your eyes locking onto his.

“see?” you said triumphantly as you pointed in jaafar’s direction, looking at nia and coleman. “finally, someone with taste! thank you, jaafar.”

“but it’s still not beating man in the mirror,” juliano interrupted, completely ruining the moment.

everyone exploded with laughter again.

“juliano!” you gasped, putting your head in your hands.

“i’m right!” the boy insisted.

“you’re wrong!”

“i’m literally correct!”

the debate continued for several minutes, filled with playful banter and overlapping voices. and despite your best efforts—

man in the mirror ultimately won. a tragedy. a crime. an injustice. you were robbed and you informed the audience of this fact repeatedly, looking directly into the camera with a heartbroken expression.

finally, you smoothed down your outfit and smiled warmly at the cast.

“seriously, thank you all for being here. this movie means so much to so many people, and honestly, spending time with you all today, i can tell why this project worked.”

their expressions softened, the comedic energy shifting back to mutual respect.

“you guys have incredible chemistry. but more importantly, you’re all genuinely beautiful people.” you smiled.

for a second, jaafar forgot how to breathe. because the way you said it felt sincere. not media-trained. not rehearsed. sincere. he swore your eyes lingered on him for just a fraction of a second longer than the others, or maybe it was just his imagination.

his cheeks immediately warmed. thankfully the cameras stopped rolling before anyone could notice.

“and we’re clear.” one of your producers said from the back.

everyone began removing microphones. stretching and chatting. the technical crew started moving around the set, and the energy immediately relaxed into casual hums of conversation.

nia pointed at you as she stood up.

“i told y’all.”

you laughed, unclipping your own mic pack.

“told them what?”

“that you’re the best in the game.”

your hand flew to your chest.

“ms. nia, stop it.”

“oh don’t start. you know you’re the best.”

“thank you. i love you longtime, hunny.”

“i love you more. let’s meet for lunch soon! i mean it, text me!” nia said as she wrapped her arms around you tightly, inhaling your perfume.

coleman then walked up to you, extending a hand before pulling you into a warm hug, expressing his gratitude and appreciation for you. “you’re an amazing interviewer and an even better soul. keep doing what you're doing.”

“thank you so much for coming, send my love to the hubby,” you told him, beaming.

across the set, juliano leaned toward jaafar, watching you interact with the crew.

“she’s so pretty.”

jaafar looked over. once again, you were wrapped up talking to someone else—fixing a loose script page, laughing about something with a production assistant. completely unaware of the eyes on you. his smile appeared again, soft and helpless.

“she definitely is.”

juliano immediately grinned, a mischievous spark in his eyes.

“do you think i can get her number?”

“absolutely not, buddy.” jaafar laughed, a genuine, deep sound as he patted him on the back. “you're a little too young for her, don't you think?”

a few minutes later the cast started heading toward the exit saying their final goodbyes, their voices fading into the hallway.

you were gathering your notes for your next interview, stacking the papers neatly into a folder, when a familiar voice stopped beside you.

“hey.”

you looked up. and there he was. he had stayed behind while the others walked off. close enough now that those stupidly pretty eyes were somehow even more distracting, catching the remaining studio light.

“hi!” your voice bounced a little higher than usual.

jaafar smiled. the smile. there it was again. lord help you.

“i just wanted to say thank you for having us once again.”

“of course. it was an absolute pleasure.”

“we’ve done so many interviews for this press tour, but nothing topped this one. i can see why nia loves working with you so much. you make it easy.”

and there it was. that nervous habit again but this time, it was him and that darn lip. adorable.

you laughed and your expression softened, your heart doing a strange little dance.

“that’s very kind of you to say. thank you, jaafar.”

finally, he glanced toward the door where the rest of the cast waited, the muffled sound of juliano's laughter drifting back in. then he looked back at you, holding your gaze.

“i hope i run into you again soon. maybe outside of a studio.”

your heart did a tiny little flip. the dangerous kind. the kind you ignored. because you were a professional. mostly.

you smiled, your cheeks tingling.

“i hope the same. i'm sure our paths will cross.”

his grin widened, clearly pleased with the answer. for a second, neither one of you moved. the space between you felt suddenly charged, the ambient noise of the studio fading into the background. then nia’s voice echoed loudly from down the hallway.

“jaafar! the car is waiting! let’s go!”

he sighed dramatically, but laughing anyway.

you laughed, shaking your head.

“you should probably go before she comes back in here to drag you out.”

“probably,” he agreed reluctantly. he took a few steps backward toward the exit, still smiling, still looking at you. “see you around.”

“bye, jaafar.” you waved your fingers at him and sent him on his way with a warm smile.

and as he disappeared down the hallway, juliano immediately appeared beside him, slinging an arm over his shoulder. already talking. already playing around. the two got along like brothers which you really admired.

while back inside the studio, you looked down at your notes, trying to focus on the next set of questions. then you looked toward the door he’d just walked through, the silence of the room suddenly feeling a bit more noticeable. and despite being the professional you are—

you couldn’t stop smiling either.

a couple weeks after the interview. your good friend quen called you for an interview of your own. she invited you to be on her youtube series, feeding starving celebrities to which you accepted of course.

“welcome to the fsc kitchen!” quen yelled, tossing her hair back and gesturing wildly toward the entrance. “introducing the queen of interviews, the baddest thing walking, my favorite vixen. ITS MY GIRL.”

you walk out, matching her chaotic energy immediately. you two jump around the kitchen excitedly, screaming and hugging each other like you haven't seen each other in years, even though you just texted this morning.

“welcome to my show hunny,” quen says, catching her breath and smoothing down her top.

“thank you! i’m so excited to be here.”

“it was a longtime coming.”

“yes yes yesss,” you agree, clapping your hands.

out of nowhere, edm began blasting from her speakers to which you both broke out into model poses, doing your best white girl club dances—complete with the fist pumping and the awkward hip sways. the camera crew was cracking up behind the lenses.

“okay okay,” quen said once the music subsided, wiping a fake tear from her eye. “would you like to know what’s on the menu today?”

“well of course my queen.”

“we’re doing lemon drops for the bev because i heard those are your favorite! then we’re doing salmon rice and potatoes. and lastly for dessert, we cheated and just bought a cheesecake girl.”

“amazing.”

first up was the drinks segment. while you prepped the ingredients—slicing lemons and grabbing the shaker—quen started asking her first set of questions, leaning against the counter with a look of pure mischief.

“you’re known for being super confident, while also being very sweet and caring,” quen began, watching you measure the lemon juice. “did you have an experience in your life that made you this way or have you always been this way?”

you answered while you started making your lemon drops, pouring the liquid into the shaker. “truthfully speaking, i didn’t always have this confidence but when i got to college? i just knew i was that girl.”

you both started laughing, quen nodding along.

“like walking across campus, you literally couldn’t tell me nothing,” you continued, shaking your head at the memory. “not a damn thing.”

you both continued to laugh and joke around until you grabbed the tequila bottle. you quickly covered the label of the tequila bottle with your palm, looking directly at the main camera. “no free promo, not sponsored.” you joked.

“not until they cut the check!” quen shouted.

the camera crew lost it.

“you’re terrible.” she told you.

“i’m professional.” you shot back.

“you’re ridiculous.”

“same thing.”

the next question came naturally.

“for your age, i feel like you’re doing so many big things in your life. wait- how old are you now?”

“i’m twenty six,” you said, before stopping and pointing a lemon knife at her. “wait- how old are YOU?”

“twenty five.”

“ayeee,” you cheered, clinking your fresh lemon drop glasses together. you both began to mumble the lyrics to sza’s 20 something’s song at the same exact time which caused you to burst into a fit of laughter.

the segment continued on and while you prepped the salmon, seasoning it generously on the cutting board, she asked more questions that got deeper and deeper, moving from your career goals to your personal life.

“okay, i gotta ask,” quen said, lowering her voice like she was letting the audience in on a secret. “have you ever had a crush on any of your guests?”

you paused, a piece of salmon in your hand. “like on my show?”

“no, on my show,” she said sarcastically, rolling her eyes so hard it looked painful. “yes, your show, girl!”

you both shared a loud laugh before you actually thought about her answer. your brain instantly took a trip back to a couple weeks ago. the shirt. the open buttons. the nervous knee-rubbing. the smile that should've come with a warning label. jaafar was the first person you thought about.

“can i plead the fifth?” you laughed, your cheeks beginning to hurt.

“absolutely not. this is feeding starving celebrities, not a court of law. spill it.”

you sighed, leaning your weight against the counter before telling the truth. “jaafar jackson.”

quen let out a piercing scream that probably blew out the audio levels in the control room. she jumped up and down, hitting the counter. “no way!”

“yes way, quenlin,” you muttered, covering your face with your hands from pure embarrassment, wishing the kitchen counter would just swallow you whole.

“well, jaafar jackson if you’re watching this… hit my girl up!” quen screamed directly into the camera, winking dramatically. “she is single, she is successful, and she likes your uncle's music! call her! and if you’re worried about the teeny tiny age gap, she’s the most mature person i know!”

you busted out laughing, throwing a dish towel at her to make her stop.

the show continued to move on, the salmon smelling incredible as it cooked, and finally it came to a close as you both stuffed your faces with the store-bought cheesecake after you edit farmed for social media.

“i loved having you, please come on more often. my soul sister,” quen said, giving you a massive hug as the closing music started to play.

“i love you, quenlin. thank you for inviting me.”

the next few days for you were insane. the moment the episode dropped on youtube, the internet took it and ran. the interview was being clipped and posted everywhere on all platforms—tiktok, twitter, instagram reels. shade room reposted it. people were making edits of you and jaafar from your original interview, putting them side-by-side with your confession on quen's show.

one very specific clip.

“have you ever had a crush on any of your guests?”

“…jaafar jackson.”

you wanted to die. your phone wouldn’t stop ringing. your friends wouldn’t stop texting. your coworkers wouldn’t stop laughing.

your bosses? absolutely unbearable. you walked into the office three days later and immediately knew something was wrong. everyone looked excited. too excited.

your personal assistant practically sprinted toward you.

“good morning.”

you narrowed your eyes. “what happened?”

“nothing.”

“you’re smiling too hard.”

“am i?”

“yes.”

he slid his phone across the desk. you looked down and nearly choked.

“oh my god.”

there it was. a notification. one very simple notification. normal people wouldn’t have reacted like that. but you were far from normal.

jaafarjackson started following you.

the entire office erupted.

“HE FOLLOWED HER.”

you covered your face wanting the floor to swallow you whole.

“this is humiliating.”

“this is incredible.”

your boss immediately clapped his hands.

“okay.”

you pointed.

“don’t.”

“we need to capitalize on this.”

“oh my god.”

“we need jaafar back on the show.”

“we do not.”

“immediately.”

you dropped your head onto the desk.

hard.

everyone laughed.

“i’m going home.”

“you’re not.”

“i’m quitting.”

“you’re not.”

“i’m changing my name.”

“you’re definitely not.”

somewhere across the city— jaafar was experiencing his own version of embarrassment. because after watching the clip approximately seventeen times and smiling every single time, he’d finally worked up the courage to hit follow. the interview with quen showed an entirely different side of you. he was so intrigued. a mentally sane person would say he was obsessed.

good thing he wasn’t mentally sane.

and now? he’d somehow agreed to come back on your show. which meant in just a few days— the two of you would be sitting across from each other again.

the next few days leading up to the interview, nervousness fell upon you like a heavy blanket. you couldn't pace around your apartment without staring at your phone, replaying the clip from quen's show in your head and cringing into your pillows.

“what if he thinks i’m a weirdo?” you groaned to your reflection in the mirror while getting ready. “oh my gosh, i can’t handle this.”

you had to remind yourself that you were a professional journalist. you worked in the craziest of circumstances. a little awkwardness never hurt anybody. at least, that’s what you told yourself to get through this interview.

the day finally came, and unbeknownst to you, jaafar was just as nervous as you. he had been shifting around in his dressing room for an hour, adjusting his collar and asking his team if his hair looked alright.

when he finally walked out onto the studio floor, every piece of self-control you had left the window. he looked entirely too good. he was wearing a gold silk shirt that made him look incredibly warm and approachable, and the studio lights caught the exact same warmth in his eyes.

you had about thirty seconds to pull yourself together before he approached you. you took a deep breath, smoothing down your dress, trying to force your heart to stop hammering against your ribs.

“hey,” he said softly, his voice a little lower than usual.

“hi!” you replied, maybe a little too quickly.

the two of you hugged—a brief, slightly tense embrace where you could swear you felt his heartbeat too—and barely exchanged words before your stage manager was clapping her hands, ushering you both onto the set.

“we’re rolling in three… two…”

your media training kicked in just in time. the familiar warmth of the lights helped ground you.

“welcome back, everybody,” you said, looking into the main lens before turning to your guest. “welcome back, jaafar. although it hasn’t been long since we had you the first time, how have you been?”

jaafar adjusted himself in his chair, his fingers immediately finding his knee to give it a quick, nervous rub before he caught himself and smiled. “i’ve been good, thank you. and yourself?”

“i’ve been great,” you said, a mischievous tilt finding its way back into your voice. “busy doing my own interviews and whatnot.”

jaafar’s eyes sparked with instant amusement. “so i’ve heard.”

the two of you shared a genuine, lingering laugh, and just like that, all the awkward tension went out the window. the comfort you had established during your first meeting came rushing back, making the studio feel small and private again.

you began to ask him more personal questions, moving away from his role as michael and focusing on him as an individual. you asked him about his family dynamic, what it was really like growing up as a jackson in the midst of such a massive legacy. you asked him what he initially wanted to do growing up before the artistry caught up with him.

“there's a moment for everyone,” you murmured, leaning in attentively. “when did you realize that your family was as prominent as they are? not just in the music industry, but their deep influence on the world, and on black culture specifically?”

jaafar listened intensely, his gaze locked onto yours. he answered beautifully, speaking with a humility and depth that made your heart do that dangerous little flip again. he spoke about watching his father and uncles, about the responsibility he felt to honor that history, and how much he valued the love the community showed his family.

towards the end of the interview, the control room chimed in your ear, reminding you of the segment your producers had cooked up. you cleared your throat, looking down at the fresh set of cue cards.

“okay, my team has put together some questions for us to answer,” you said, immediately turning your head to look directly into your specific camera with a warning glare. “these ARE NOT my questions, by the way! i would like that noted for future purposes.”

jaafar let out a soft chuckle, shifting in his seat to face you fully. “ask away.”

you looked down at the first card. “alright. are you dating anyone?”

jaafar didn't even hesitate. he happily responded, “no, i am not.”

you nodded slowly, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear while giving a slow, knowing, look directly into the camera lens. the silence in the studio broke instantly as everyone on set started laughing uncontrollably at your expression.

“i too, am also single,” you responded smoothly, turning back to him.

jaafar reached over, playfully pulling the next card from your hand to read it himself. “alright, my turn. who was your celebrity crush growing up?”

you closed your eyes, bracing yourself. “barack obama, and i will not be explaining further.”

jaafar burst out laughing, his shoulders shaking. “that’s insane.”

“he has aura, jaafar! next question!” you argued, laughing with him.

you hesitated before reading the final card in your hand. your eyes scanned the text, and for a second, you considered throwing it across the room. but professional duty called, so you read it anyway, your voice dropping a little. “when seeing my recent interview with quen… hearing that i have a crush on you… how did you react?”

the studio went dead silent, everyone waiting for the response.

jaafar instantly got nervous, but he didn't look away from you. his expression softened completely. “i was taken by surprise,” he answered honestly, his voice quiet and sincere. “you’re a very beautiful woman. very intelligent. i have to admit… i watched the clip for days.”

your jaw slacked slightly, a intense wave of heat rushing to your face. “oh please, you flatter me, jaafar,” you said, blushing profusely and trying to use the cue card to fan your face.

“i’m serious,” he said, his gaze dropping to your lips for a split second before he flashed that million-dollar, panty dropping smile.

the sheer charm of it was lethal. you had to cross your legs immediately, the physical tension between the two of you suddenly becoming unbearable. you could hear a producer in the back whispering a faint “oh my god.”

right then, one of your executive producers walked onto the set, holding just one more single cue card. she had a massive smirk on her face.

you cannot be serious, you thought to yourself, your eyes narrowing into a fierce glare as she handed it to you. she just gave you a silent thumbs-up from behind the camera and scurried back into the dark.

you cleared your throat, trying to regain your composure. “before we close, we have a quick game to play.”

the producers had thrown together some random, convoluted party game—something involving rolling dice or picking matching cards—but the rules were clearly rigged from the start. no matter what choices were made, the penalty or the reward ultimately resulted in you two sharing a kiss either way.

jaafar looked at the card, then looked at you, an incredibly nervous but thrilled smile taking over his face.

“well,” jaafar murmured, leaning forward over the small table separating your chairs. “rules are rules.”

your heart was beating so loud you were certain the microphones were picking it up. “yeah. rules are rules.”

you both stood, talking small steps toward one another. when his hand gently reached up to rest against the side of your neck, his thumb brushing your jawline, your eyes fluttered shut.

the moment his lips pressed against yours, the entire studio seemed to vanish. it wasn't a quick, awkward cheek-peck for the cameras. it was soft, lingering, and incredibly deep. for a second, it felt like you were entirely melting into the warmth of him, your hand instinctively rising to touch his forearm.

then, a sharp beep from a camera battery brought you crashing back to reality.

you quickly remembered that you were on camera, surrounded by your entire production crew. you pulled away, your breath catching in your throat, your lips tingling.

jaafar’s eyes slowly opened, looking completely dazed, his hand lingering in the air for a second before he dropped it to his side.

you forced your voice to work, looking toward the main camera with everything you had left. “and… that is all the time we have for today. thank you for watching. don’t forget to buy your tickets to michael and follow us on all socials!”

“and we’re clear!” the director called out.

the lights didn't even dim before the set fell into a strange, buzzing quiet. you closed the interview, stacking your cards with trembling hands. across from you, jaafar still stood, completely speechless from what had just happened, his eyes fixed on you like he was trying to figure out if he was still dreaming.

finally he mustered up the courage to ask, “are you busy tonight? i would love to take you out.”

you couldn’t help but feel that nia long was somewhere, rubbing her hands together and laughing wickedly, knowing that this had been her plan all along.