When her eyes narrow, I raise my hands, surrendering. “I’m sorry. I swear. I was just messing around. I’m fine. I promise.”
She pinches my arm and I wince, yet continue laughing.
“Seriously, Ayden. That’s not funny.”
“Oh, come on.” I prop up onto my elbows. “Don’t pretend like you wouldn’t have done the exact same thing.”
She crosses her arms, trying to remain pissed, but Lyric never stays upset for more than five seconds, and right on time, she relaxes. “Okay, I’ll let you off the hook, but only because I got you to smile.” She smiles herself as I reach up and touch my upturned lips.
She’s right. I am smiling. And laughing. It’s been such a long time that I hadn’t even noticed.
“Come on.” She stands up, brushes some of the grass off her legs, then offers me her hand. “Let’s move on to phase two.”
“Phase two?” I question with doubt.
“What, you don’t trust me?”
The mangled bike ten feet away should answer that question for me. Regardless of the bent metal and dents in the frame, I still wholly trust her. More than I’ve trusted anyone.
I nod, lacing my fingers through hers and get to my feet. “But no more hills.”
“Deal.” She grins.
The day feels so perfect. So real. I just wish I knew if my brother and sister have the same thing.
Chapter 5
Ayden
We spend the rest of the day doing things a little less dangerous, rolling the mangled bike along with us. We walk down to the local bridge, go get some ice cream, and hang out at the park for a while. By the time we arrive back home, the sun has lowered and the sky is black.
As we’re putting the bike away in the garage, Lyric checks her phone. “Oh, looks like we have the place to ourselves. Everyone went out to the movies.”
“What are we going to do? Because I know you’re already thinking of something.”
“You know me way too well.”
As she ponders an idea, I dare to touch the shiny black Chevelle in the garage. I remember how one of my foster fathers had one similar to it, only it needed a lot more work. He was one of the mildly tolerable parental figures. He never did let me touch the car, though.
“You know, I could always ask my mom if you can drive it,” she unexpectedly says.
I hastily withdraw my hand from the car, as if I’ve been caught with my hand in the cookie jar. “No, I’m okay.”
“Well, you can drive mine when I get it, then. It’s going to be a Dodge Challenger, though. And a fixer upper. At least, that’s the plan we’ve had since I turned fifteen and a half and got my driving permit.” When I look at her again, she’s got her evil plan face on. “So, do you want to see something really cool?”
“Maybe,” I reply cautiously. “It really depends on what it is.”
Grinning deviously, she guides me through the house, toward the back section, coming to a halt at a closed door beside the den.
“I’ve never been in this room before,” I remark as her fingers encase the doorknob.
“That’s because I’m technically not allowed in here unless my dad’s with me.”
Before I can protest, she shoves open the door and flips on the light.
All of my objections abruptly dissipate.
“This is your dad’s office?” I step over the threshold behind her and glance around the room filled with old guitars, signed albums, drumsticks, photos, and plaques. So much cool stuff my mind goes into overload.
“More like his memorabilia room.” She strolls over to a shelf lined with old CDs and starts tracing her fingers along the rows, reading the titles.
I shut the door then stand in the middle of the room, afraid to touch anything. “Maybe we shouldn’t be in here.”
“We’ll be fine as long as we put everything back in its rightful place.” She pulls a CD off the shelf, plucks the disc out, then gently places it into a stereo and presses play. Moments later, a grungy song fills the speakers.
“What band is this?” I ask as I roam around the room, examining all the guitars on the walls.
She shrugs as she plops down in the chair behind the desk and collects a guitar propped against the wall. “The front of the CD cover says The Cranberries. I just randomly picked it. Thought a surprise would be fun.” She strums a few notes. “I’m wondering if it was one of my mother’s CDs, though.” Her lips part as if she’s going to sing, and her eyes drift shut. But instead of belting out the lyrics, she plays the notes while uttering the words under her breath. When she opens her eyes again, she looks nervous, which is strange. Lyric never, ever looks nervous.
“You okay?”
She nods, setting the guitar aside. “Yeah, just seeing if I could do it around you.”
“Do what around me?”
She shrugs as she opens a drawer. “Sing.”
I wish I could help her get over her fear, but unlike what she did for me, I can’t just buy her a nightlight.
“What were you whispering to Aunt Lila about this morning?” she casually asks as she sifts through a stack of papers on the desk.
“Nothing important.” I plop down in a swivel chair in front of the desk and start spinning in circles.
“I heard you say something about your brother and sister.” She reads something on one of the papers, but I can tell she’s pretending, worried she’s crossing a line. “I didn’t know you had a brother and sister.”
“I did … before …” I pick up the pace, whirling the chair around and around until I’m so dizzy I feel like I’m going to hurl. “My brother is a year older than me and my sister is a year younger.”
“And you haven’t seen them since you had to leave your home?”
“No.”
“Does it make you sad, that you all had to leave your home and now you don’t get to see them?”
I dig my heels into the floor and stop the chair before I actually do end up vomiting. She’s watching me intently, waiting for me to answer, with a drop of apprehension in her eyes.
“I don’t miss my old … home at all,” I utter quietly. “It wasn’t even a home … at least, from what I can remember … but I do miss my brother and sister. That’s why I asked Mrs. Gregory if she could find stuff out about them—or at least where they are.”
Her head angles to the side and she looks so lost. “You said from what you can remember.”