“Sorry.” I grasp the handle of my guitar case. “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just … you’ve never wanted to go with me before, so I’m just a little confused.”
She shrugs as she scuffs her boot across the ground. “I need to get out of the house. I feel like I’m losing my mind. Everywhere I go, one of my parents follows me, like they expect me to break apart at any moment. And I know they’re not going to let me go anywhere unless I’m with you.”
Despite the sheer awkwardness I’m feeling, I say, “You can always come with me. You know that.”
She straightens her shoulders and beams at me. “Thank you. Let me go tell them where I’m going. I’ll be right back.” She hoists herself over the fence and sprints into her house through the side door near the garage.
With my guitar in my hand, I climb into Lila’s Mercedes that she’s pretty much given to me at this point. The Gregorys own two other cars, so she always acts like it’s never a big deal to let me drive their extra vehicle somewhere. But it is. A. Big. Freaking. Huge. Deal. Because it means they trust me.
“Okay, I’m totally good to go,” Lyric says as she slides into the passenger seat. “I just have to be back before eleven, which is so weird. I’ve never had a curfew before.”
“I’m sure they’re just worried,” I tell her as I back down the driveway, pretending that I’m not hyperaware of her scent filling up the cab. God, she smells so good.
“I know that.” She draws the seatbelt over her shoulder. “But I’m feeling a bit smothered ever since my parents decided to press charges against William. I’m hoping things will cool off here in a few weeks when he gets sentenced, or whatever is going to happen to him.” The seatbelt clicks into place and she relaxes back in the seat. “Although, if he does get any sort of punishment, I’m sure it’ll just be community service, since he doesn’t have a prior.”
I flip on the blinker to pull out onto the main road of our subdivision. “You say that way too casually.”
“I have to be casual about it.” She props her feet on the dash and reaches for the iPod docked in the middle console. “Otherwise, it’ll pull me down. And I refuse to go down.” She pauses as she browses through the songs. “I think my parents might be worried I have a mental illness.”
“What?” I gape at her, half expecting her to insert a punch line to her joke. Because she has to be joking.
She shrugs with her head angled forward, her attention fixed on the playlists. “I heard them whispering about it the other day after I momentarily lost my shit and yelled at them.”
I tap the brakes at a red light. “What did they say exactly?”
“Well, it wasn’t so much they as it was my mother.” She lifts her shoulders and shrugs. “She just seemed really concerned when I burst into freaking tears for no reason.”
“Was this before or after you told them about William?”
“Before. I only actually told them what happened because they seemed super twitchy about my mood swings.”
I press on the gas as the light turns green. “What happened when you told them? Did they seem better about it?”
She chews on her bottom lip. “I’m not sure … I’ve heard them whispering a couple of times before about my super cheery attitude. Again, it was more my mother. They never do it in front of me, but I’ve accidentally heard enough to know she worries about me.”
“Why, though? I mean, I’ve lived with someone who was mentally ill, and that’s not …” I trail off.
Her concentration floats from the playlists, her eyes falling to the scars on my hand. “Was it the people who did that to you? That weird cult thing I found out about?”
I withdraw my hand and tuck it to my side. “It was.”
“I’m sorry, Ayden. About everything. About showing you that tattoo thing. That I haven’t found your brother for you yet.”
“That’s not your responsibility.” I return my hand to the wheel. “Besides, it doesn’t matter. Lila told me the other day that she looked into my brother, and … apparently he dropped out of the system a year ago. I’ll more than likely never see him again.”
Her eyes widen. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s not your fault. It’s … well, it’s my mother’s since this whole thing started with her.” My hands begin to shake on the wheel as I remember the day she handed us over to those people.
They were actually our next door neighbors, had been for a while. She needed a babysitter so she could go get her next fix. She questioned nothing, not even the chains in the living room. And they were more than willingly to take us, needing their next victims.
“What about your mom?” Lyric dares ask. “What happened to her? Maybe finding her could help us find your brother and sister.”
“She’s dead. And I don’t know who my dad is, so that won’t help us either. Face it, I’ll probably never get to see anyone from my family again.”
“Ayden …” She clears her throat. “You have a family. All the Gregorys love you. And … so do I.”
Breathe, breathe, breathe.
With the sound of your heart.
With the whisper of your soul.
Until everything connects.
Composes.
And creates a song.
I can’t speak. Can barely breathe. Lyric’s eyes refuse to leave mine, even though I’m looking everywhere but at her. I wonder if this is the time she’s not going to give up, if she’s going to push me until I shatter into a million pieces.
“I think my grandmother had a bipolar disorder,” she says, facing forward in the seat and scrolling through the song lists again, going back to the original conversation without missing a beat. “Maybe that’s why my mom worries. Perhaps she thinks I’m going to turn out like her.”
Air rushes back to my lungs at the abrupt subject change.
As we reach the last house on the street, I turn into the driveway. “Why would she think that? You’re like the happiest person I know.” I stop at the end of the drive, shove the shifter into park, and slide the keys out of the ignition.
“Maybe I’m a little too happy, though.” She places the iPod on the dock without selecting a song. “Besides, some mental illnesses are hereditary.”